by Kylie Key
"You okay?" Damon returned, jolting me out of my trance.
"Oh, what? Yes," I said, patting at myself with the towel.
"Here, you can wear this," he said, holding out a folded t-shirt.
"No, it's all right," I said, but then I stopped myself. Damon was lending me his shirt. To wear. Don't be an idiot! my brain screamed at me, Take it! His outstretched arm dropped. "Oh, actually, maybe I should," I said, reaching out. "This is kinda wet." He passed it to me, smiling. "I'll just go and change."
I went inside to the bathroom. Maybe the shirt wasn't even his. Maybe it was one of Dominique's, or one of his father's. I locked the door, peeled off my tank and proceeded to dry my bra as best I could. I unfolded the t-shirt. It was definitely one of Damon's, a white one with an adidas logo on the front. It was too wide, of course, the sleeves going down to my elbows and it was long enough to cover my shorts, but somehow it felt so right. I hugged myself tightly, giggling at the absurdity of what was happening, me sitting around the pool with Damon and now wearing his t-shirt. I picked up my tank top and wrung it out into the basin and then checked myself in the mirror. My natural light brown hair was improved by the bayalage highlights I had gotten with my birthday money (thanks, Nana Rose), but it was frizzing out on the sides and the pimple on my chin looked like it had doubled in size since I'd poked at it this morning. I checked my wrist where I usually kept a hair tie, but for some unknown reason there wasn't one there. I sighed with resignation, my hair would continue to look like a bush. And I needed to stop fantasizing, I'd probably go out and find Lauren in a skimpy bikini, sitting next to him.
I went back through to the kitchen with the intention of going home. Obviously Dominique's physical therapy appointment was going to take awhile. I'd say goodbye and next time make sure I texted Domi before dropping in.
But Damon was leaning against the kitchen counter, right in front of my keys. He was still baring that awesome body of his. My eyes couldn't seem to divert themselves, fixating on his six pack. How many sit ups did he have to do to get them so chiselled? A hundred a night? Two hundred? Or did playing tennis do that to you?
"Hi," I said stupidly, "uh." I held the towel out. I don't know why I hadn't put it in the laundry hamper. I knew where the wet towels went. Damon took it from me. "Thanks," I said, "and thanks for the t-shirt. I'll get it back to you as soon as possible."
"Don't worry about it," he said, heading back to the pool area. I grabbed my keys, the jingle of my keychain making him stop and turn. "You're going?" He sounded disappointed.
"Um yeah. Can you let Domi know I dropped by?"
"Uh. Yeah. Sure," he said hesitantly. "Um." He suddenly looked awkward and I could have sworn his cheeks flushed. "Hey, um, can I ask you something?" I felt my own cheeks heat up. Why was that happening? What would Damon want to ask me that would make me blush? I was getting flustered over nothing. Probably wanted to ask me something about Dominique. Was he worried about her injury?
I found myself nodding, but my face felt like it was beet red and there was an uneasy heaviness in my chest.
Damon strangely looked as nervous as I felt, wincing as he said, "It's a favor actually."
I exhaled with relief. Surely it was nothing major, my brownie recipe perhaps, or maybe a batch all for himself.
He looked down at the floor and mumbled, "I wondered if you'd mind helping me with a song I'm writing. Like, help with the music."
I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, and took a moment to digest it. I'd never known Damon to be musical, in any shape or form. The family had a piano, a very good Yamaha piano, but it was for their older sister. Damon had a guitar, but every teenage boy did. And as far as I knew he didn't sing. And then it hit me - Lauren was a singer. He was probably writing a song for Lauren.
"It doesn't matter," he said, tossing his head so his hair flopped over one eye, "it's probably a stupid song anyway." He looked thoroughly defeated. "Forget I said anything." He turned to leave.
"No," I gasped, realizing he thought my silence meant rejection. "No. I can do it Damon. I can help."
His face brightened as he looked up shyly. "You will?"
"Well I can try," I said, "I'll give it a go, I might be able to help."
