18. “What I Like About You”
Chapter 18
“What I Like About You”
Sascha - Age 18, 1988
T he mere presence of Michael Tazman is suffocating. He’s omnipresent—at school, in my bathroom, uninvited into my dreams, and now in my living room on a quiet Sunday evening. I’ve had a peaceful few days since we talked. Mostly because he had an out-of-town hockey trip. But now he’s back. I should’ve known my luck wouldn’t last.
His large frame dominates the couch, sprawled across it with one hand clutching the remote control while flipping through channels until settling on a football game. Of course, he’s here, playing couch commando with the remote control as if he owns the place. I will not allow him to disrupt my Sunday ritual.
I religiously watch 21 Jump Street weekly because Johnny Depp will be my husband someday. This fact has been etched into my heart since I was thirteen years old—Johnny just doesn’t know it yet. And I won’t let Taz steal this precious hour from me.
With my hands balled at my sides in tiny but mighty fists, I march over to Taz and stand in front of him, blocking his view of the competing teams on TV. I plant my feet shoulder-width apart and place my hands firmly on my hips, channeling all my determination and fierce energy into a piercing look at him.
But Michael seems unfazed, leaning back on the couch and dragging his eyes over me from head to toe in a heavy gaze. I might as well be standing there naked for the way he’s openly ogling me.
But I refuse to back down. Not today, not ever. No one interrupts my Johnny Depp time on Sundays.
The tilt of his head is arrogant and infuriating, accentuated by the smug grin on his face. He seems to revel in getting a rise out of me. “Can I help you, Princess?” he asks mockingly, emphasizing the last word.
My eyes narrow as I try to maintain my composure, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose it. “You can crawl up your own ass and die,” I reply through gritted teeth, plastering a fake smile on my face.
His response is immediate and just as infuriating. “I’d rather crawl up yours,” he says with a sly smirk, mischief dancing in his eyes. My molars grind in irritation, but I refuse to let him see me falter. It’s like we’re engaged in a battle of wits, each trying to outdo the other with insults that only serve to fuel our frustration. It’s exhausting and maddening.
I hold out my hand in a gesture of authority, trying to regain control of the situation. “Give me the remote. We’re watching 21 Jump Street .“ But instead of complying, he spreads his arms over the back of the couch and lounges, making himself comfortable. He looks like he’s waiting for a lap dance. My blood boils at his audacity.
“What do I get if I give you the remote?” he taunts, that same mischievous glint returning to his eyes. My patience is wearing thin, but I refuse to let him see me crack.
“The ability to draw breath,” I snap back sharply.
His deep, rumbling chuckle echoes through the room. “You’re truly one of a kind, Sash. You know that?” he teases.
“Yeah, I know,” I reply, tapping my foot impatiently on the ground. “Now give me the remote.”
He holds the remote out of reach and then drops it into his sweatpants.
The intensity in our gaze is palpable, and my heart skips a beat as our eyes lock. But then, the anger surges through me like a tidal wave. How dare he? My eyebrows furrow in annoyance, and I suck on my front teeth, trying to contain my frustration. “Are you kidding me right now?” I snap back. “I wouldn’t consider going into your pants if you were the last man on Earth.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he challenges me. “Hmm, I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, husky tone. “I remember how you looked at me that night.”
The heat rushes to my cheeks when I think about the night I saw him naked. The air between us crackles with an electric energy, each moment growing more tense and uncomfortable.
“If you’re nervous for the first time, I’m happy to walk you through it.”
My heart races as adrenaline spikes through my veins. “Michael Tazman,” I begin, disdain dripping from my words. “Don’t delude yourself. You were never deserving of any of my firsts.” I lock eyes with him, staring him down with a triumphant smile playing on my lips.
I watch as his expression changes from cocky and teasing to crestfallen and wounded. This is what I wanted—to hurt his feelings and embarrass him. But now that it’s happening, it doesn’t bring me the satisfaction I thought it would. It just feels...shitty.
I anxiously wait for a snide remark or a sharp retort, but none come. He slowly rises from the plush cushions in heavy silence, letting the remote tumble carelessly to the couch as he turns and walks away without uttering a single word. The weight of my words hangs in the air, leaving me with a hollow feeling in my chest.
The room is lonely and empty—the only sounds coming from the faint cheers of two football teams on the television screen. The game’s vibrant colors seem dull compared to the dark mood that has engulfed me.
Suddenly, watching 21 Jump Street doesn’t hold the same appeal. Instead, I feel an overwhelming urge to apologize. But I hold back. I didn’t do anything wrong. I only spoke the truth. It’s not my fault if he’s being sensitive.
In frustration, I think to myself. Maybe our periods are syncing up from living together. Normally, that thought would fill me with delight, but tonight, it falls flat. So instead, I turn to one of our old VHS tapes and insert it into the VCR before hitting record and retreating to my bedroom. I’ll spend time with Officer Tom Hanson later.
