I shrug. "I'll have more information for you when we get there."
"Are you nervous?"
"I'm trying not to think about it. When I think about it, I keep picturing massive crowds of people all shoving up against each other--" And again that image fills my mind. I can practically feel the press of bodies, and I can't see anything but heads and arms all around me. I shake my head to rid my mind of the image.
"Don't think about that." She places her hand on my upper arm. "Try not to picture it that way." I shrug my shoulder, causing her hand to slip away, but she doesn't comment on it.
"I can't help it. It's how I think. Everything is in pictures."
"But there are other ways to be in a crowd--controlled ways. Like a hockey game where everyone has their own seat and more or less stays in their own space. It doesn't all have to be like a mosh pit at a rock concert. You could imagine yourself at a museum, looking at pretty art, everyone respecting their own space."
She watches me for a long time, but my hands are on the wheel and my eyes are on the road. I try to ignore that feeling I get when she's near. It can be so overwhelming that it's distracting, and I have to fight that in order to stay focused on my driving.
Minutes later we are in Anaheim, and I park the car. We make our way to the sidewalk along the busy, crowded Katella Avenue. The Santa Ana River, which, despite it being winter, is barely a trickle as we cross over the bridge. I glance over my right shoulder toward the mountains and see that there is very little white on them. Meteorologists are predicting one of the worst droughts ever this year, and I think they are correct.
When I think of droughts, suddenly I picture the empty high desert along Interstate 15 on the way to Las Vegas. But that picture is yanked from me the moment I feel someone take my hand and squeeze it. I jerk my head to look.
Jenna's hand is holding mine, and everything speeds up--the pounding of my heart, the speed of my blood through my veins, the rate at which I'm breathing. I have no idea what this gesture means. I bring our hands up to stare at them.
"Sorry--do you not like that? I was just offering some moral support."
"Support? Like...holding me up?"
"Figuratively, yeah."
I ponder that. "Is that what holding hands means?"
"Sometimes. But sometimes it's more. It depends on the context...on the relationship."
I realize that I'm focusing more on comprehending her than I am on the orderly file of human beings who are making their way toward the entrance of the towering Honda Center, home of the Anaheim Ducks. So I squeeze her hand back.
"Thank you for your show of support. So far it's working."
"We should have a code word."
"A code word?"
"So you can tell me when you aren't feeling so great."
"Can't I just tell you I'm not feeling so great?"
She shrugs. "Yeah. But a code word could be more fun. We could make it a game. Like...when you aren't feeling great, you can say 'pickles.' And when you really, really feel like you need to leave, you can say 'relish.'"
"I like relish."
"It doesn't matter what the word is. We can pick something else if you like."
By this time, we are at the glass doors that lead inside. Sadly, I have to let go of her hand to pull the tickets out of my wallet and hand them to the ticket taker.
The building looms above us as we walk in. It's big--really big. I'm trying hard to breathe the way she showed me, but I'm not sure it helps. I'll keep trying though, because she showed me and she seems to believe in it. What does help is that we are headed in a direction that most are not taking. I bought the more costly tickets, hoping that would be the case.
Jenna looks down at our tickets stubs to determine where our seats are. "Wow, you spent the big bucks. I've never sat in the good seats before."
"You come to hockey games often?"
She shrugged. "I dated a guy who was into hockey. He shared season tickets, so I came with him a lot."
As we walk to the other side of the arena in search of our section, I'm overwhelmed with unpleasant feelings about what she just said. I can't help but wonder who the guy was that she dated. It wasn't Doug. As far as I know, he isn't into hockey, and she didn't date him for very long.
Suddenly, I'm furious as memories of seeing them together flit through my mind--sitting next to each other at RMRA meetings, holding hands, even kissing. That heated feeling inside me is jealousy, and it's not rational because she's no longer with Doug. But I hate those memories because they remind me that she was with Doug and not me. It makes no sense, but I'm angry anyway.
