Eternal Soul

by Amy Henwood

  “Eager to go?” he asked.

  “That too, but I was going to get a sweater,” I said.

  “Can I grab it for you?” he offered.

  I weighed the outcomes of a boy poking away in my clothes versus me struggling myself. I didn't have anything to hide and it would save me the uncomfortable hobble.

  “Please. There is a navy blue one in my closet that will do.”

  I loosened my grip on his arm and grabbed the back of the chair for support. He disappeared to my room as I stayed stationary.

  Matching every other hinge in my rental, the closet door squealed as he opened it. My mind filled with the contents and how the state of my closet was arranged in a disaster, worse than the final scene of the movie Twister. Last semester’s textbooks piled on the floor, my limited shoe collection thrown about and clothes hanging on a variety of plastic and metal hangers, with no logic to their home. It was not like Mia’s, which was perfectly organized by item type and colour.

  I pictured my closet trying to pinpoint the location of my sweater for when Jackson came asking where it was located in the mess. Flashing back to Monday, I recalled wearing it to class and throwing it in my laundry hamper. If it was on top of the pile, I would test the scent and give it another outing before washing, but it had been buried under a week's worth of soiled laundry and certainly not wearable again until washed. I searched my closet in my head to pick out something clean. The green one that ties up at the front, that will do.

  “Jackson,” I yelled from the kitchen. My mind lost vision of my closet and he appeared out of my room.

  “Yes?” he replied.

  My mouth dropped wide, almost hitting the ground. He was holding my green sweater.

  “What is it, Scarlett?”

  “Nothing,” I responded.

  “I couldn't find your blue sweater, so I grabbed this one instead.” He held out the green tie-up one. “Does this work?”

  Like he read my mind. Coincidence, I’m sure. My wardrobe selection was small, leaving not many items to choose from.

  “Yes, that's fine,” I said, forcing my jaw closed.

  He assisted me in putting on my sweater while I continued to balance on one foot. He retrieved the crutches and I tied the sweater closed. I wedged the crutches under my arms, and he brought a pair of shoes from the shoe mat.

  “These yours?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He slipped the first shoe onto the foot that was attached to the injured knee, taking extra care in not jerking my leg with any sudden movements. Then, for the first time since the accident, I put faint weight on my injured leg while continuing to support myself on the crutches. Pain transmitted to my brain, but it was not unbearable—better than I had predicted for so soon after the accident. The fear of pain superseded my nerves to test the tolerance.

  Outside, I expanded my lungs and inhaled the pure, end-of-season air on my way to Jackson’s car. Mia’s intuition was right. The final snowfall of the season had passed, pushing the limits of remaining ski days—a factor that played a hand in my mishap. Compacted, partially melted snow made a glassy running surface, increasing the difficulty of the advanced course on my less than intermediate skills. With the final snowfall behind, unsightly dirt-infused snow mounds lined the space between the road and sidewalks. Staring out the car window, I longed for the flower blossoms that awaited under those piles.

  I had spent my childhood assisting my grandma in her thriving gardens that she attended to year-round. We would be outside seven months of the year, and the other five would be spent in her greenhouse and sunroom. She taught me everything I knew about growing the juiciest tomatoes, the hottest peppers, and the brightest marigolds. I still held onto my wide-brim hat and pink gardening hand tools she gifted me on my sixth birthday, safely tucked away in a shoebox under my bed at home.

  Jackson pulled his vehicle in front of the closest entrance to the movie theatre inside the mall. It was the opposite entrance from where I pushed the teen away from the out-of-control car. Reminded of that incident, I put extra effort into my barrier. The hole I had left in it last time might have saved a life, but it showed weakness in my wall that I had spent two-thirds of my life perfecting. My skill had obviously diminished, and I needed to focus on it. What used to occur as natural as breathing was now taking discipline.

  “I will help you out here, then I’ll park the car,” he said.

