Chapter Twelve - Asher #3
I suppose I was asking for this. I am not some hero, some shining knight come riding back into town to claim my love.
This was a stupid thing to do, I see it now.
Or rather, stupid to do it this way. I finish my cigarette and look around for an ashtray and see one by the record player.
I get up and put it out. Behind me, I feel his heavy gaze.
I falter. “It’s not all up to me.” I turn. “I don’t know what else to do besides what I want and what I want is to be with you.”
Even though I mean those words with all my heart, they sound empty right now.
They fall like a flat balloon in between us, deflated and used.
And he’s looking at me in a way that makes me think those words have come too late.
There’s an uptick of panic inside me, but I don’t push it away.
I let myself feel it completely, embrace it.
I’ve come to the conclusion there’s no point in avoiding my own feelings.
And my panic births desperation, to get on my knees, to just give him more deflated words.
I’ve arrived back into his life too late, and I let him leave mine far too soon.
He stands up and looks down at his feet. His glasses slide to the tip of his nose, but he doesn’t bother to adjust them. “I want to be with you too. I’ve wanted to be with you. But it’s different now, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t have to be,” I say.
“But it does.” He clasps his hands together, looking away from me. “I don’t want you to ask me to stay with you because of what happened or you feel guilty.”
“That’s not why I’m asking,” I say.
He bites his lip. “And I want to see you when I want to. Not just when you want to see me.”
I go to stand in front of him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. I stare at the top of his curly brown head, hoping he’ll feel it. “It’s not because I feel guilty,” I say softly. “I can promise you that. And you can see me whenever you want, pal. Anytime.”
The simplicity with which he can convey his feelings, the exactness of it, the way someone can pluck an emotion out of a miasma of feelings and give it a name, makes me feel the deepest envy. He’s so sure of it, even now, even here in this afterlife neither one of us asked for.
But there are other ways to convey feelings.
I tilt his head up until his eyes meet mine.
I cradle his face in my hands, taking my time to gaze at him, study the flicker of an eyelid, the hard line of his jaw.
The piece of his hair that falls just over his temple, and I carefully push it away.
I briefly brush my lips against his skin just to feel his warmth, just to feel the invisible parts of him that I can’t fully grasp, that I may never grasp.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
His eyes flick to the side and back to mine.
“Will you let me?”
After a moment or two, he turns his head away from me. “I still want time to think.”
It stings.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m just…”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not going anywhere, pal. I swear to you.”
He smiles at me and it’s like getting a drink of cool water on a hot day. How was I not supposed to fall in love with him?
We break apart, reluctantly, and I’m hopeful at least. I’m still hopeful as I drive him back to his aunt’s where he says she’s making dinner and having some friends over. Before he gets out of the truck, I take his hand once more.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
He holds my gaze for a moment and nods, almost shyly.
“I can pick you up. If you’re working, or from here?”
“I’ll be working.”
“All right. I’ll see you.”
He smiles, then he gets out and goes inside.
It’s closing time when I get there.
Paul wipes the counter and sweeps the floors as I sit on one of the stools. He gives me a nod in greeting. I nod back and light a smoke.
I watch him for a minute, moving around from one task to the next, efficiently, easily.
He’s doing everything with a focused seriousness.
It doesn’t matter that it’s for a soda joint.
It doesn’t matter that the world won’t end or begin with an ice cream-stained rag. He’s not going to treat it lightly.
It’s an expression that isn’t entirely unfamiliar.
It’s an expression that bears a resemblance to the one he’d have when we were together; as if having me inside him was the most serious and solemn thing he’d ever experienced.
My body reacts to the thought of that with a flush and an erection.
In the next breath, I feel a twinge of anxiety at never being with him like that again.
“I’ll just be a few more minutes,” he says, startling me.
He’s leaning over the white countertop, all shiny now from the rag slung over his shoulder.
I look into his eyes. They remind me of green summer meadows dappled in sunlight.
The kind you lie in, on your back, and name shapes in the clouds with your best pal.
