by Helen Hoang
Michael gives me a thumbs-up and then focuses on packing up his gear, gloves inside the helmet, helmet inside the chest armor, everything wrapped up with the heavy fabric guard that ties around the waist. He makes sure the front flap, which is embroidered with the name of our school and his last name, is centered and facing outward.
When I’m done packing up my own stuff, I put my gear on the shelf in its assigned spot, and there our names are, side by side, LARSEN and DIEP, just like when our moms signed us up for lessons when we were in kindergarten. A lot has changed since then—I’m hardly the same person that I used to be, he isn’t either—but it’s still me and him. I think it’s always going to be this way, and the knowledge is deeply, deeply comforting.
EIGHT
Anna
Violin, practiced (I played in circles again). Apartment, cleaned (even my bathtub). Groceries, purchased. White wine, chilling in the freezer. Me, freshly showered and wearing a black wrap dress. Condoms, in my nightstand drawer.
Now I wait.
I’m too jittery to sit still, so I pace back and forth across my living room. Rock watches me quietly, and after several passes, I stop to pet him, hoping it’ll calm me down.
“We’re having a visitor tonight,” I tell him.
He looks surprised by the news.
“We really are,” I say. “Julian sent me a weird message today. What did it say?” I pull my phone out of my dress’s pocket and find his message, so I can read it out loud: “Can’t stop thinking about you. Last night was amazing. Same time, same place, next week?”
Rock’s eyes bulge, and his smiling mouth looks more like a horrified grimace.
“That was my reaction, too. I told him that he probably messaged the wrong person, and he apologized right away, saying that it’s not what it looks like—which I doubt. I’m not stupid. He said he misses me and asked if I want to meet up for lunch one of these days. I said I was busy and would catch up later. And then I called Quan and invited him over. It seemed like the perfect thing to do at the time, but now . . .” I sigh. “I’m so nervous.”
Rock’s smile turns apologetic, and I pat him on the head again before I hug my arms to my chest and get back to pacing. Fourteen strides there, fourteen strides back. Repeat.
When I notice I’m tapping my top teeth against my bottom teeth, I stretch out my jaw and then massage it. My dentist says if I don’t stop, I’m going to wear down all the bone in my jaw and lose my teeth. There’s a horrible irony there. During my childhood, I began tapping my teeth as an alternative to tapping my fingers, which is distracting and annoys people. Tapping my teeth, on the other hand, is silent and invisible. It can’t harm anyone. Except for me, apparently.
I’m mid-step, halfway across the room, when the intercom buzzes. My heart squeezes painfully as adrenaline shoots through my body, and I race to the front door and hit the talk button on the intercom.
“Hello?” I say, wincing at how trembly and embarrassingly pathetic my voice sounds.
There’s a short pause before he says, “Are you okay, Anna? We don’t have to do this. We can rain-check or just watch TV again.”
I worry my bottom lip as I internally debate this. I’m extremely tempted to take the out he’s offered. But I need to do this.
It’s time.
I hit the button that allows him to enter the building. “Come on up.”
In the seconds that follow, disjointed thoughts flit through my head. I need to flirt. I need to have fun. I need to show Julian. I need to not care what people think. I need to overcome my insecurities. I want to be empowered, just like Rose described.
A knock sounds on my door. I’m expecting it, but I still flinch. My heart ramps up to warp speed, and my skin goes numb. I look through the peephole. Yes, it’s him. One breath in. One breath out.
I open the door.
He’s not wearing his motorcycle jacket tonight, just a graphic T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and tattoos. They’re plain, unremarkable clothes, and I like that he didn’t dress up. I don’t want him trying to impress me. Even so, I can’t help noticing how good he looks. I appreciate the way the fabric stretches over his chest and the swells of his biceps, the way his pants hang on his hips and fit his strong legs. There’s a physicality to him that I’d find fascinating if I weren’t panicked out of my wits.
Holding out a white cardboard box toward me, he starts to smile, but it fades into a frown as he gets a good look at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re . . . greenish.”
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of me, and I cover my cheeks with my hands. “Sexy green, or scary green?”
He laughs, though his eyes are concerned. “Is ‘sexy green’ a thing?”
“I won’t judge you if you think it is,” I say, trying to laugh and failing. A wave of nausea has me breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Still, I put on a bright smile and step aside, opening the door invitingly. “Please, come in.”
Once he comes inside, I accept the white box from him and, after hesitating a second, set it on the end table by the couch and welcome him with a hug. That seems like the right thing to do, given what we’re planning to do later tonight. But then I’m in his arms, and it’s not the casual greeting I meant it to be. I haven’t been hugged, really hugged, in forever, and I can’t help the broken sound that escapes my throat when he holds me.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t have the faintest clue how to answer him, so I bury my face against his chest. I expect him to let me go, but his arms tighten around me instead, hard but not hurting. The embrace reaches deep into my bones, pure heaven, and I lean into him. Gradually, my muscles relax and my stomach unknots. My head spins in relief.