  I unlatched the door and swung my legs to the outside of the car. He came to my aid with my crutches and assisted me out. I crutched to the mall doors and pressed the automatic door button to prevent myself from struggling with the heavy metal and glass door. I waited between the two sets of doors for Jackson.

  The theatre was straight down the hallway. It didn’t look far away, but it would be the furthest distance I had walked since my fall, making the hallway appear as a marathon. Jackson came in from the parking lot and walked with me toward the theatre.

  I scanned the movie posters lining the walls on the final stretch to the entrance. A male and female were on the first poster, facing each other with their foreheads touching, foregrounded with a sunset: chick flick. One contained two males and a single female with a dark nightfall backdrop: love triangle chick flick. Airplanes, guns and a group of men in army uniforms were on another one: war movie.

  At the ticket booth, only one couple stood ahead of us. I reached to grab the strap of my purse off my shoulder and the only thing that came into contact with my hand was my sweater. My purse was still back in my room with my wallet. The temperature of my body increased ten degrees in ten milliseconds. I was embarrassed to ask Jackson to purchase my ticket. He had already spent too much on me, and I should be the one paying for both him and me.

  The couple ahead of us moved forward through the entrance and we advanced to the box office employee. The next movie playing in the multi-screen theatre started in fifteen minutes.

  “Two passes for Milgrove’s End,” Jackson said to the woman behind the plexiglass.

  He glided a twenty-dollar bill through the small opening at the bottom of the window and received two movie tickets in exchange. Bullet dodged.

  He led the way to the concession counter. With him purchasing the tickets, it would be expected that I purchased snacks. As much as it felt like it, it was not a date, I reminded myself.

  He walked at a slow pace, never leaving me behind. The line was much longer than the one couple ticket line. I didn't know how to tell him that I didn't have any money on me to pay. I hoped that he would purchase items for himself and I would have the opportunity to pass on concessions.

  I shifted weight on the crutches, as blisters were beginning to form on my hands from the wood handles, and my armpits were irritated by the hard supports.

  “I think it has been well over a year since I have been to the movies. How about you?” I asked while waiting in the turtle-pace line.

  He took his time responding, thinking of his answers. “I cannot remember the last time I have been to the theatre. Never have been a big movie fan. What did you see?”

  “Thinking about it now, it was two summers ago. My mom took me before heading back to school. Un long dimanche de fiancailles.” It tumbled off my tongue like rough sandpaper, butchering the title.

  “You speak French?” he sounded more shocked then intrigued.

  I chuckled in my response. “Bonjour et au revoir. That is the limitations of my French capabilities in a whole.”

  “Then why a French movie if you cannot understand it?”

  “It is subtitled. French cinema has an entirely different tone to them than our Hollywood versions.”

  “I didn't even know theatres showed movies in French.”

  “They don’t.”

  His expression showed signs of bewilderment, so I clarified.

  “The town I grew up in has this old blacksmith shop that was converted into a small, one-screen theatre. One employee runs it all. You pay your entrance and snacks at a c
ounter no longer than six feet. The show rarely starts on time. Once the line has emptied in the narrow hallway, the main door gets locked and the employee goes upstairs and starts the movie.” He didn't turn his attention away from me, so I continued. “The movies that are shown are not always box office blockbusters. Sometimes they are months old, or ones that had only been shown at film festivals and never made it to major theatre chairs, and some are from overseas. Every other month a two-page spread comes with the local paper with the next two months lineup. The last time my mom and I went, there were only three other people in attendance with us, and the movie still played. There is the one perk of free, unsold popcorn. Probably strategy to make us buy another drink.”

  “Sounds like you grew up in a small town.”

  “To say the least.”

  Throughout my nonstop rambling, I failed to notice we had come to the front of the line. A slim-faced male in a navy-blue collared t-shirt dawning a hat embroidered with the theatre logo stood on the opposite side of the butter-spilled counter.

