Chapter 13 #2
“You good there?” Harrison says, studying my face with gentle concern. He reaches out and grasps my arm, his fingers wrapping around my elbow. I sway into him. “Yeah, me, too,” he says, chuckling quietly. “I thought the whole point of light beer was that it’s light.”
“We did take those three shots,” I say. He starts to move his arm away, but I step closer.
He wraps his arm behind me, settling his hand onto the small of my back.
His pinky grazes the sliver of skin between the waist of my jeans and the cropped tee I dug out of a box (Hair Products, Going Out Tops, And Other Shit).
“I thought liquor before beer, you’re in the clear,” he mutters.
“You’re the doctor,” I say. “You tell me.”
“Nurse.”
“Still.”
He swirls his cup, creating a beer whirlpool. A bit of it splashes, and he removes his arm from my back, then uses a finger to wipe the side of the cup. He licks the beer off his hand, and I feel my entire body grow warm. Head to pelvic floor to toe.
Dontthinkaboutitdontthinkaboutit—
I’m thinking thoughts I shouldn’t be.
I take another sip of beer. “Do you think Rose and I are the same person?”
His mouth quirks up as if I were joking. (I wasn’t. My concern is genuine.)
“Oh, yeah,” he says sarcastically. “Twins, really.”
“She made some compelling points about how similar we are, and now I’m concerned my life has not progressed since I graduated from college.”
“You definitely don’t act like a college student.”
I exhale a laugh. “Maybe. But how well do you think you know me?”
“Well,” he says. “Better than I wish I did.”
I blink away my wince. “Ah, yes. Because we’re just supposed to be Friends with Limitations, or something, right?”
He pauses as he studies me, inhales, holds the breath, and then finally says, “I think my life would generally be easier if I couldn’t read every expression on your face.”
I don’t know what my expression is doing, but he reaches out and runs his thumb across my eyebrow.
His finger lingers on my temple, his palm hovering over my cheek, and I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to break this eye contact.
I think I might live and die in this moment, my gaze glued to his.
I think I might have this image permanently tattooed into my memory, the faint smile lines and nearly invisible freckles, the eyelash that’s fallen beneath his eye, the faintest hint of stubble.
The way his pupils move in microscopic motions, as if he’s studying every individual speck of green in my eyes.
I remember the first time this happened.
The first time we stood this close, and the world around me ceased to exist. Freshman year.
In the dining hall, of all places. At seven-thirty a.m. breakfast, of all times.
We both had an early-morning class, and we were the only people in the back room.
We were laughing hysterically about how bad the coffee was—how was it possible for it to taste stale and burnt thirty minutes after the dining hall opened!
—and when the laughter faded we were standing a little too close and breathing a little too heavily.
Are we about to kiss? I’d thought. Are we about to kiss in a dining hall?
He’d pulled away, and I had, too, I think.
But that was the first moment I thought there might be something more, something—
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
I obviously shouldn’t be seriously dating right now, he’d said.
Too bad you’re not good at casual, Key Lime says in the back of my head. Lavender chirps in agreement.
How well do you think you know me? I’d asked.
Better than I wish I did, he’d said.
“You still with me?” Harrison says, eyes darting back and forth between mine.
“Air?” I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate, placing his hand on the small of my back again and nodding toward the sliding door to the backyard. I let him guide me through the mass of people, walking about 50 percent slower than I need to.
He slides the door open, and cool summer evening air rushes into the room. No one else follows us, but he leaves the door slightly cracked as if to signal we’re not actually leaving the party.
Dead grass and dingy patio furniture litter the backyard.
There’s a pile to our right that could be a fire pit but could just be a pile of shit.
A strand of lights is slung along the fence, but only the first five or so bulbs are actually lit.
A small version of the Boston CITGO sign leans against the fence, lit up underneath a flickering lightbulb like a cheap neon sign.
Girls, girls, girls. Or, CITGO, CITGO, CITGO.
“I love Rose, but this backyard is experiencing serious neglect,” Harrison says.
