by Audrey Bell
The phone rang around 11.
"Hello?" I said, pulling myself up, rubbing my eyes, glancing at the clock.
For a fleeting moment I was transported back to Syria, to the early morning wake-up calls, the sudden arrival of danger.
I switched on a light and got to my feet.
"Hadley?"
I swallowed.
"It's Jack."
I walked to the window, and pressed my hand and my forehead to the cold glass and closed my eyes. His voice was like water. It was like water when you've been thirsty.
"I saw you called." I heard a grin behind the familiar rumble of his voice. "Well, I'm almost sure it was you. I deleted your number, but you had the three threes. So..."
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, it was me." I kept my eyes closed. It had only been a few months ago when Jack felt dangerous.
And a few months of real danger had changed all of that.
"You okay? Did I wake you up?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I opened my eyes. I'm good. I'm good. I'm fine. How long had I been telling people that?
"I read all your stories," he ventured. "Sorry. That's weird. It sounds like I'm stalking you. Are you back in New York for now?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm in New York. Are you still at your Mom’s?"
"No, actually. I'm in Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn." Brooklyn was close.
"Yeah. I'm teaching at a charter school."
"Wow."
"Well, I'm teaching art. I'd save the wow if I were you."
I smiled, stupidly sad that he was so much the same. I turned from the window, feeling the early fall chill on my neck. "I bet the kids like you."
He laughed. "They do, actually. Which I find disturbing."
"Yeah?" I looked down at my socks and rubbed one against the other. "Why? I think that makes sense."
"It does make sense. They’re like, here is a man who seems incapable of tying his own shoes and whose favorite subject doesn’t count. I identify with this person.”
I couldn't do anything but laugh at that.
"So, how are you?" he asked, when the line had gone quiet. "Was there a reason you called?"
I smiled. "No, no. Just, misdialed."
"Ah. Gotcha," he said, knowingly. "Well, sorry to wake you up then. I'll let you go.”
"Wait," I said. "Wait, I didn't misdial."
"Okay."
I took a breath. "I miss talking to you." I closed my eyes, surprised at the stillness of the world. "Syria...." I didn't know what to say about Syria. Maybe there was nothing to say. Maybe there never would be anything to say. "Would you come—would you want to come over?" I asked. I bit my lip.
"Now?" he asked.
"Oh...no, no. I mean, just maybe sometime," I said backpedaling.
"I can come over now," he said, calmly. "If you want."
I nodded and swallowed. "I’d really like that.”
"Give me half an hour, okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
About half an hour later, I realized I was still in sweatpants in a t-shirt with my hair in a mangled half-bun on top of my head.
I pulled off the stained, neon-green t-shirt. Where the hell had I ever gotten that? I put on a bra, and a normal-looking white sweater. And I brushed my hair back and braided it.
The buzzer downstairs announced Jack's arrival. I pressed my thumb over the black button. I could hear his footsteps on the last flight of stairs. They were steady. My heart beat twice for every one of his steps.
The doorbell rang. I smiled for practice and then I walked to the door and opened it.
He looked good, his hair was a bit shorter, he was clean shaven, and he was wearing a soft white Henley instead of plaid. Maybe he'd changed a little, too.
I smiled. "Hey, you look great!"
He laughed and then he hugged me. It wasn't a normal kind of hug. He held me tightly.
"I'm really, really glad you called," he said. He walked into my apartment, closing the door behind him. "Are you back for good? How was it? I read your articles and they were great." He paused. "I mean, they were scary. I hated thinking of you there. But they were great."
"Oh." I nodded. "Um, thanks. Yeah, we're back for good. A stringer for a French paper died and..." I shrugged. "After the chemical attacks…It was getting pretty volatile when we left."
He nodded. "That's good. I mean, that you're back for good."
I met his eyes, which looked as clear as they ever had. He had been right to worry. I had been stupid not to. I looked away.
"Listen, I was thinking…a lot. About giving you an ultimatum. That was shitty."
"Oh," I said. I shrugged. "No. Not at all. It was..." I searched for words. I came up with nothing. Again. "Do you want to sit down?"
He sat on the couch.
"Do you want wine or anything?"
"Yeah, sure," he said. He smiled. I walked to the kitchen. I heard sirens, distantly enough that they didn't surprise me. Still I frowned as they grew louder and then began to fade again. My hands shook slightly as I poured two glasses. Shook even while I handed him one, and his fingers lightly brushed mine.
"So, how's work?" he asked, taking one. He smiled.
I shrugged. "I, um...actually I’m kind of on leave." I paused, sitting down on the couch. I glanced away from him. "I didn't deal with things so well when I came back."
He didn't say anything for a moment. "Jesus. I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
I shrugged. "I don't know what to say." I smiled bitterly. "It sucked. You were right. I never should have gone."
I took a sip of my wine, and then another, focusing on the cold liquid. I swallowed and exhaled.
"I never said that," he said quietly. "It was never about you being wrong. It was about me wanting you to stay."
"Well, I should've stayed," I said. I took another sip of my wine.
