8. 8
Lane is in my bathroom long enough for me to pour two Cokes over ice. She’s donned her black cap again—only this time her hair spills over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall. The girl isn’t lacking in the hair department. She’s got a lot of it. Like she’s Elsa with blue streaks... I may have watched that movie with Alice, once, twice, or eleven times.
I open one of my few cupboards and pull out a bag of MMs, the stash I keep on hand for Alice. It just feels right. Tears equals chocolate, right? Although, I think she’s stopped crying. She’s been through a lot, something big and difficult, and those emotions were triggered again—that’s clear. Or maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m really just assuming every ounce of this.
I walk our drinks over to her, hand her one, and sit on my couch. I bought the thing after the sale of my first painting. It felt like a very grown-up way to celebrate.
She sits with me, and I pass her the bag of MMs.
“I brought sustenance.”
“Oh!” She nibbles on her bottom lip, and her eyes flutter up to mine. “Any gummy bears?”
“Ahh—no. Sorry.” I clear my throat, hiding a chuckle.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes cramming closed for a brief second. “You aren’t a convenience store. This is wonderful.” She tears open the package with her teeth—her other hand holding to her soda. She tips the package up and shakes a couple into her mouth. “Do you often bring strange girls up to your apartment and feed them chocolate?”
“Only the sad ones,” I say as a joke. But it isn’t funny. It’s more than I should have said, more than I’d normally say. But something about this girl makes me want to speak. Still, her face falls a little with my observation.
“I’m that transparent, huh?”
“No.” I clear my throat and sip from my drink. “Maybe. A little.”
“No coffee table, huh?” She holds up her glass, unsure where to put it.
“Sorry.” I wobble my head no. “But no dog either. So you can put your glass on the floor.”
She does, then shakes a couple more MMs into her hand. “Want one? You look a little sad yourself.”
“I do?”
Lane swallows. “I heard you talking about the building across the street. You want it for…” She glances at the door to my miniature workspace. “A studio?” Her nose wrinkles. “That guy—he seemed pretty adamant about his no.”
My forehead furrows as I think about what she’s said. She heard all that? Was I talking to Lars so loudly? “For a teaching studio, actually.”
Lane’s eyes narrow on my chin—my scar from more than a dozen years ago.
I tap the pale, flat moon with my pointer. “I fell ice skating when I was ten.”
Her eyes study, listening.
“My brother, Levi, was so mad.”
Her brows cinch, confused, but still, she sits quietly as I say more to her than I normally do to anyone.
“He was more mad at himself than anyone. As if my falling was his fault.” I shake my head. “Mom patched us both up though. I got a trip to the hospital and three stitches, and Levi got the longest mom hug known to man.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this. She hasn’t said anything. And normally I’m content with quiet. Why do I need to fill the silence?
“That’s nice.” She says it earnestly but also as if my story is a UFO—something totally foreign to her eyes.
I’m ready to ask if she never fell as a kid. Maybe she was wrapped in bubble tape like Meredith. Which is a ridiculous thought because out of the two people sitting in this loft, she has lived a much more exciting life than I have.
“You said you wanted a teaching studio. What does that mean?”
“I paint, but I teach art too. The majority of my students are people with disabilities. Most of them can’t make it up the steep stairs to this studio.” I motion toward the door to my workspace. “Sometimes, I go to their residence to teach, sometimes their life-skills center, but it isn’t the same for them. They like going to class like everyone else.”
Lane’s teeth nibble on her full bottom lip. She draws my eyes there like a moth to a flame—or like Levi to a ham kolache.
“That’s really nice, Miles.” Her eyes latch onto mine and hold me there. “You’re a nice guy.”
I study her. Is this how she ended up on a reality TV show dating strangers? Did she trust too easily? “You don’t really know me.”
“That’s true. But I still say you’re a nice guy.”
Lucky for her, I am.