Even the Moon Has Scars

by Steph Campbell

  “Did you come out here to hit on me?” The sarcasm drips from his voice.

  “Absolutely.” I try to sound sarcastic too, and hope the hitch in my voice doesn’t give my nerves away.

  “Well good, saves me the effort.” He gives me a quick wink, and my instincts tell me I’m in big trouble. The very best kind.

  “Well?” he says. He’s standing at the passenger side of the car with the door wide open, tapping his foot. I’m not clear on the question or implied invitation, or whatever.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to stand there, or are you going let me take you to lunch?”

  “No way,” I tell him. His confident smile twitches downward at my words and I immediately feel guilty. I slide onto the smooth leather seat on the passenger side of his car. Ben arches his left brow in confusion before rounding the side of the car to climb into the driver seat.

  “You can drive, but I’m taking you to lunch.” I say and without giving it any thought, my lips form a rare, genuine smile.

  He lets out a raspy chuckle. “All right then, where to?”

  ***

  “So, you’re sure your parents won’t be home soon?” Ben asks, glancing over his shoulder into the living room.

  “Positive,” I say. I add another scoop of coffee to the filter, and flip the switch to “on”. I pause to inspect the dark liquid drizzling into the pot. I’d lost track of how many scoops I added while talking to Ben and making lunch. The liquid filling the pot is extra dark and thick.

  “They’re at a baseball tournament with my little brother, they’ll be gone all day.” I qualify.

  “Is that you in that picture?” Ben points to a small frame on the edge of the telephone stand. It’s a photo of me in a leotard wearing my best I just want to please you smile. I was nine.

  “Yep.”

  “Do you still do gymnastics?” he asks me.

  “Not often. Where’d you move from?” I say, changing the subject.

  “The booming metropolis of Bowling Green, Kentucky.”

  I ladle out some lentils and pasta into two bowls and push one across the kitchen island to him.

  “Thank you,” he says with a smile. Goosebumps prick up on my arms in response.

  “Have you lived here all of your life?” he asks.

  “No. We moved here when I was like eight. My dad had an offer to start an accounting firm with an old friend, so lucky me, here we are.”

  “Where’d you used to live?” He crosses his arms over his sturdy looking chest. The tendons in his arms flex, and I silently tell myself to close my mouth, which is hanging open. I know I said he was only decent looking, but scratch that, after spending just a short time with him, I want to gobble him up.

  “California.” I take a sip of my coffee which is outrageously strong and bitter. I hope he doesn’t notice how I wince. I try to be nonchalant as I swirl extra cream into it, trying to dilute it.

  “Ah, that explains it,” he says.

  “Explains what?” I glance over my mug and he winks.

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Do you plan on staying here after high school?”

  “God, no.” I love that he seems legitimately interested in all of these lame details about me.

  “Favorite musician?” he asks.

  “Bobby Long, you?”

  “Nice choice. Mayer Hawthorne.”

  We’ve been going back and forth with this game of question and answer without pause for over an hour, pretty much since we arrived at my house.

  “So, what else can you tell me?” he asks.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Ben tilts his head and appears to be weighing his words carefully before asking his next question. My spine prickles with nervousness over what he might ask. It’s standard protocol with me not to divulge much.

  “Pet peeves?” he finally says.

  I tap my fork on the countertop. “When people say, ‘irregardless’. Is that even a real word? I hate it.” Ben leans back in his chair and laughs.

  “How about you?” I ask.

  “High fives.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  His eyes meet mine for a moment, and I fight the urge to look away.

  “Vices?” he asks.

  Pills.

  “I don’t really have any,” I say, with a shrug.

  “Oh, come on, everyone has something.”

  Stealing.

  “Oh, yeah, what’s yours then?” I say desperate to divert his attention. My cheeks ignite and my head screams: Deflect! Sidetrack! Distract!

  He cocks his head to the side and smirks. “Snarky ass women.”

  Once I realize he’s not trying to bully me into divulging some deep dark secret, I humor him and answer. “Carbs.”

  “This pasta is amazing,” he says, stabbing at a piece of Farfalle.

  I prop my elbows on the island across from him, and rest my face in my hands.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yeah, where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “Some from my mom. Some from Bobby Flay.” I flash him a smile and he lets out a low chuckle. “Mostly I taught myself. I cooked a lot for me and my brothers growing up. I only mess around with it, though.” My throat feels like there’s a Brillo pad lodged in it. Talking about myself makes me feel like I’m having an allergic reaction, especially when compliments are involved. “Cooking is about the only thing that I don’t manage to fuck up,” I add.

  He shakes his head, “I doubt that.”

  Realizing I’ve momentarily let my guard down, I pull myself upright and smooth out the wrinkles in the Social Distortion t-shirt I’d thrown on this morning.

  “Don’t believe me? Just wait…”