Auctioned to Him_Damage

by Charlotte Byrd

  My thoughts make sense to me on an intellectual level, but not on the innate, instinctual level, which lives somewhere in my gut.

  “I know you’re right,” I say. “But...”

  “Agh, the kiss of death!” Tristan jokes.

  “Okay, okay, I know. But I still have these doubts, you know?”

  “I know. You’ve had them since you were a kid. And you’ve wanted to be a writer since you were a kid.”

  “Agh, you’re so annoying.” I throw my hands in the air. “Why do you have to know me for so long?”

  Tristan smiles. “That’s right, baby. You can’t hide your true self from me. I know you too well.”

  I roll my eyes. I’m secretly enjoying this. This banter. It feels like we’re in 10th grade. When we were still friends. Before we started dating and everything got so much more complicated.

  “Okay, what? What was the ‘but’ all about?” he finally asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I just think that maybe I should go back to pre-med. I mean, being pre-med is a good option, right?”

  “Yes, being pre-med’s a good option. The world needs more doctors,” he says with lackluster.

  “But?” I fill in where I know he’s headed.

  “You can definitely become a doctor. Of course you can. But, in my humble opinion, the world will miss out.”

  “Miss out? Don’t doctors save lives?” I ask.

  “Yes, they do,” Tristan says, leaning close to me. So close, for a moment, I feel like he’s going to kiss me. “But doctors don’t save as many lives as writers.”

  “What?” I pull away.

  “Alice, if there were no art, no movies, no books, what would be the point of living? What would we be all living for, exactly? Just breathing in and out isn’t enough, you know.

  I smile. “Wow, is this really coming from an Econ major? And I thought you were a realist.”

  Tristan tosses his hair and opens a can of soda. “A realist?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye. “Never. I’m an Economics major, darling. If the stock market isn’t an adventure in fiction and an indulgence in fantasy, I don’t know what is.”

  Tristan’s words make me feel better and we hang out together all afternoon. We watch trash TV and eat junk food. We make inside jokes about people from high school that I haven’t thought about in ages.

  “Oh my God, I’ve never seen you two like this,” Juliet says when she comes into the living room for some rest and relaxation after a long afternoon of breathing classes. She’s actually taking a class on breathing! Can you believe that? And, according to her, it’s actually hard. She doesn’t have to read The Invisible Man and write a 5,000-word paper on race and class struggles in 1960s America. Maybe I should major in acting!

  “Like what?” I ask, still laughing about Tristan’s comment about someone from the Jerry Springer show and our 9th grade History teacher.

  “Like you two actually like each other,” she says. “Dylan, have you ever seen them like this?”

  Dylan looks up from his cereal bowl. “No, not really. Though Alice and Tristan as friends is a nice change of pace from Alice and Tristan as former lovers who can’t stand each other.”

  “Hey! We never couldn’t stand each other,” Tristan says. “Things were just…complicated.”

  “Yes, very complicated,” I say. “But we were always friends.”

  Dylan and Juliet exchange looks. “With friends like that, who needs enemies,” she says.

  “We weren’t that bad,” I say.

  “You were impossible,” Dylan says. “But, honestly, this is much much better. Much more fun for us, at least,” he says about him and Juliet. She nods her head.

  “Hey, so do you all want to go out and celebrate this new development? I was thinking drinks somewhere on Amsterdam Ave.?” Juliet suggests.

  “Sounds good,” Dylan and I say at the same time and crack up laughing.

  “Tristan?” Juliet asks.

  “I’d love to, but I actually have a date tonight. Rain check?” he asks.

  Date. Of course. I had completely forgotten about Tea. How could I’ve forgotten about Tea? Tristan was still seeing Tea. And Tea and I were still not talking. I really liked her, but I haven’t talked to her since that day that I discovered that she and Tristan were a thing. It wasn’t entirely my fault. She started sitting on the other side of the classroom and leaving immediately after class. She started working with someone else as a peer partner and everything we seemed to have vanished in an instant.

  “Oh, that’s cool,” I say quickly, though I fear that it wasn’t quick enough. “Rain check? Yes, definitely.”

  Again, just as I expect for things to get weird between us again, they don’t. Surprisingly. Juliet and Dylan fill in the gap in the conversation and we all break out in laughter. It’s amazing how much dark energy one laugh can suck up and morph into something else completely. I hope that Tristan and I continue to laugh together for the rest of our lives. We didn’t for more than two months and that was two months too long.

  23

  Okay, so I’m officially moving on with my life. Tristan’s with Tea and that’s okay. I’m really okay with it. And even if he weren’t with Tea, I’m not interested. I have a crush on someone else. How does that old saying go? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Well, I’m not under him yet, but I am interested.

  He’s tall, dark, and handsome. I don’t know his name or anything else about him except that he likes to sketch. That’s how I first spotted him. I saw him sitting in the Quad, sketching in his notebook. Yesterday, he drew a little boy playing ball with his mom. The resemblance was uncanny. Today, he’s sketching hands. I’m not sure who they belong to, though. I’m sitting slightly behind him, under an oak. Instead of concentrating on Thomas Hobbes and what he said about the society, I keep searching for the owner of those hands. And imagining what it would be like to kiss the stranger on the bench across from me.