I walk past Michael’s room and stop in front of the closed door. My hand hovers over the smooth surface, tempted to knock and see if he is awake. But then I pause, not wanting to disturb the quietness that surrounds me.
With a heavy sigh, I continue down the hallway to my own room. The guilt weighs on me like an anchor, pulling me down into a sea of self-doubt and regret. It’s ironic how sometimes getting what you want only serves to amplify your negative emotions, leaving you feeling even worse than before.
I flick on my light switch and am immediately startled by the sight before me. An unexpected face is in the center of my boyfriend collage of carefully curated Hollywood heartthrobs. John Taylor, Andrew McCarthy, and Rob Lowe are all present in their glory, but where Johnny Depp should be, there is a picture of Michael Tazman.
My feet carry me closer to the wall filled with images of undeniable attractiveness, but my mind can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. The focal point is still Johnny Depp, his body positioned in a relaxed pose with his elbows resting on his knees and leaning forward, but his familiar features have been replaced by a photograph of Michael smirking and beckoning me with his presence.
I lean in; curiosity piqued as I examine it. Upon closer inspection, I realize that a picture has been cut out and carefully taped over Johnny’s face. My emotions shift from empathy to anger. This is crossing a line.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to peel it off for fear of damaging Johnny’s face. The tape is holding on much more tightly than I’m holding on to my emotions.
How long has this picture even been here? He didn’t have time to do it after our argument in the living room. I’ve been sleeping with his stupid face smiling over at me for an unknown period of time. So not cool.
I want to march over to his door and wake him up, but I hold myself back. No, this is Michael we’re talking about, and he’ll get off knowing he got under my skin. It’s better if he doesn’t know that I know. Revenge is better when you can’t see it coming.
So, instead, I sit at my desk and plan my revenge.
Taz
Sascha’s been characteristically quiet and annoyed when I’m around. I thought we’d made some headway when we visited Gram, but then she unleashed on me in the living room the other night.
I was only joking. I didn’t think she’d get that bent out of shape out of me messing around. Since we’ve started letting one another in more, it’s like she’s at war with herself. I think deep down she wants to let her guard down and let me back into her life, but she’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever known.
I’ll admit I’m concerned about my latest prank. I put that picture of myself in the center of her little hunk collage a week ago. I don’t think she found it until recently, though, which she may see as retaliation for the fight on Sunday.
If that’s the case, her silence is more than concerning. It’s terrifying. I don’t think there are many lines she won’t cross to get even. At least I don’t have to worry about her destroying or stealing my stuff, like with my brother. But all other forms of embarrassment are on the table.
After being away on a road trip for a few days, the thought of her anger only made me miss her more. I long for how she shoots me glares that give way to sneaky smiles. I ache for her familiar scent, and I yearn to lie next to her in bed, even if it means risking death by being smothered in my sleep.
With heavy legs that feel like lead, I trudge up the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible. My line played more than usual tonight, with longer shifts on the ice. I’m dead tired. All I want is to collapse onto my bed, having already showered in the locker room. But it feels empty when I flick on the light switch in my room. Some of my belongings are scattered around, but without any personal touches adorning the walls or furniture, it doesn’t feel like my space.
I carefully set my hockey gear down on the floor. I kick off my shoes and peel my shirt over my head, leaving it in a crumpled heap beside me. Taking a deep breath, I tiptoe my way into the one room in the house where I’m truly at ease. It may seem crazy and a little screwed up, but being around her, even if she hates me, brings me more peace than anyone else ever could.
I now know every nook and cranny of her room, so navigating my way to her bed is like second nature. As long as she hasn’t left any obstacles for me to trip over, I can easily make it there. The soft glow of the moon streaming through the curtains illuminates the room, casting shadows against the walls and highlighting the few belongings scattered around. Every item has a special meaning to Sascha, making her room feel like a miniature world I am lucky enough to be welcomed into.
I sink into the bed, my body finding its familiar spot beside her. The sheets are cool against my skin, sending a shiver through me. Despite the size of the bed, there is always a noticeable gap between us as Sascha curls up into a small ball to sleep.
A chill has settled in the room, making me consider grabbing a sweatshirt. But before I can make a move, Sascha’s voice cuts through the silence like an icicle. “Just get under the covers,” she says sharply.
Without hesitation, I comply and slip under the blankets next to her. Tentatively, I reach out to see if she’ll allow me to wrap my arm around her.
“Don’t you dare think about it,” she snaps, her voice cutting like daggers in the darkness.
I cautiously shift my foot closer to hers, barely brushing against it. She responds with a low, incoherent growl but doesn’t pull away, so I take that as a small victory.
As I drift off to sleep, our feet remain touching, a small but comforting connection. When I wake in the morning, she is unwinding herself from my arms. She’s careful and quiet as she pulls away, and I keep my face neutral so that she doesn’t know I’m awake.
Even in my sleep, my body sought contact with hers, and she allowed it.
Progress.