"Why are you on leave...exactly?" he asked delicately.
I shrugged.
"Sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"I had a panic attack." I tried to say this nonchalantly. "Or something. During a fire drill. The managing editor told me to take some time off."
Jack was quiet. "Are you seeing a doctor or anything?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. She gave me Xanax. It helps. Sometimes." I sighed. I looked at him again. "Sorry. I bet you're regretting calling me back, huh?"
He shook his head. "No. Not at all.”
I nodded. “Oh.”
"So what happened?" he asked.
"The fire alarm just went off and I freaked out," I ran a hand through my hair.
"In Syria, I mean."
I turned my head and looked out the window. I hadn't talked about Syria with anyone, not really. "There were chemical attacks."
"To you, though. What happened to you in Syria?"
"I don't know." I closed my eyes. I shook my head. "I saw a little girl die." I looked at him. "She was young, maybe six. And then, the bodies outside of the Mosque after the chemical attacks." I lifted my shoulders helplessly, trying to recall the particularly brand of desperation that had closed in. My throat tightened up, warning me not to say any more. I tried to clear it and, finding that impossible, gave him a fake smile and took a breath. I started to cry silently. I brushed the tears away from my face roughly and took a breath.
“Hey, hey,” he said comfortingly. He put an arm around me, which made it worse. “It’s okay.”
I took a few deep breaths. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t talk about it. How have you been?"
He smiled. "I have been okay." He nodded. "I think about you a lot. I, um, wanted to tell you how much I regretted giving you an ultimatum.”
"It's okay."
He shook his head. "No, it's not really. I fucked everything up."
"I fucked everything up," I told him.
He rubbed his chin. "I don’t know. We’re both responsible. Well, listen. I know that you can't be with me like I wanted—like I thought I needed."
I was quiet. I w
anted to say that maybe I could.
"But it seems like you could use a friend right now."
"Yeah," I said. I exhaled. "Yeah, probably. I could use, you know, a team of psychiatrists, too."
He smiled a bit sadly. "So, you know. Maybe I could be that for you."
I met his eyes. "I don't know if you want to be my friend."
"I do." He looked at me. "No benefits," he said, with a grin. "I think that was the problem. But, we could be friends. That could work for me, I think. I mean, I think I would like that."
I sipped my wine and decided to tell him the truth.
"Would you say something?" he asked. He laughed.
"No," I said.
"What?"
"No, I don't want to be friends with you," I said. I said it automatically, and more fiercely and surely than I had said anything in a long time. "I don't want to be your friend."
He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Okay. Fine.”
"I don't want to be friends," I repeated.
"Yeah. I got it."
I sipped my wine again, for courage. "Do you remember when you told me you loved me?"
He cringed. "Jesus, Hadley."
"Do you?"
"We really have to revisit this?" he demanded.
I stared at him.
He exhaled. "Yeah, I remember, Hadley." He rubbed his chin. "Obviously, I remember. And if you don't want to be friends, then I don't want to talk about it." He got to his feet and pulled on his coat. "You know, if you change your mind. Give me a call. I won't tell you I love you. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."
He moved towards the door.
“Jack, just listen. I didn't know what to say. But, I do now. I should have said that I loved you." I looked at him, just a stolen glance. He looked stricken, more than anything. "In Syria, I was out with our photographer one night, and our jeep was stolen. And Chip told me—”
"I'm really not a fan of Chip," Jack said.
"What?" I said.
"Never mind," he smiled wryly.
"How do you even know Chip?"
"I don't. I just saw you shared a byline and then I followed him on Twitter and then...never mind."
I looked at him warily.
"You were saying something about a Jeep."
I took a breath. "Chip told me that I should tell his parents how much he loved them if anything happened. And I realized that if anything happened to me, I wanted you to know that I had loved you." I bit my lip. "I mean, I didn't even know that, I don't think. I loved you but I told myself I didn't. And I believed that I didn’t. Until I thought about, if I die right now, he wouldn't know that I loved him and I do. I never let it show. But I loved you." My voice wavered. "Sometimes -most of the time, actually, I still think I do." I snuck another look at him. "I don’t want to be your friend, because I’m in love with you.” I bit my lip. “I know, you're probably completely over it, but I thought you should know.”
"I'm not over it," he said automatically.
I was quiet.
"I meant it. I love you. I still love you and not just most of the time. All of the time," he said. He looked so serious, it was hard to believe we'd just admitted it to one another.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," he said.
He smiled first. "So maybe we should pick up back where we started? Same rules?"
I shook my head. "I was thinking....I would really, really like to have dinner with you."
Jack threw his head back and laughed, a happy laugh, a sound of relief. I got up to my feet and for some reason, when I blinked, I was crying. He walked towards me, grabbed me by my wrists and pulled me close.
"No way," he whispered, teasingly.
"Shut up."
He kissed me softly.
“So, dinner?” I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering.
He smiled. He kissed me again, briefly, barely at all. “I don’t know,” he teased. “What about your rules?”
"C'mon."
He smiled and kissed me for a third time.
I pulled my mouth away. “Yes or no?"