For long minutes, we stand there in each other’s arms. He smells really good, like soap with the slightest hint of sandalwood. The steady beating of his heart comforts me.
“How are you doing?” he asks in a low voice.
“Better,” I say, but I don’t push away from him just yet. “This is nice.”
His chest rumbles on a chuckle. “I’m an expert hugger.”
I burrow closer, pressing my forehead to his neck. “You really are.”
“My brother has Asperger’s, and when we were little, he used to get overwhelmed from school and the bullies there. Hugging was the only thing that helped, so I got good at it,” he says.
I peer up at him. “Kids can be the worst.” I don’t have a good understanding of what Asperger’s is, but I do know what it’s like to be teased. It’s part of why I go to such great pains to fit in and earn people’s approval.
“Those kids were,” he agrees.
“Did you fight them?” I ask, though I suspect I already know.
His face darkens. “I did. It didn’t always end well for me because there were a lot of them, and some were older. But you do what you gotta.” He must see how sad that makes me because he smiles encouragingly and runs his hand up and down my back in a soothing motion. “Don’t feel bad. I got better eventually. By the time my brother started high school, I was kind of a badass, and kids mostly knew to leave my family alone.”
My mind opens as I put facts together and connect dots. Quan’s kindness and rough exterior make perfect sense to me now. They’re not contradictory.
I wish I’d had someone like him in my life when I was younger.
I’m about to say something to that effect when he presses his lips to my temple. It’s not sexy, not demanding in any way. I know it’s meant to be comforting.
But we’re both aware it’s a kiss.
He pulls back and shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, you’re vulnerable right now, and I got carried away and—”
I press my fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “It’s okay. That’s why I asked you to come. I want you to kiss me.” It feels so
brazen saying it that I avert my eyes and drop my hand away from him. I’m no longer touching his mouth, but my fingertips tingle from the memory of the softness of his lips.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks.
I honestly don’t know if I am, so I turn the question around and ask, “Are you?”
He huffs out an amused breath, and after searching my face for a moment, he suggests, “How about we play this by ear and see what happens?”
“That works,” I say.
A devastating smile breaks over his face, and my thoughts scatter. He separates from me, but he does it slowly, almost reluctantly, running his warm hand down my cold arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He squeezes my hand once before letting go.
Looking about curiously, he considers the books that overflow my bookshelves and spill onto the floor and tabletops, the mismatched throw blankets and decorative pillows on my old sofa, and the dozen or so candles placed in random locations. I’m struck by the odd realization that I have a man in my apartment, in my space. Julian preferred for me to go to his condo—his TV is a lot better than mine—so this is a rare occurrence, made even more extraordinary by the particular man involved. Quan seems to fill the space with his presence and vitality. The air around him is . . . charged.
He pads over the hardwood to stand by the French doors, and I can’t help admiring him as he admires the view through the glass panes. There’s a confidence and relaxed coordination in the way he moves that suggests he’s been in a few fights—and won them. Have I lost my mind that this is intensely appealing to me, that hint of danger? And what does it mean that the designs on his skin no longer jar me like they did at first? They’re just a part of him, and I accept them. I accept him.
“Nice place,” he comments. “I love the balcony. That’s one thing I wish my apartment had.”
“I don’t use it as much as I should, but I like it,” I say.
His gaze touches upon my music stand and violin case, but after giving me an inquiring look, he doesn’t ask the question that I always get: Do you play? It’s a relief—I don’t want to talk about my current difficulties—but it’s also a disappointment. For some people, their work is just their work, a means of survival. It doesn’t define them. But me, I’m a violinist. It’s my identity, who I am, what I am. It’s all that matters. Naturally, my favorite topic of discussion is music.
That reminds me why I invited him here in the first place, and steely determination floods my veins as I say, “Let’s get started.”
NINE
Quan
I have to grin when I see the preparations Anna’s made in her tiny kitchen. Everything is neatly laid out—a pot of water and a frying pan on the electric stove; garlic, parsley, and onion on the cutting board; lined up precisely on the countertop, wineglasses, a wine opener, a liquid measuring cup, olive oil, a block of cheese and a cheese shredder, a wooden spoon, tongs, the lid for the pot, salt, pepper, a box of fettuccini noodles. Over by the window, her kitchen table is set for two. She didn’t forget a single thing.
I like knowing this thing about her. Some people collect stamps. I collect quirks, stowing away secret traits about people in my mind like treasure. It makes people real to me, special. My mom keeps two nail clippers attached to her key ring. It always makes me grin when I see that. Why two? How is she ever able to use them both? No one else I know does that. Khai has so many quirks that’s a quirk in itself. Michael won’t admit it, but I know he matches his outfit with his wife’s every day. When he has kids, they’re going to be that obnoxious family, and I can’t wait for it. Now there’s Anna, and I’m excited to learn everything there is to learn about her.
Talking so fast she’s hardly breathing, she takes a wine bottle from the freezer and works on peeling the metal wrapping off the end. She tells me she’s worried I won’t like the white wine. She got a bottle of red just in case. It’s in the pantry. Where is the appropriate place to put wine when people don’t have wine cellars? She doesn’t drink much. If she falls asleep on me, she’s sorry in advance.