This is nearly identical to my old backyard in Florida, but I don’t admit that.
I take a step forward, and my foot catches on a loose board. I stumble, and Harrison reaches out and grabs my hand.
Note: Holding hands is clearly within the okay boundaries of Friends with Limitations, seeing as it keeps happening.
“You good?” he asks.
“Great. Fantastic.”
He squeezes my hand. Neither of us let go.
There’s a scream from inside as some top ten song starts playing. It sounds vaguely familiar, but when I look at Harrison, he shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I knew this party would make me feel old.”
I snort. “Oh, please. We listened to Joni Mitchell in college. You should feel old anyway.”
He chuckles, then lets go of my hand. I would sell my soul to the devil to get his fingers back in mine. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and before I know it, there’s a Joni Mitchell album playing. Blue, like how I’m going to feel when this moment is over.
He reaches out a hand. “Dance with me,” he says. I withdraw my offering to the devil.
But he knows me better than he wishes he did, so why should I facilitate any kind of bonding? We’re Friends with Limitations, and he’s a supposed casual dater, and I’m a woman with a steel-trap vagina. Taking his hand is a criminally bad idea. I should be arrested for having the gall to say yes.
But, of course, I do.
He immediately spins me around, even as I tell him, “This is quite possibly the worst dancing music of all time.”
“Live a little,” he says.
The backyard feels like an alternate universe where nothing that happens counts.
I can dance with him and bat my eyelashes and then go back to being a respectful neighbor and a good friend tomorrow.
He can spin me around and then go back to lying to his mother about his relationship status and letting her say mean things about me.
I can still go on this date with Alexander tomorrow and stop feeling guilty about it.
But as he holds my hands in his, swaying in time with the music, I forget what I was thinking about.
I give Harrison a twirl as I giggle and sing, “Do you wanna take a chance, on maybe finding some sweet romance with me, baby? ”
Harrison laughs as he spins around, then joins in on the singing.
He doesn’t even remotely hit the right notes, which isn’t a surprise because he’s never hit the right notes, and I’m laughing so hard I don’t care when he wraps an arm around my waist and dips me so low I think I might fall flat on my back.
But, of course, he’s got me—he pulls me back into his arms, his expression so light I think I might shatter from happiness.
I think I might burst into a zillion joyous pieces, flinging confetti all over the backyard.
He continues to sing as he holds one of my hands and keeps the other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me against him. He leans in, his nose buried in my hair as we sway back and forth.
Something shifts in my stomach as he sings into my ear, and I chalk it up to the dancing and the spinning and the alcohol in my system.
But as we continue to sway, as I adjust to the feel of his body against mine, as his breath tickles my neck, as the lights flicker on and off, CITGO, CITGO, CITGO, something in my chest shifts as well.
A smarter person would’ve recognized this scenario as the same trap she fell into time and time again in college, leading him on with no potential for an outcome either of us will be happy with.
A smarter person would’ve pulled away. A smarter person would’ve recognized her limits and untangled herself from his arms before making the kind of mistake from which you can’t recover.
A smarter person wouldn’t have wrapped her arms around his neck, hanging on to him like her life depended on it.
A smarter person absolutely would not have leaned in even closer, soaking up his warmth and breathing in the woodsy scent of his shampoo.
But apparently, my dance partner isn’t smart, either, or maybe just doesn’t know any better, because he wraps his arms tighter around my waist, whispering lyrics into my ear and rocking me back and forth, like I’m the most precious thing in the world.
And as the next song starts playing, we hang on to each other, breathing in sync and swaying ever so slightly as Joni Mitchell serenades us, slowly and gently, about love.
“And he tells me all his troubles, and he tells me all my charms,” I sing, so quietly I’m not sure whether the whispered lyrics are audible, especially over the loud bass from inside that’s not quite willing to fade into the background.
“Tell me all your troubles,” I whisper into Harrison’s ear. He nuzzles against my neck and makes a soft hum of contentment.