In his eyes, there’s a whole other path I could have taken.
It’s lined with secret moments and peaceful days.
It doesn’t really end. It just fades, and fades, and we fade along with it, into each other, and even that isn’t really an ending.
I notice my cigarette has burned all the way to the filter. I put it out and light another. “Take your time,” I reply; my voice sounds too loud.
He goes into the back for something. I go over to the jukebox and half-heartedly browse the songs.
The titles swim in front of my face as I flip through.
It’s hard to focus, and I can’t think of the last time I browsed a jukebox.
It must be a nice thing: to come here with your sweetheart, share a soda, and dance the night away.
It doesn’t have to be private. Anyone and everyone can know.
A few minutes pass, and I hear Paul with jangling keys by the front door.
I shift through the selections again and find The Five Satins.
I smile to myself. Was it really just a lazy weekend this past July?
I was already in love with him, but I didn’t want him to know me.
I didn’t want to do things the right way. I just wanted them to be done.
I put some coins in the jukebox and the record begins to play. It’s sweet and slow and this time, I’m not afraid of anything. This time I want to do things the right way. Paul comes back around to the counter and stops short when he hears the melody. He turns to look at me, eyes wide, face flushed.
I reach out a hand for him. “Come here.”
His face flushes deeper. “What?”
The beats of the song sway and skim through the air. I sway a little with it. “Come over here.”
He hesitates, glancing behind him.
“Come on.”
“What if somebody sees?”
“They won’t. We’re alone.”
His eyes shift toward the windows, and I take his hand and pull him behind a rack of magazines, away from anyone’s sight. I put my hands around his waist. He doesn’t move for a minute.
I pull him closer to me. “Why does it feel like a lifetime?” I’m mostly speaking to myself. And I’m mostly speaking about him and me. Everything between us. Everything outside of us.
He hesitates. “I don’t know.”
And does he really need to think about it?
Does he really need to think about this ?
For a handful of selfish seconds, I don’t want to let him think about anything.
I want him to just be with me, trust me, blindly, no matter what has happened.
I want to reassure him that I’m here to stay and if he’d just see, if he’d just know…
But it can’t happen that way, can it? It’s not just about what I want. It’s what he wants, too. And here I am, convincing him to sway to the beats of the music with me, turning us in a small circle behind the magazines, not taking my eyes from his, silently willing him to never let me go.
He brings his hands up to my shoulders and starts to move along with me.
I haven’t done this with anyone. Well, not anyone important anyway.
I vaguely remember a school dance with a girl, but she didn’t feel like this in my arms. She didn’t feel so perfect and so new.
My hands didn’t itch to feel under her clothing.
My eyes didn’t want to drink in her features to forever keep.
I bring a hand to his face. He smiles, leans his head on my shoulder. And so that’s what we do: we sway together to the beats of the song that played the night I let him see my tears and he said he’d never let me go.
It’s true even now. At a soda fountain, by a jukebox, he’s still got me and I’ve got him. Neither one of us is letting the other go.
When the song ends, I feel as if I have to come back from someplace in the sky.
Just a gentle descent back down to earth; I pull myself together, bit by bit. His grip around me tightens, and I hold my breath. It takes me a minute to realize we’re still swaying a little, even though the record is skipping, and there’s not a sound but of him breathing, warmly against my neck.
Another minute or so goes by before he steps away from me, then he looks around, making sure no one could have seen.
Then his gaze falls on me.
That thread isn’t so weak now. I feel it. And I can see that he does too.
I place a hand on his chest, flat. I feel a soft and steady thud-thud-thud underneath. I whisper, “ This.”
He puts his hand over mine, fingertips soft. “ This.”
That thread could be a tightrope that we both walk, that can hold us both. The record is still skipping. And so is my heart.
“Take me home,” he says.
My shoulders feel as if they’ve fallen to my feet. I lower my gaze. “Sure, pal.”
He tilts his head just so, a light in his eyes. “Your home.”
Just because he’s coming home with me doesn’t mean anything will happen.