  “A large bag of popcorn and a medium coke.” Jackson turned his head at me. “Anything for you?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” I said in hopes it would get me off the hook to mention my missing purse situation.

  “My treat.”

  I wanted to firmly reject the offer, as I didn’t want him spending another cent on me, but he stared me into guilt.

  “Iced tea,” I caved.

  “One medium iced tea,” he repeated my order to the cashier.

  Another crisp twenty of Jackson's was exchanged for the items. The cashier made change for him.

  I hadn’t realized how expensive corporate-ran theatres were. I could microwave my own bag of popcorn and grab a couple pops out of the refrigerator for a fraction of the transaction that just transpired.

  “Anything else before we head in?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  He led the way across the black carpet, embedded with golden stars with red and blue abstract lines. I foresaw the impending struggle of him attempting to extract the tickets out of his pocket while creatively balancing the drinks and popcorn.

  “Here,” I said pinching one crutch under my arm, offering a now free hand attached to an unstable body. “Let me hold the popcorn for you.”

  He was grateful for the offer and passed me the popcorn before reaching into his pockets for our tickets and presented them to the next employee to scan.

  “Second theatre on the left,” he verbally directed us—with great boredom.

  “Thank you,” said Jackson.

  He took the popcorn back after disposing of the tickets into his jean pocket.

  The walkway inside the theatre was dimly lit with rope lighting nestled on the edge of the carpet like an airport runway. It was ramped upwards, leading us to the seats. I kept my feelings to myself on the thoughts about scaling any number of stairs to obtain a decent seat. I was not doing stairs where I would for sure fall, face planting into the sticky butter- and pop-infused floor.

  “Want to sit on the bottom platform?” he asked. “I know it's not the best viewing location, but it will not burden you from having to scale the stairs.”

  There went mind-reader Jackson again. It got me wondering if he had strange “disabilities” like me. Who am I kidding? That is pure crazy talk. I had never met another person that had anything remotely close to my unfortunate gift—the gift I wished I didn't possess. To lean on the side of unlikely caution, I took a brief moment to ensure my barrier was still in good standing and protected it. No one was getting through it today and ruining my not-a-date outing with Jackson.

  “Okay,” I replied to him.

  As suggested, we chose first-row seats, avoiding the stairs. I crossed my ankles with my bad knee on top, not creating any unnecessary pressure on it. Jackson inserted my drink in the cup holder next to me. The rope lighting and wall sconces dimmed further to only a light glow, and a series of movie trailers began.

  He settled the popcorn on the armrest between us. The smell of melted butter made plunging into the bag irresistible on my empty stomach. My brunch was laid to rest in the garbage can at home. I refused to be the person who openly took the first hand-full of the popped corn kernels that I hadn’t purchased. Just then, he tilted the bag toward me and nodded, giving me the go-ahead to indulge. The pieces melted with delicious ease in my mouth.

  I stayed focused on the screen with my hand occasionally dipping blindly into the popcorn. The bag emptied and it was a deeper reach each time to scoop out the salty treat. It was on the next dig to the bottom that stalled me from extracting more. My fingers gilded not down the side of the bag, but Jackson’s arm. I stopped immediately when I realized what—who—I was touching. He didn’t flinch and kept his hand submerged in the bag. My first instinct was to retract fast and pretend like nothing occurred, but the opposite happened. I slid my hand down his wrist to his fingers. He gently brushed his fingers against the back of my hand, slowly exiting the bag with continuous contact, bringing mine with his.

  He brought his hand toward my face, holding a single piece of popcorn. I pressed my lips together before releasing them to accept the offering. My tongue pushed the piece toward the back of my mouth as his fingers slid down my lips. I was filled with a high-intensity sensation from his indulgent touch.

  I moved my hands away from his space and rested them on my lap. He set the nearly empty bag on the floor and placed his hand on my triceps, moving it down and lacing his fingers between mine.

