Chapter Twenty
Bernie
I can’t unsee this picture. I pace my living room and look at my phone again. It’s been easier to blame my current circumstance on Ashish. Insist that he’s been coming on to me . Pushing me, getting into my life. It’s so appealing to pretend that I’m this unaffected observer, but this picture is making all of my carefully crafted lies tumble down.
It shows plainly that I’m not unaffected. I’m a participant, not an observer. And that realization has made it impossible to relax. Maybe I just need a nap. It’s late afternoon, and my body still feels wrung out from the ride.
A few hours of peace, and then I can make some comfort food and watch a movie while working on a puzzle and I’ll feel better. At least that’s what I tell myself as I walk to my bedroom and pull the blinds before snuggling under one of my softest blankets.
I sigh. I love being in bed. I know it’s not something you can tell other people because they’ll think you’re lazy, but I love it. Soft clean sheets, cozy textures, and maybe a book or a movie. I arrange pillows around me and unlock my phone to read until I can let drowsiness take over.
I try to slow my breathing and relax into the story, but my eyes keep jumping around the page.
Unsettled.
I almost feel like it’s a different person closing down my reading app and opening the messages. Don’t do it, Bernie, the smart me whispers. Maybe she’s not the smart one; maybe that’s the delusional me. I know I shouldn’t open messages from Ash and scroll to the top, but I do it anyway.
Ash-hole: Bernie, I hope you have a good day today. It’s starting to get hotter and I went for a ride really early. Check out this sunrise. I’m going to try to call you tonight. Hope to talk soon.
Ash-hole: Hey Sunshine, good morning. I went to that noodle place I got us takeout from. They have a new kind of boba, popping boba. Have you tried it? Ravi decided to try some. It was freaking vile. Anyway, I’d really like to talk to you, please give me a call.
Ash-hole: I had a dream last night about you. I know you read these messages. I hope it sticks in your mind like it’s sticking in mine. You were on top of me riding me. Teasing me. I could feel your hands everywhere. I didn’t know if I wanted you to go faster or to keep going forever. When you came, you arched your back and thrust your tits in the air. It was so fucking beautiful. I don’t think I’ve had a wet dream since I was a teenager. So thanks for that. I really wish you’d call me. We have things to talk about. Check your email.
Ash-hole: Thinking about you.
Ash-hole: Check your email.
After a month and a half of not responding, his texts had turned more perfunctory, telling me to call or to check my email.
I just don’t get it. Why did he even bother? Because he knew when he met me that he was going to come here? We barely knew each other.
I’m not worth this effort.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m smart. I work hard. I try to be a good friend. But, I’m not sunshine . I’m worth knowing, but am I worth this?
Ash’s last text before Gail made me look at my inbox is what really bothers me.
Ash-hole: Bernie - I don’t know if I’m more pissed at you or myself. I know I lied. I know. But I put it all out there for you too. I hate that I still want you. That I fucked it up. That you won’t listen. I’ll see you soon. Please don’t hate me.
Can I trust him? I don’t hate him. I gnaw on my lip absently. Everything I’ve observed this week tells me he’s a good guy. I slide out of bed and pull a sports bra from my dresser.
I still don’t believe in happily ever afters, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to have a really good friend.
Maybe, I’m worth being a friend. I can do that.
In my undergrad, I went out of state and I didn’t know anyone. College is built for you to make connections right away, adult life is not. As an adult, I’ve never had to move somewhere without at least one person being an anchor to build my little ecosystem around. Ash doesn’t have that. I can give him that.
Just friends , I tell myself firmly as I slip on some sandals before stepping into the hallway to knock on his door.
I decide delusion feels really good.
Just friends, I remind myself when he opens the door. God, he’s beautiful. Just tall enough for me, solid. He leans a shoulder against the door frame and crosses his arms across his chest. T-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a guy's feet before.
Just friends.
“Well, aren’t you a nice surprise,” he beams. I should call him sunshine with a smile like that.