"You've had a lot of boyfriends?" I ask. It surprises me the way I blurted it out. I've learned over the years to keep my mouth shut and to force myself to think about what I say before it comes out of my mouth. About half the time, the words are left unspoken. But these words slip through when my guard is otherwise occupied with fighting off irrational jealousy.
"Um. I've had a few."
"Alex says you don't date people for very long."
Her eyes fix on the ceiling. "Alex is overly critical of my dating habits. She doesn't really understand."
Well, that makes two of us. I don't understand, either.
She stops and turns to me. "This is our section. Are you ready?"
I stop beside her and glance around us as people are heading toward our door. We are fairly early, so it's not busy yet. "Yes."
When we step inside, I'm immediately overwhelmed by the massive arena around and above us--so much so that it's dizzying. But some people are already seated and it doesn't feel as oppressive as I'd anticipated, so I'm relieved. Jenna is watching me closely as we walk down the stairs to find our seats. "Wow, William. You must have paid a fortune for these. I'm used to sitting up in the nosebleed seats."
I look up at the top of the arena toward the seats she's pointing to. "People get nosebleeds up there?"
She laughs. "Sorry, no. It's an expression. It means the seats are so high in altitude that you could get a nosebleed."
I picture the last time I had a bloody nose. I was jumped in high school and some kid head-butted me right in the nose while calling me a 'hopeless retard.' The blood was hot and tasted like metal.
I look back at Jenna, whose eyes are on my face. I jerk my gaze away.
"You're picturing having a nosebleed, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I think I'm getting the hang of how you think. I'll try to be more literal."
She sinks into her seat with a small smile. "Want to work on some stuff while we wait for the game?"
"More visualizing?"
She shrugged "If you want. Or we can just talk."
"What would we talk about?"
"Well...I was wondering about your armor. You said that wearing armor calms you because of the weight."
I nod. "The pressure feels good."
"I think I get that. It's like when you're at the dentist and they put that weighted blanket on you for X-rays. That makes me feel relaxed."
I picture my last visit to the dentist. The hygienist, Nancy, told me she likes me because I don't try to talk while my teeth are being cleaned. She has short, blond hair and her hairspray smells awful. "Yes. Not exactly, but that's approximately it."
People are filing in, talking loudly, laughing even more loudly. Odors of the food they are carrying from the vendors overpowers me. I'm hungry, but I am in no mood to eat.
All the while, Jenna is talking to me. I try to focus on what's she saying, but I only pick up some of it. Shifting in my seat, I turn my ear toward her, but all I can hear are the people coming in, pressing around us, filling up the arena. The Ducks have been doing well, so she tells me, and it's late in the season. Lots of people are coming to watch these final games.
"How are you doing? Are we getting close to pickles yet?"
I give her a look and then remember it's a code word. "I'll be fine if I can get my sketch book out. It's something I do in pu
blic that helps."
I pull out a small sketchpad from my back pocket and a retractable pencil I use when I'm on the go. She tilts her head and looks at me out of the side of her eyes. I look up and meet her gaze.
It's a lot easier when she's looking at me like that--less intense. Less like staring into a bright headlight or the sun. Jenna is definitely the sun to everyone else's bright headlight.
"What are you sketching?"
I flip open my pad--naturally, it's to the wrong page. There's already a sketch on that page, but before I can flip it to the next blank page, she stops me, angling the paper so she can look at it. "Whoa, you drew that? It's so good."
I look down at the hand I've drawn. It's one of my quicker sketches--from memory instead of a sitting model. It's a strength of mine. In those few formal art classes that I did take, all I needed was to study the model for a few minutes from several different angles. Afterward, I could bring up the picture in my mind whenever I needed. It allowed me to take my time with my renderings.
"Whose hand is this? Every single detail is so..." Then she holds up her hand and positions it next to the drawing. I figure she's guessing right now that she is the model.
"This is my hand?"
"Well..." I'm not sure how she will take that, so I don't answer.