"That's awesome Ella," he said, his cheeks definitely pink. "Like, I've been wanting to ask you for some time now, but you know-" He faded off and my confidence started to build. Damon had wanted to ask me this for some time? He actually knew that I was musical and existed as more than his sister's friend? I was gobsmacked.
"Do you have something you're working on?" I asked.
He nodded. "But it's not very good." He started to mumble, "I've got lyrics but they're probably no good. And I'm not sure how to go about doing the music. I've done a few chords on the guitar but..." He didn't finish the sentence, flicked his hair again and said, "Anyway if you need to go, maybe we can organize - "
"Oh I don't need to go yet," I interrupted, "I've got time."
"Really?" His eyes filled with hope. "I'd rather do it when no one else is around. Especially Dom." I gave him a questioning look. He let out a deep sigh. "I haven't told anyone I write. Well you might not even call it writing. It's just a few words. I probably suck at it anyway."
It was startling to hear Damon belittle himself. At school he projected as someone who was self-confident and unfazed by life. He was the top player in the school's tennis team, he was a top student and had gotten some scholarships towards college and of course, he had great hair. But when I thought about it Damon was actually quite shy. He was well liked but he was also low key. He didn't try for Prom King, saying he was too busy with tennis to do the prom court activities, even though I thought he could have won it hands down. Lauren had been nominated for Prom Queen, but she lost out to a girl called LaToya, who had campaigned hard. And yes I'd voted for her - she gave away free lipsmackers and candy bars, and complimented me on my balayage; Lauren never had.
"Should we make the most of it while Domi isn't here then?" I asked boldly. "Do you know how long she'll be?"
"She was visiting Malachi and Dad was going to pick her up when he finished work. They might be another hour. Maybe," he said, looking at his watch.
"Malachi?"
"Her volunteer work."
"Oh, the boy with the burns," I said, remembering how Dominique had started volunteering this summer. She said it was for college applications. I think she was afraid that with her injury the gymnastics scholarships she'd always hoped for might not be secured. She was widening all her options.
"Um, do you want to come take a look?"
"Sure," I said, following him. He climbed the stairs two at a time, so I made my little legs run to keep up. We passed Dominique's door, then a spare room, then went along to his, which was next to his parents. I'd been in Damon's room before, but only with Dominique. It had been rearranged from the last time I'd seen it.
For a boy's room (I'm guessing), it was very tidy. His blue and white striped nautical bed cover was pulled up, his floor was clear, the clothes hamper was empty, the closet doors closed. He had a large built-in desk area on one wall with a screen, keyboard, speakers and gaming stuff. He went to his closet and returned with a folded t-shirt, my eyes soaking up the last view of his glorious abs. He reached into a drawer and produced a red covered, dog-eared spiral notepad. Then he grabbed his guitar from beside the bed and sat down. He indicated for me to join him.
I was still carrying my keys and damp top, so I put them on his bedside cabinet. There was a family photo there, his whole extended family by the look of it. I squinted to see if I could see him.
"Dom's always in the front row," he laughed, and I spotted her holding one of her nephews on her lap.
"Of course," I laughed back. But it was him I was trying to find. He was in the back row, at the end, his arm around his Mom. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands clasped, feet together firmly planted on the floor. It all seemed a little surreal, sitting on a boy's bed, as he strumme
d his guitar, adjusting the tuning pegs. My romantic self wished I was wearing a flowing floral maxi dress with a wreath of dried flowers in my hair, smelling of roses and lavender. But truth was I was sitting in an oversized t-shirt, my frizzy hair sitting on my head like an unruly bush, and not a scrap of makeup on, not even a much-needed concealer.
"Okay," Damon said, satisfied he'd tuned his strings. His fingers trembled as he positioned them on the fingerboard. He drew in a breath and smiled at me nervously. "Okay," he said again.
"Let's hear it," I said.