“Do you like puzzles?” I blurt out.
Cocking his head to the side, he asks, “Figuratively or literally?”
“Umm, literally?” I pinch the skin between my thumb and pointer finger because I don’t know what to do with my hands.
“I think of it more as a holiday thing, but sure, I like a good puzzle.”
“Do you want to come over? I’m going to make dinner and I’m working on a puzzle.” I say it like a dare, holding his gaze.
Look at me, I try to tell him, see, I’m not shiny.
“I’d love to come to do puzzles with you, Bernie.” He dips his hand into a bowl on his counter for his keys.
“Don’t you need your phone? Shoes?”
“I have flip-flops right here. Do you want more Frooti? I bought a whole case.”
“The mango juice?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, shuffling his feet into his flip-flops and walking into the kitchen to open his fridge. I cautiously push the door open to look around. It’s pretty bare, with a couch with a laptop open on it and a hallway that leads to a bedroom.
“Okay,” I say, pulling my eyes back to the kitchen, watching as he pulls out a bag and slides a container into it, followed by the yellow juice boxes.
“Pretty empty in here, right?”
“What?”
“The apartment.” He shuts the fridge and walks to the door. I quickly step out of the frame to make room for him.
“What about it?” It’s less than five steps to my apartment, and I push the door open and slip out of my shoes. He stands in the frame just like I did and looks around.
It’s cozy. The L-shaped white couch takes up most of the room, so I mounted the TV on the wall. I have a big, low coffee table in front of it that you can’t see because the couch is large, and the back effectively separates the kitchen from the living room space. Since it’s usually just me and sometimes Pru, I didn’t bother getting a kitchen table or chairs. I always eat by the coffee table, either working or watching TV. My kitchen is small, a mirror of his, with white countertops and gray cabinets. Pru gave me a plant, but it’s kind of dying at the end of the counter. Maybe I should water it. Otherwise, my countertops lack clutter.
“My apartment, I know it’s kind of bare. I bought the bare minimum since I’m only here for a year.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”
Why does it suddenly feel so awkward?
“Umm, are you–”
“Your place is lovely, Bernie. Just like you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, tidy with great art.” He gestures to the largest wall in the room. I’ve filled it with different art prints. My style is pretty eclectic, but I’ve put a print by Flora Yukhnovich in the center. It was my splurge purchase when I signed this lease; a perfect symbol of my new life.
Flora’s paintings take the Rococo greats and filter them, somehow creating the same feelings and capturing the light and colors perfectly but fracturing the original into abstract shapes. When I signed a lease and accepted the staff job, that’s how I felt, myself but different. Recognizable, but abstract, others seeing me perhaps differently than I could see myself.
“Thank you. I am not artistic, but I love art.”
Ash slips out of his shoes, placing them next to mine, and walks closer to my gallery wall to get a better look. I’m torn between watching him and looking at his shoes placed neatly next to mine. “Are some of these puzzles?”
“Yeah, I know it’s kind of nerdy, but it’s something my grandpa used to do. He’d buy prints as puzzles and put them together to frame. Not all puzzle art is great, but there are a couple that I thought were worth savoring.”
Ash looks over his shoulder at me with a raised eyebrow.
“That’s what my grandpa called it. Putting the puzzle together was savoring the image, noticing the small details and nuance of colors in a way you might not otherwise if you’d just bought the print.”
“I like that.”
I flush, not really sure why I shared that.
Ash moves until he’s standing in front of me. “Thanks for inviting me.” He reaches up and strokes a finger over my cheek.
“Of course, what are friends for?” I try to keep my tone light, pivoting to the kitchen to pull out two purple boxes from my cupboard. “I hope you’re not expecting some kind of gourmet meal.” I shake the macaroni before putting them on the counter.
“Is that boxed macaroni and cheese?”
“Hey friend, this is the ultimate comfort food, trust me.”
He steps onto the tile that delineates the kitchen area and leans against the counter.
“Hmm, I’ve never tried Annie’s. We were a Kraft house.”