"Ask me out again?"
"Don't push your luck," I said.
"I might have to think about it," he said, laughing.
"Have dinner with me," I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I should leave you hanging longer, but, yes, I will have dinner with you.” He kissed me again, pressing me against the wall. “Anywhere, anytime, you can take me to dinner."
I smiled and grabbed his wrists. “Good.”
He nodded. He kissed my forehead, his lips shaking ever so slightly. “Good.”
I closed my eyes again and he braced himself against the wall with his hands and kissed me again.
His mouth was warm and we'd left the lights on and he turned me, walking me backwards towards the couch. He bit my lip and I broke the kiss and caught my breath.
"Maybe we could start with breakfast, though," he said. "You free tomorrow?"
"I could move some things around," I said.
"Oh, yeah?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
Chapter Fifty-One
In the end, he picked the restaurant and he insisted on coming all the way uptown just to go all the way back downtown with me.
"You have too many stairs," he said. "Fact."
"We could've just met at the restaurant," I said, opening the door.
"You could just move."
"Mmm...maybe you can carry all my boxes for me?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Ask me that when I've had a chance to recover."
I smiled. "Let's go."
"Oh, back down the stairs? Right after I came up?"
I laughed.
"I told you that we should've met at the restaurant."
"I had to pick you up for our first date."
We got into a cab and headed down to the West Village.
"How was school?"
"Crazy. Kids are psychotic. I had the kindergarteners today. I wasn't impressed. Not too bright."
I smiled, imagining Jack surrounded by five-year-olds.
"Junessa said that I was spelling my name wrong."
"Jack?"
"No, Mr. Diamond."
"They call you Mr. Diamond?"
"It's disturbing, I know," Jack said. "She said I was spelling Diamond wrong because it needed to have sparkles. And I told her, you know, sparkles isn't actually a letter, and she started crying."
"Oh, God. What did you do?"
"I told her I'd made a huge mistake and that sparkles was definitely a letter. The kindergarten teacher was like, please don’t ever talk about the alphabet again.”
I laughed and took a long second to stare at Jack, really stare at him. He was so damn handsome.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said smiling. I bit my lip. "We’re going on a real date."
He nodded. "You freaking out?"
"No," I said. I smiled and shook my head. "Well, kind of. But not about being on a date with you."
“What are you freaking out about then?”
I laughed. “Everything else.”
Although, strangely, I wasn’t. Knowing he was here. Knowing that I could call him…it made everything that had seemed so hard seem a little bit easier. I leaned against his shoulders. “This is going to work, right?” I asked.
He nodded. “Affirmative.”
I brought him back home with me. I let him feel me shivering when the sirens started as we climbed the stairs.
“What do you need?” he asked softly. He put a hand on my lower back, as I braced one hand against the wall. “You said you had Xanax?”
I nodded. “Upstairs. I can walk.” I didn’t want this to happen in front of him. I didn’t want to seem like a total fucking head case in front of him.
He nodded. “Put your hands on top of your head.”
“What?”
“Put your hands on top of your head. It helps with the breathing.”
I looked at him.
/> “My mom,” he said. “She gets panic attacks.” He smiled, he took my hand. “Did I ever tell you about my pet pig?”
I shook my head.
“So, when I was younger, I read Charlotte’s Web,” he said. We had reached the landing of the staircase. “And I was kind of obsessed with Wilbur. We were living in the city at the time. Not exactly the kind of place where you can see farm animals. But, my dad took me out to New Jersey one day. And there was an organic pig farm.” He smiled. “You know, happy little pigs. And we were on the tour and they were showing us the baby pigs and there was a tiny one named Twister and the farmer giving us the tour said sort of dismissively that Twister was not likely to live to maturity and I asked what that meant.” He smiled. “And my dad, I could tell, right away, he wanted to punch this farmer in the jaw for telling me that the baby pig was not likely to live to maturity. But he told me it meant the pig would die.”
He had reached my couch and sat me down and locked my door.
He kept talking as he walked to the bathroom and took down the Xanax and brought me a glass of water.
“So, I had a meltdown and my dad couldn’t take it so he asked the farmer how much the pig would cost him.” He smiled. “I think he shelled out like three hundred dollars.”
“And you had a pet pig?”
He smiled. He handed me the water and the pill. “And I had a pet pig.”
I looked at him. I felt fine. I felt calm. “I don’t need it.”
He smiled slightly, like he was proud of himself.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Um, I don’t know. I got good at distracting my mom when she was getting upset.” He smiled. “She liked when I talked about Twister.”
“A pig named Twister.”
He nodded. “I’ve got the pictures.”
“I want to see them.”
He smiled. He kissed me lightly.
“Are you really freaked out?”
He looked at me. “About what?”
“Me.”
He shook his head. “Why would I be freaked out?”
“Because I’ve turned into kind of a head case.”
He shook his head. He wrapped an arm around me. “I’m not freaked out.”
I smiled.
He ran his hands down my body. “You’re gorgeous,” he said. He smiled. “And I love you.”
“And I’m a head case.”