He played a couple of chords, cleared his throat and started again. His fingers strummed. I found myself listening intently to the melodic tune, keen to give him some worthwhile feedback. After a minute he stopped and said, "I'm not that good."
His self-deprecation saddened me. "Damon, who taught you to play?"
"It's bad I know. I just muck around, you know, watching YouTube videos"
"You don't have a tutor?"
He shook his head. "For a bit when I was about ten. I should've stuck at it, huh?" He looked up wistfully.
"No, you're good," I said, "you're really good." He laughed as if he thought I was just humoring him. "I mean it," I said, "I can tell you have an ear for music."
"You can?"
"Yes!" I said excitedly, "do you have more or is that it so far?"
He carried on, his fingers dancing across the strings and in my head I was counting the beats, thinking about the notes on the piano.
When he finished I gave a small clap with my finger tips and said, "Do you have lyrics?" while he said, "I've written some words."
We both laughed, his smile engaging me so completely that I wondered if I'd actually been in love with him my whole life. Or at least since sixth grade. I sighed, I was thinking silly thoughts. How could I love him? He was my friend's brother. He had a girlfriend. I tried to visualize Lauren Nixon, but couldn't. Not while his hazel eyes sparkled and stared straight at me, from a distance of only two feet.
"Are you bored?" He stood his guitar to the side.
"What?"
"You sighed. My music's dull, isn't it?"
"Oh no," I stuttered, bringing my hand up to hide the pimple on my chin. And he could probably see the pores on my skin up this close. I was regretting not following Trieste's advice of concealer, primer, foundation, highlighter, powder. "No, it wasn't a sigh. I was just...just breathing. Um, so what about the lyrics? Will you show me?" My eyes darted to his bedside table, to his desk. Where were the photos of Lauren? I casually turned my head, to check whether it might be on the other side of the bed, but my neck didn't twist that far. I scratched my ear, changing direction. There was a bottle of hair product, a box of tissues and an assortment of chargers.
"What are you looking for?" he asked. So much for being discreet.
"Oh, um, I just wondered if I could have a tissue," I said, faking a sniff.
"Sure," he said, and he reached behind at the same time that I leaned back and we collided together, both rocking back onto the bed.
"Sorry," we apologized together, both of us scrambling to upright ourselves. He rubbed his chin, I rubbed my head. "Sorry." Then we smiled.
"I'll get the box," he said and I nodded, grinning as he stretched across the bed. There were definitely no photos of Lauren Nixon. I took a tissue that I didn't need, but I pretended to softly blow my nose and then tucked it into the band of my shorts.
"Is your head okay?"
"Yeah it's fine," I said, pretending to rub it again, but really I was trying to flatten my hair down. "The lyrics?"
He picked up the notebook, thumbed through a few pages and then opened it wide. He looked like he was reading the words but in his head. He hesitated and without looking at me said, "I've never shown anyone this." His cheeks had gone all pink.
I don't know what the surge of energy going through me was, but it was a rush of warmth and excitement and adrenaline.
"What's it called?" I prompted.
I saw his chest deflate from an exhale, clearly he was nervous. But his nervousness gave me confidence and I reached for the book, half worried that he was going to change his mind about showing me. Our fingers touched, and that unnameable feeling stirred again.
I gently slid it from his grasp and read aloud, "Moving on."
Don't know what I'm doing
Don't know what I'm here for
Told you that I loved you
But now I'm walking out the door
We thought we were meant to be together
We thought our love would be forever
But I have to tell you that I don't know whether
Our love will stand the storm
I'm moving on
I'm moving on
You say that I'm the one for you
But you're not the one for me
You tell me your heart is breaking
But some things aren't meant to be
Because I'm not sure where I'm going
Not sure of who I am
I'm looking for directions
I'm looking for a plan
We thought we were meant to be together
We thought our love would be forever
But I have to tell you that I don't know whether
Our love will stand the storm
I'm moving on
I'm moving on
I finished the last word and sat there speechless for a moment. Not only because it was good, it was very good, but because I was absorbing the lyrics. Damon hadn't written a song for Lauren, but a song to Lauren.