“Well, your mother obviously didn’t love you. I am here to guide you through the organic life-changing milestone that is shells with white cheddar.” I find myself smiling at him, my anxiety from earlier easing.
“I can assure you my mother loves me,” he scoffs, placing a hand over his chest like he’s offended. “But I am open to new experiences. I don’t think I’ve had boxed mac and cheese since I was a kid.”
“Are you hungry now?” I dare.
He glances at the counter, then back at me. “I could wait a bit.”
“Okay, so the next vital question is TV or podcast?” I walk around my couch and sit on the floor in front of the coffee table, carefully lifting off the clear puzzle cover. Ash sits next to me, too close, but I decide to categorize the graze of his knee against my thigh as a friendly gesture.
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve seen a puzzle like this.”
“It’s a series,” I adjust the sheet under the cover that I could use to roll it up if I need the table. “There are three in this series. Each has either Shakespeare’s comedies, tragedies, or histories. They’re all in this Art Nouveau style. Pretty, huh?”
“Yeah. You really meant puzzles, literally.” Ash’s breathy laugh brushes against my skin.
I shrug feeling a little self-conscious. Stephen never wanted to do puzzles with me. I kept them in my office in our house and would do them when I needed time alone. “If you don’t want to–”
“No, not what I meant. It’s beautiful. This one is…”
“The comedies,” I point out the different figures on the box and tell him which plays they’re from.
“Have you done the others?”
I shake my head, and he smiles, resting his arm on the couch behind me. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the heat of his body. I know if I lay my head back it will rest on his arm. “I don’t think I’m going to seal these. I just thought they were beautiful.” I drop the remote into his lap and stand up. “I’ll get us something to drink. Find something for us to watch?” I walk all the way around the coffee table because I’m too much of a coward to climb over him.
“Maybe we can do all three together and hang them in my apartment,” his voice carries over the couch, and I press my face into the cool stainless steel of the fridge.
Just friends. Just friends.
“Maybe,” I call over my shoulder before getting glasses and ice to fill with mango juice. I open his bag to get a closer look at the container he’d pulled out of his fridge. It’s two slices of carrot cake from the grocery store. Warmth spreads from my chest throughout my body, and I trace my finger over the clear top.
“Movie, Documentary, or reality TV?”
“Reality TV,” I answer closing the bag grabbing my kitchen shears to snip the corner of the little juice boxes. Someone this sweet can’t be real. I hear him chuckle before the theme song for the British Baking Show comes on. I definitely don’t bake, but I sure as hell like watching other people do it. It’s the perfect show to listen to in the background.
I sit down next to Ash and pull out coasters from a basket on the floor.
“So, friends, huh?” he asks.
“What?” I croak, my spine straightening. I wasn’t saying just friends out loud, right? That shit doesn’t happen in real life.
“Earlier, you said ‘what are friends for.’”
My body relaxes slightly.
“So, we’re friends, now?” His arm is behind me on the couch again, and he tugs a stray curl at the nape of my neck.
“Yep, friends.”
“Just friends?” His finger glides along my hairline, just like he did at the bar when we met. I’ve never had someone touch me like Ash does. Little innocuous touches that bring every single one of my nerve endings to attention.
“That’s what you wanted, right? When we called a truce,” I remind him firmly, sorting dark black and blue pieces with little stars by shape.
“Hmm,” is all he says, picking up a light green piece and fitting it into the foliage section of the tree where the Midsummer characters are clustered. His hand has come to rest on the space between my neck and shoulder and his thumb is stroking the nape of my neck. Realistically, friends don’t touch each other like this.
But it feels so freaking right.
“Let me know when you get hungry, friend ,” I emphasize while fitting two black pieces together to reveal a tiny star between them.
“Sure thing, buddy .” His tone is too fucking amused, but I don’t do anything about it. I just keep my mouth shut and listen to British people being too nice during a competition where they win literally nothing; Ash’s big warm hand is ever present, reminding me what a liar I am.