She points to the middle finger in the drawing, noting the chipped nail. "I chipped that the other day...the day I went to your house. When did you draw this?"
"This morning."
She sits up, hunching over the drawing while tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear. And now I can't take my eyes off that ear...the shape, the texture. It looks soft and delicate like the rest of her. I'll draw that ear next.
"How the hell did you do that, Wil? It's such a minute detail for you to remember."
"When I'm in the right frame of mind, I can recall anything I see. If I concentrate, I can see the details, too."
She's shaking her head as if she doesn't believe me. I swallow, my throat feeling tight. She'll challenge me, call me a liar.
"That's just...unbelievable."
I blink. "It's true."
She looks at me sideways again. "Yeah, I believe you, William. That's just so fascinating. Amazing, really. I wish I could do that. My memories of some things seem to fade so easily. Things I wish I could remember better."
"Like what?"
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth to bite it. Her lips are light pink and a little shiny from the product she's put there. It occurs to me that I'd like to know what it feels like to press my lips against hers. I've never wanted to kiss a woman as much as I want to kiss Jenna.
Tonight. When we are alone. I'm going to kiss her.
I can't dwell on it, though, because then I'd actually be tempted to do it now instead of later. "What would you like to remember better?" I repeat the question.
She shrugs, looking away. Her leg is bouncing up and down in place. "My father."
"You haven't seen him in a long time?"
She licks her lips and brushes her hand across her jeans as if to remove something that isn't there. "Twenty years. He died in the war."
"And you were...small."
"I was five when I last saw him. Before we left to come to the US."
This troubles me. I'd be very, very sad if my dad was dead. He's a great dad--an excellent man. I'm suddenly lost in these miserable emotions, dreading the possibility of losing him. What must that be like to lose your dad? My dad...I'm lucky to have him. His brother died young. What if he died?
"I've depressed you. See...I should never talk about my childhood. It's a depressing subject."
I frown. "You grew up in a war. You can't help that it's a depressing subject."
She clears her throat and bounces her knee some more before focusing on my sketchpad again. "So, back to the sketch...why did you draw my hand? It's not a particularly remarkable hand."
I trace the lines of the drawing, taking care not to smudge the pencil marks. "Your wrists...they look delicate, but they're strong. Look here--" On my drawing, I point to the bump on the top of the outer wrist. "You have a prominent ulnar styloid, but a very thin distal radial-ulnar joint. And here--"
"You know the whole anatomy?"
I nod. "I draw people...it's necessary to understand anatomy."
"Wow, I bet Mia uses you as a study partner for medical school, doesn't she?"
"Sometimes. But my knowledge does not need to extend as deeply as hers."
She pushes back her long sleeve to study her wrist, then glances at the drawing as if comparing the two. "I would never have thought in a million years that my wrists are remarkable."
"Well, you won't live for a million years so--"
She holds up a hand, laughing, and I realize I did my usual. "Sorry, I wasn't being literal again. It just means I'm surprised."
I flip the page to a blank one and begin to sketch as we talk. I'm choosing a safer subject to draw this time--the scoreboard that hangs centered over the ice rink. For a while, this helps. With Jenna beside me, I make it through the rest of the time that people file in--past us in our row, in the seats in front of us and behind--and even to the introduction of the players as they skate onto the ice when their jersey numbers and names are being called. I'm okay as long as I can focus on my pad and only look up occasionally.
It's harder to block out the bright lights, the smell of food, the sound of feet shuffling all around us. It's loud and Jenna has to lean close when she wants to tell me anything. I want her to keep doing it though. I like the way it feels when her hair brushes against my cheek. I like how she smells tonight... like rain on grass. Like ripe pears.
But after a while, it's too hard--and the arena too dark--to concentrate on my sketchpad, so I'm forced to tuck it away in my back pocket. The noise is distracting and so is the presence of the crowd. It feels like ants crawling across my skin. I rub my hands along my thighs to calm myself, but that's not working either.