  I’ve had this crush for close to a week, and the experience has been exhilarating. It’s such a change of pace to not dwell on Tristan anymore and to actually look forward to something. I try to remember the last time I really had a crush on someone. More than two years ago. That’s an insane amount of time to go without feeling butterflies in my stomach. The jitters of what it’s all going to be like. I’m only 18 years old for crying out loud! When did I become such an old maid? A long-term relationship in high school will do that to you.

  A strong gust of wind suddenly blows in and clouds blanket the sun. Thick raindrops start to fall from the sky. I toss my notebook and various study sheets into my bag and head toward the library. Now I will probably never know whose hands my crush was sketching. A few minutes later, I’m inside the library, fruitlessly looking around for a spot to study. The place is packed with soggy students.

  “Hey, hey!” someone says. It’s him. My nameless crush.

  “You dropped this,” he says. I smile. But the smile quickly vanishes when I see what he’s holding. It’s a thank you card to Nick. I wrote it while I watched him sketch, when I should’ve been concentrating on Hobbes.

  “Thanks.” I take it reluctantly. I hate to admit ownership of that thing. I just hope that he didn’t read it. He turns around to leave, but then he turns around.

  “You know, it’s really admirable what you wrote,” he says.

  “You read it??”

  “I couldn’t help it. It fell open.”

  I shake my head.

  “What, you don’t believe me?” he asks.

  “No, not really.” I shrug. I’m about to walk away, but something stops me.

  “You know, you had no right. This is private. Not for some stranger to read.”

  He takes a step toward me. His dark hair falls into his unbelievably blue eyes. For a second, I can’t tell if I’m wet from the rain or melting from his gaze.

  “I’m Simon,” he says.

  I stare at him. I have no idea why he just tol
d me his name.

  “There, we’re not strangers anymore now that you know my name. Alice.”

  How the fuck does he know my name? I’m fuming. I’m embarrassed. Of all the things that he found, why did he have to read that note? I glance at the note. It’s wet and the ink is smeared, but I can still make out all the words. I know them by heart.

  * * *

  Dear Nick,

  Thank you. No, really. This isn’t a joke. This is a legitimate thank you note. I just can’t believe that I’m writing you this or thanking you for trying to force yourself on me. But I am. Because the thing is that, if you didn’t do what you did then Tristan and I would still be strangers. But because you did what you did, Tristan and I are friends again.

  There’s this feeling of normalcy between us. And I’m finally starting to feel like I’m not walking on eggshells around him. You’re still a prick for doing what you did and I hope that you get some counseling. You need it. Apparently, you don’t know that when a girl says no, she means no. But thank you anyway. Thank you for being a dick and an asshole.

  * * *

  Not love,

  Alice

  * * *

  “You have no right to call me Alice,” I say, my cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement, anger and embarrassment.

  “I have no right to call you Alice? But isn’t that your name?” He looks at me amused.

  “Yes, but I didn’t tell you my name. You read it in this super personal note that I wrote, not to you.”

  “I couldn’t help but read it,” Simon says.

  “You couldn’t help reading it? What the hell does that even mean?” My voice is getting louder and the librarian shushes me sternly. I switch to whispering loudly. “You had no right to read it.”

  “I know,” he whispers softly. Simon’s got such a smug look on his face that it makes me want to punch him and then kiss him and then punch him again. “That’s why I thought you would want it back.”

  “Whatever.” I turn on my heels and head out. This conversation is clearly pointless. When I reach the second set of double doors on my way out of the library, I’m certain that I had left him behind. I feel relieved and a little disappointed.

  “Why don’t you let me make this up to you?” Simon asks in his quiet, raspy voice. My lips curl into a smile and I’m grateful that I’m facing away from him. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  “And why should I?” I ask.

  “It’s the decent thing to do. And I know you want to.”

  Now I get incensed.

  “I what? I want you to? Please.”

  I roll my eyes and head out into the rain. Why didn’t I bring a stupid umbrella with me? I curse myself. I’m such an idiot.

  “You’ve been staring at me all day.” Simon follows me closely behind.

  “I have not,” I yell without turning to face him.

  I’m walking briskly, as fast as I can without running, but he’s keeping up with me like it’s nothing. What is it about rain that blocks out the whole world and makes it so hard to hear a word? I can barely hear myself think.

  “You’ve been staring at me for days,” he says. It’s a good thing that it’s freezing out and I’m soaking wet, otherwise I know that my cheeks would be burning red right now.

  “By the way, artists are terribly perceptive. So if you ever stare at another artist in the future, just know that they’re probably aware of it.”

  I roll my eyes as if I can’t even justify his response with an answer. But it’s mainly because I don’t know what to say. Again, I feel that strange feeling in the pit of my stomach – like I want to both punch him and kiss him.

  “Hey, c’mon.” He grabs the back of my jacket and turns me around. “Let me make this up to you. Please? Just a cup of coffee?”