I’ve been worried about tonight. Am I really ready? What if she asks about my scar? What if she notices other stuff? What if I fuck up the fucking? But she’s worse. She’s a nervous wreck, and that makes this easier for me somehow. I’ve always been better at dealing with other people’s problems. I even like it. It feels good to help people.
Acting on instinct, I step behind her and squeeze her shoulders before running my palms down her arms. She goes completely still.
I lean down and whisper in her ear, “Is this okay? Touching you like this?”
Her hair is up in a loose ponytail, so I can see the goose bumps standing up along the length of her neck. They’re running down her arms as well. A good sign, I think.
She swallows and nods, so I let myself linger. I press my cheek to hers, enjoying the softness of her skin and drawing her scent into my lungs. It’s clean, feminine, with something I can’t quite name. Trying to figure out what it is, I nuzzle her neck. Pine. That’s the scent. Because my lips are touching her, my touch naturally becomes a kiss, and I’ve never kissed a woman’s neck without using my teeth at some point. When I scrape them along her smooth skin, tasting her at the same time, her breath breaks and the wine opener clatters from her fingers to the counter.
I manage to snatch the wine bottle before it falls, and she touches a flustered hand to the area beneath her jaw. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dazed, her breaths quick, and I try my best not to grin at what I’ve just learned.
Anna really, really likes having her neck kissed.
And bitten.
“M-maybe it’s better if you open it,” she says, handing the wine opener to me.
“Sure.” I accidentally touch the backs of her fingers when I take the wine opener from her, and her entire hand jumps in reaction.
We separate so I can use both hands to uncork the bottle, and I feel the weight of her gaze on my hands and arms—she’s looking at my tattoos, I realize. When I glance up at her, she quickly averts her eyes. But almost against her will, her gaze returns to me and drops to my mouth.
In this moment, I think that if there was ever a woman who needed to be kissed, it’s her.
I lean toward her, completely focused on making it happen, when she turns away abruptly and cranks on the water in the sink.
As she washes her hands, she says in a brisk tone, “The pasta only takes about twenty minutes to make. If I get the timing right, the noodles are ready when the mushrooms are done.”
“Sounds good.” My voice is husky, and I clear my throat before I crank the corkscrew into the wine cork and pull it free with a pop.
After I fill the wineglasses, I hand one to her and watch with wide eyes as she finishes half in two large gulps and wipes her lips with the back of her hand.
“I’m trying to loosen my inhibitions,” she explains self-consciously.
“You don’t have to do that. We can just go slow,” I say before taking a sip from my glass. It’s crisp, not too sweet, pretty nice, but it’s not like I know anything about wine. Mostly, I want to look relaxed so that she relaxes. That works sometimes.
“It’s not that. Well, there is that.” She looks like there’s more to say, but she’s not sure how.
“You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like?” I ask, because from my perspective, that’s all that matters.
Some of the tension leaks from her. She stands straighter and nods. “I can do that. Can you?”
That makes me smile. I’m an easygoing person, and there isn’t much that bothers me. But I like that she cares, and not because I was sick and I’ll never be the same but because I’m a person. “I can do that.”
We start cooking then. I cut the ingredients. She adds them to the frying pan and stirs. We talk about everything and nothing, much like our text conversations. I learn that she’s a vio
linist with the San Francisco Symphony, but she’s taken a leave of absence. She doesn’t explain why, and I don’t press her. I tell her that I started a children’s apparel company with my best friend, Michael, because we both love little kids. She asks if I want to have kids someday, and I change the subject. She notices, but she doesn’t push me.
When the noodles are ready, she turns the stove off, and I drain the water from the pot using the lid and reach around her to pour them into the skillet with the mushrooms. I’m right behind her again, close enough to touch her, though I’m being careful not to. I think I went a little too fast earlier. But it’s hard to resist the curve of her shoulder, the graceful arch of her neck, the fine line of her jaw. She even has pretty ears. I want to trace them with the tip of my tongue.
I try to keep my thoughts on neutral things as she scrapes the last noodles out of the pot with the wooden spoon. One is stuck to the bottom, and I lean close to get a better look at it—
And her lips press against mine.
My heart jumps. A current jolts through me. My blood rushes. I try to be gentle—she’s so soft, so perfect—but I want to devour her. Barely restrained, I sweep my tongue into her mouth, and she tastes like wine, only sweeter. She gasps. I could get drunk off that sound; maybe I do. Leaning into the kiss, into me, she touches her tongue to mine. Everything in me tightens and clamors to be closer, and I pour that aching need into the kiss.
It goes on and on, kiss after kiss, for how long, I don’t know. When we part, our breathing is ragged. Anna looks exactly like she’s just been kissed long and hard. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than her. The pot is still in my hands, dinner is getting cold, and I don’t care. All I want is more.
I take her lips in another greedy kiss, and she’s there with me, kissing me back, letting me in. Until she turns away and presses clumsy fingers to her mouth.