  This was wrong. I have Chase. Chase is not a guy I date. Chase is my boyfriend. Jackson is neither, hardly even a friend. For the first time since meeting Jackson, my morals won over temptation, and I freed my hand from his. He didn’t attempt to hold or reconnect, instead moving back to his space.

  From that point, I would be unable to retell the remainder of the movie if anyone quizzed me. There were some characters walking in the park with a dog, or maybe not. There was a dog in the movie? Recalling any additional lines from the movie was hopeless.

  Jackson and Chase. Chase or Jackson. Feelings toward Jackson was increasing to par level with Chase, but I was confused as to who I lusted for. Unsettled by the compiling emotions, I didn’t know what to do or what to think anymore. I was at a loss and decided I didn’t want to think anymore; I was going to simply let my free will take over. The hand I retracted from Jackson transferred back to the security of his, intertwining together. So wrong, yet feeling so right, like they belonged blended together.

  Ending credits began to roll up the screen and the dim, almost dark lights brightened gradually, preventing our adjusted pupils from becoming pinpoint in size.

  He initiated the release of my hand and stood first to assist me up. The majority of the audience had left the theatre with only a few stranglers remaining with us. It was disheartening knowing I needed to use the inconvenient crutches instead of being able to leave hand in hand with Jackson. The absence of his touch had me grieving more than it did when Chase and I broke physical contact.

  Exiting the decline out the theatre was surprisingly more energy-inducing than going up. The minimum slope was enough to give the sensation that I would fall forward if I didn't focus on the task. Finally at the outer hallway, light pressure was placed on my lower back and I wanted it there.

  “Do you want to do some shopping or grab a proper bite to eat?” he asked.

  Leaving my purse at home once again haunted me with foolishness.

  “No. I would like to go home. Not having my leg properly elevated for the past few hours has caught up to me, and my last dose of medication has worn off,” I replied, but I would not object to having him stay and wrapping those arms around me for the remainder of the day.

  “I understand,” he said with a hint of disappointment. “You wait out front and I will pull my car up.”

  After Jackson went to recall his vehicle, I heard my name being called from afar. I turned my head side to side in an at
tempt to locate the voice addressing me.

  “Scarlett,” he said again, at a much closer range.

  Arms swaddled me from behind. Startled, I tried to turn around to see the face of the person trying to pass an unwanted move on me. I knew it was not Jackson, as he had only left my view seconds prior.

  “Hey, baby.” His voice was now recognizable.

  It was Chase. My Chase. Here holding me. Satisfaction fluttered throughout, being encased in his toned arms. His warm breath electrified my skin with his lips covering my neck. If it wasn't for the crutches supporting me, my buckled knees would have landed me on the ground, yet again, by his touch.

  “What are you doing here all alone?” he asked.

  “I’m not alone. I’m here with—”

  Shit. Jackson.

  11

  My muscles froze like a petrified fossil. Chase had strictly informed me not to see Jackson, yet there I stood, waiting for him to chauffeur me home. Chase would not be pleased when he found out who I was here with. Seeing him enraged with me once before was more than enough for this lifetime.

  What is happening to me? Minutes ago, I wanted Jackson and now Chase had me surrounded and I was fearful of him finding out why I was here—because I didn't want him to know. I was new to this whole two-lovers thing, but I didn’t think this was how it was supposed to feel.

  Jackson arrived with his vehicle, stopping with a jolt. The car body jerked forward after the tires had stopped moving.

  I couldn't wiggle free from Chase’s grasp and my struggle only made his grip tighter. Jackson rushed out of the car and took hold of me and forcefully separated me from Chase.

  “Get your filthy hands off her!” he shouted at Chase.

  My crutches slammed to the ground when I was heaved out of Chase’s arms and my injured knee slammed onto the ground for a second time that day, but this time I didn't have anyone to break my fall.

  “My hands?” Chase roared back. “You’re the one trying to take advantage of my woman.”