"Well?" he asked timidly.
"You're breaking up with Lauren?" I said stupidly, like that was the most important thing.
"Broken up," he said.
"Oh, I didn't know," I said, a little awkwardly. Why hadn't Domi relayed this information to me? "Not that that's important," I said, "but these lyrics are good. They're real, there's raw emotion. I can feel your pain."
"I'm not trying to be emo," he laughed.
"Oh no," I fumbled, "I mean, I...I guess I'm just surprised."
"Surprised? Is that good or bad?" He seemed so insecure. And as his lyrics suggested, was this the real Damon, uncertain, unsure, struggling to find his way in the world? And not the figure who had breezed through school, portrayed as popular, likeable, capable, focused.
"It's good Damon," I said, spontaneously taking his arm to show my support. "I mean, I thought you were just a tennis jock."
"I guess it's my creative outlet," he said and I could feel he was speaking from his heart. "Not that I'm creative or anything, but sometimes I need a way to express myself. And hitting tennis balls doesn't always do it. You're lucky you have your music." He gave a cheeky grin and sang, "Ella, Ella, Ella."
"Well what do you know? You can actually sing as well," I teased, but I felt giddy, like it was a huge compliment that he knew my nickname. And then I realized I was still clutching his arm. I gently untangled myself. He didn't say anything.
He played through the chords again and I wrote them down and told him I'd try to work it out for the piano. He was genuinely grateful for my help and then he asked if I wanted something to eat or drink.
I looked at the time and said I'd better get going. I'd already been gone almost ninety minutes. I grabbed my keys and he lead me to the front door.
"Hey," he said as I slipped my flip flops back on, "you won't say anything?" He went all shy again.
I shook my head. "No," I said, "but tell Domi I brought the brownies for her."
"If I eat them all before she gets back, she'll never know," he said.
"I'll text her," I said, laughing, "so you better not.” I jiggled my keys. "I'll see you then."
I thought he was going to say goodbye and close the door, but he walked me down the driveway. He didn't say anything, so I thought maybe he was going to check the mailbox. But he didn't. I beeped my car door open, feeling kind of awkward when he still didn't say anything.
"Thanks for the coconut
water," I said.
He smiled and crossed his arms. "Um, will you let me know when you sort the piano? I mean, when you get the time."
"Yeah, I'll try tonight, so I'll let you know."
"Um, have I got your number? I don't think I have it." He pulled his phone from his shorts and tapped into it. I felt my face going hot, because I already had Damon's number in my phone. I'd gotten it from Dominique years ago, you know in case there was an emergency of some sort.
"Cool," he said as he typed it into his phone and he appeared to relax, "can't wait to see what you come up with."
"Me neither," I said, rubbing my hands together, "it's exciting."
We stood there smiling at each other, it seemed impossible to stop. My cheeks felt sore from excessive muscle use.
"Okay, thanks," he said again, "I'll call you to see how it's going."
I nodded. I felt like a dummy, my feet not moving on their own accord. I hoped he wouldn't stand and watch me drive off, but he didn't move, so I finally got into the car. I was anxious as I started the engine, double checking my mirrors and that the car was in drive. I didn't want to stall in front of him, or find myself reversing down the street. He gave a wave as I successfully drove off so I pressed the horn, but not firmly enough. I tried again but with so much pressure it sounded like a blast. I squirmed with embarrassment, so uncool, but looking in the rear view mirror I could see him laughing, his hand raised in another wave.
I drove home in a kind of daze, unsure of what had happened over the past few hours. Earlier this morning I'd wanted to ditch my music practice. Now I'd spent an hour or so with my best friend's brother, a boy who I'd only hung out with or spoken to in group situations and he'd confided in me, given me an unexpected glimpse into his personal life. Whereas in my mind he'd always been the cute, popular guy with the beautiful girlfriend and his life all planned out, in reality he'd revealed he was in fact a sensitive boy, with deeper feelings and angst about his future.