Jenna, however, is keeping a close watch on me. She leans over again and says, "You okay?"
"Um..."
"Feeling a little...pickles?"
Her phrase is complete nonsense, but I remember that's because it's our code. So I nod. "Yes. Pickles. Sour dill pickles."
Her brows rise. "We don't want sour dill pickles. I, um, have an idea. Maybe it will help you take your mind off of things so you can watch the game."
"Okay."
"Well, it's not going to be as good as a suit of armor or even a weighted blanket at the dentist."
She stands up and then just as quickly sinks onto my lap. Then she settles herself gingerly on my thighs. I freeze, completely at a loss for what to do. In fact, I'm so confused right now that I forget to worry about the crowd around us or even the sounds of the hockey game.
She turns and says, "Is this okay? Are you okay?"
I lean forward a little so she can hear my answer. "Yes."
A beautiful woman is sitting on my lap. As Jordan would say, What's not to like?
Slowly, she leans back, settling against my chest. We are now touching from her ankles up through her legs to her hips, which rest against my upper thighs, and her back is pressed to my chest. Her head is tilted to the side so that I can still see past her if I wanted to watch the game. I don't. Right now, I couldn't concentrate on it if I tried.
My heart is racing. The feel of her and that smell--it's even stronger now. Is it her shampoo? Her soap? Or is that her that I'm smelling?
"You comfortable?" she asks, turning her head again, her silky hair brushing against my face. I close my eyes, relishing it. Relish. The good kind of relish. Not 'relish' the code word.
Now would be a bad time to use that code word. I could sit with her like this all night.
My hands are gripping the armrests, but slowly I release my death grip. Jenna lays her arms along mine, resting her hands on my hands. Hers are so much smaller, but her fingers fit in the crevices between mine. I can feel my heartbeat
in every inch of my body that is pressed against hers.
Her neck is three centimeters from my mouth. It looks soft...succulent. I want to taste it. Would she taste as good as she smells? What would her skin feel like under my hands?
She might not like me doing that. My hands have callouses on them from the blacksmithing and my artwork. They would feel rough and hard on her smooth, supple skin.
Suddenly, I'm imagining tasting her and touching her, and my body is reacting. I'm getting hard right where she's sitting on me, and I don't want her to know.
So I say into her ear, "Relish."
I really didn't want to say that word, but I don't want her to feel my erection, either. She'll think I'm a pervert or something. But her reaction is slow and she's asking me to repeat myself. At the same time, the crowd jumps to its feet, cheering at the two players on the ice who are fighting.
I twist and slide my arm under her knees, pulling her up with me in one swift motion.
"What the--?" says the man next to me, but I'm not listening. I need to get out of here and she's coming with me.
"Wil!" she exclaims, but the rest of her words are lost in the crowd. I shoulder my way down the row and out to the aisle. Then it's up the stairs to the deserted concessions area, where I stop, finally able to breathe.
Jenna is staring at me with wide eyes but making no move to get out of my hold, so I don't let her down. "I thought that sitting on your lap was helping." She frowned.
"It was helping." In some ways. But making it more difficult in others.
"Well, you almost made it to the first intermission. That's good." She pauses, her face growing a shade of pink. "It's, uh, it's a good thing you're strong, so you could just pick me up and go like that." She licks her lips and looks up into my face. My eyes fly to the nearest door and I start walking toward it.
"I wouldn't have to be very strong in order to carry you. You can't weigh more than a hundred pounds."
"Women don't like to discuss their weight."
"Yes, I remember hearing that, but I don't understand it."
"Women are complicated, Wil. Like you shouldn't talk about how we look in our jeans, either."
My eyes shift to her legs, noticing how her jeans hug her feminine thighs. She looks really good in them. Should I not say that? She did warn me.
Her closeness, the feel of her body pressed against my chest, the smell of her and the tight sweater hugging the curves of her breasts...none of those are helping my current state of arousal. Not in the least.
For The One Page 8
