Chapter 5 #2
“Magneto discovers that Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver are his children,” I said. “It was supposed to be a Father’s Day gift.”
“Right, world’s greatest dad,” he muttered. “See, we could’ve had this little debate in the store. I could have been a real professional and recommended something better. It’s a flirting tactic.”
“Actually, that’s called ‘negging’ and it’s extremely toxic.”
“Well, I didn’t get many opportunities to communicate with women at that place so I’m extremely rusty.” He looked me in the eye. I’d forgotten what that felt like.
“I’m Hal.”
“Sam.”
“Nice to meet you, Samantha.”
I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. Columbus was a temporary pit stop on my way back to grad school and I intended to keep it that way.
“Don’t ask me out,” I said. “I don’t want any reasons to stay here.”
He never did.
Instead, I asked to go back to his apartment later that night.
It wasn’t because I thought we were about to embark on a magical romance. But with lockdowns and maintaining a six-foot bubble, it’d been so long since another person touched me. I was horny for something more than a few seconds of gratification courtesy of my own hand.
The first time was competent, from a mechanical standpoint.
I think I was too nervous to really enjoy myself.
But after I spent a second night on his floor futon, it felt like something genuinely clicked between us.
I didn’t even have to fake orgasms and we’d stay up late having great conversations.
The whole vibe was intimate—more than just a hookup.
But we never could have sustained a three-year relationship from just sex.
The more we got to know each other outside of the confines of Hal’s room, the more I craved all the intangibles of a relationship that seemed 90 percent there. The other 10 percent didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend; I’d been looking for Hal.
With my empty mornings and his habitual underemployment, we spent a lot of time together.
We’d meet at a coffee shop because he’s the rare specimen who says he’s “writing his manuscript” and proceeds to actually write it, rather than browse websites, place expensive items into his cart, and then never check out. Which is a thing I definitely don’t do.
If you want to level up, you’re supposed to practice with someone who’s just above your rank.
Since I spent so much of my life feeling like the smartest kid in the room, being with Hal felt like the best kind of challenge.
The excitement of being around him elevated my days.
I had something to look forward to all the time.
On good days it’s a benevolent elixir concocted by a Wiccan herbalist. Sometimes it’s a hex: a dangerous love potion that I gulped down without leaving a drop for the would-be object of my affection.
We never revised the status of our relationship after that first day. Even after I eased up on doing a full face of makeup before hanging out. Even after I received my final rejection email and Columbus became even less temporary.
Spending time with Hal took the edge off that disappointment.
We’ve followed the sexual trajectory of an official relationship: there are times when I sleep over and we just cuddle and fall asleep.
Then I helped Hal get a job at Lōkahi. I couldn’t escape him if I tried.
And I have tried.
It doesn’t take.
Hal and I watch blue-shirt-and-khakis take a long sip of his blueberry schnapps-infused Zombie.
He puts the glass down. Frowns. Contemplates.
His brow creases as he lets his date’s half of the conversation float through one ear and out the other.
Hal and I watch his thought process like he’s loading animation on an app.
Will he say something? Will he choke it down?
It’s the dumbest kind of mischief. And Hal only does it to people who are clearly being obnoxious to their dates.
Maybe we’re bored and feel a little wronged by our circumstances.
In a fair world, I wouldn’t have soul-crushing student loan debt, I’d just have the normal amount that I could reasonably pay off in, like, fifteen years.
I’d be a teaching assistant for a contemporary art course.
I’d be staying up until 3 a.m. working on my dissertation.
Maybe Hal would’ve gotten a literary agent and a modest book deal.
I guess we handle it by meting out tiny misfortunes to people who seem to deserve them. Together.
Hal’s hand brushes the back of my hand very lightly. I stifle a laugh.
Then blue-shirt-and-khakis takes a smaller sip. A look of resignation. Surrender.
We exchange a little smile and I continue to replenish the garnishes.
After work, Hal drives me to his place. We don’t discuss it, we don’t plan it. It’s just what happens.
He has the advantage of living in an apartment where his mother isn’t reading a Kristin Hannah book in the next room.
I’ve never brought anyone back to the office to have noisy sex on the daybed.
I can’t risk the ultimate mortification: a strange man walking in on Perry as they use their Waterpik in the apartment’s sole bathroom.
We sit on Hal’s couch with the light from his TV casting shadows over our faces.
He’s wearing his glasses tonight and it’s like catnip to me.
I like the way they frame his sleepy, half-closed eyes.
Physically, we’re opposites. Hal has a lanky frame and slightly unruly light brown hair, while I’m short and medium-sized—all roundness and curves—with a dark, blunt bob.
“Oh come on,” I groan as he selects one of those channels that only plays episodes of Unsolved Mysteries from before we were born.
The reenactments are especially hilarious when we’re not sober.
“Is this what you put on when you’re trying to impress some hapless girl you’ve conned into coming back to your apartment? ”
I do this sometimes. I poke at him just to see if it knocks loose a nugget of information he wouldn’t have revealed otherwise. For example, that maybe there has been a girl coming back here who doesn’t realize that Hal uses his cousin’s log-in on every streaming service.
“Since when are you ‘hapless’?” he replies.
That kind of answer is fine on the surface. But we’ve never officially promised not to hook up with other people; I don’t want to be the one to bring it up and push for something he has no reason to agree to.
I want Hal to bring it up. I want Hal to say—
Jughead
Hey.
On the couch in the dark living room, Jughead Jones turns to Lydia Deetz.
Jughead
We’re only sleeping with each other, right?
Lydia’s tiny red mouth turns up into a little smile.
Lydia
Oh, should I cancel the orgy I scheduled for tomorrow?
Jughead doesn’t laugh. He just looks Lydia in the eye for a few seconds.
He leans in.
An inch closer. The Unsolved Mysteries logo shines on their faces.
Lydia holds her breath.
Closer. Closer…
Maddening.