  His eyes are sincere now. His face is no longer smug, but open, inviting. He really wants to get coffee with me.

  “Fine,” I finally say.

  “Excellent!” Simon’s eyes light up. “And by the way, just so you know, those hands that I was sketching today. They belong to you.”

  24

  Over coffee, I find out that Simon’s from the UK. I detected a slight accent, but apparently he grew up in New York and Dubai, where his dad headed some petrol engineering division. His family now lives in London. Simon’s a junior and he’s studying design. He likes to sketch and draw outside because “that’s where life is,” he says.

  Simon’s so open about his art, about his purpose in life, that I suddenly feel like I’m in the closet. Like I’m not being honest about who I am. Like I’m living a lie. And perhaps I am. So I decided to change that.

  “So what about you? What do you do?” he asks. I’m struck by his choice of words. He doesn’t ask what I’m trying to do, what I’m planning on doing when I grow up, what I’m majoring in. Instead, he asks what I do. As if I’m not in some transitional phase of my life. As if I’m actually embodying my true self right now.

  “I’m a writer,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud. I didn’t say “I’m an aspiring writer” or “I’m planning on becoming a writer.” I feel liberated. I’m out. I’m not hiding who I am. The sentence is so simple and elegant and it has taken me 18 years to formulate it and embody it. To admit to the world, and to myself, that that’s who I am.

  I look at Simon. He shrugs. Accepts it. Like it’s no big deal.

  “That’s cool,” he says.

  Yes, it is.

  Over coffee, Simon and I find out that we have a lot in common. It’s weird that we do since we’ve had such different upbringings. But I guess parents can be very similar no matter the culture or where they reside in the world. Simon’s close to his parents, they talk every other day, but they are not happy about his choice of career.

  “Growing up, my father always told me that he wanted me to do whatever would make me happy. Except that, to him, that meant that I should pursue engineering. Like him.”

  I know exactly what he’s talking about.

  “He was genuinely distressed when I started painting in high school. He thinks museums are some place you go on vacation just to say you did, but for no other reason. But for me, I felt this euphoria that first time I saw the Dying Gaul in Rome. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen up to that point and it just touched me on this instinctual level. I was 14 and I knew that no matter what I did, I wanted to do something that would make other people feel like I did when I saw that sculpture.”

  What was supposed to be one cup of coffee ended up being three. We stayed for close to three hours in that coffee shop talking, discussing, and, mostly, laughing. When he finally walks me back to my building, I actually feel a little sad that we are separating. He’s so easy to talk to, it feels like magic is in the air. I’m afraid of breaking the spell.

  At the bottom of my building, Simon grabs my hand. He pulls me close to him and brushes a few strands of hair out of my face.

  “You have the most beautiful eyes,” he whispers in his raspy voice that makes me go weak at the knees.

  His rough fingers linger around my neck as he licks his lips. He leans closer to me. I feel his breath on my face. Then he kisses me. He parts my lips with his.

  When he buries his hands in my hair, I kiss him back. I push back at him and the passion that builds within me overtakes me. We push against each other, our bodies intertwining and separating with our breaths.

  We stand there until I lose all sense of time and place. The whole world falls away and we’re the only ones that exist. The only ones that matter.

  “Get a room!” I hear someone say faintly behind me. Suddenly, the outside world rushes in.

  Simon keeps going ignoring the comment, but I can’t help but pull away.

  “Alice?” Dylan says with a chuckle. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

  And then I see them. Tristan and Tea. They’re standing behind Dylan. Both look uncomfortable.

  I do the
only thing I can think of.

  “Simon, these are my roommates, Dylan and Tristan. And this is…” I don’t know how to introduce her. I thought she was a friend, but then she wasn’t. This is the first time I’ve really seen her in a long time. “And this is Tea. Everyone, this is Simon.”

  “Hi Simon,” they all say practically at the same time.

  Simon nods.

  “We’re just going upstairs to hang out. Come join us,” Dylan says nonchalantly. Tea, Tristan, and I stare at him as if he’s dense. But he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Sure,” Simon says.

  Now I look at Simon as if he had lost his mind. But there’s nothing left to do. I can’t very well un-invite him.

  25

  That evening, the six of us hang out. I thought it would be awkward and uncomfortable, but for some reason it isn’t. Juliet makes eggs in her usual way, leaving Simon in awe.

  “What are you doing?” he asks when she scrambles the eggs with a fork and puts the bowl into the microwave.

  “Making scrambled eggs.” She shrugs. Dylan, Tristan and I watch her do this every evening. She likes to have breakfast foods in the evening. It’s “one of the perks of being a grown up,” according to her.

  “In the microwave?” Simon asks, clearly having trouble processing the entire concept.

  “She does it all the time,” Dylan says, as if doing something insane all the time explains it.

  “I had no idea you could do that.” Simon shakes his head. I notice that his English accent becomes more pronounced in times of shock or awe. It’s so adorable, it takes all of my strength not to leap over the couch and kiss him.

  “Juliet’s an expert in microwave cooking,” Tristan explains. “She needs to write a book about it and teach the rest of us mere mortals.”