She feels around inside the fridge and pulls out two plastic baggies, the kind you get from the deli counter at the grocery store. The kind that costs twice as much and tastes twice as good as the Oscar Mayer packages in the cold-cut section. After setting them on the counter, she goes back for the mayo jar in the door and a bottle of mustard.
“How do you know what’s what?” I ask, because I can’t fathom navigating the world in the dark.
“Taber buys condiments in different sizes and shapes so I know which is which without opening them. Mayo is the small jar, ketchup is the big bottle, mustard is the little bottle, and the salsa jar is shaped weird…if we have any. We usually run out though because Taber puts it on everything.”
I like that. I like that Taber goes out of his way to make his sister’s life accessible and as easy as possible, at least the little things like food.
The plates clank and rattle against each other when she takes two out of the cupboard. The noise is loud in the silence. As if everything she’s doing is amplified because my senses are so intently focused on her.
“I’ll grab the bread,” I say because I need something to do. Something to take my mind off the fact that her independence, her confidence, her disposition—everything about her—is attractive. I’ve never been the type of guy who’s attracted to women for typical reasons. It’s rarely about looks with me. My first crush was on our neighbor. I was nine, and she was in her twenties. She had frizzy brown hair that she never combed, political bumper stickers all over the back of her Volkswagen Beetle, and a smile that made you feel like she put it on just for you. I was always outside because I didn’t want to be inside with my mom, and when she came in or out of the apartment building she always said hi and asked how I was doing, or asked if I’d eaten anything lately, or asked to see my drawings and then told me how good they were. We only lived in that building for two months, and I don’t know what happened to her, but I’ll never forget her smile and how a few words could make me feel human.
I find myself taking my time making my sandwich. I can’t remember the last time I had ham or turkey, let alone both. And lettuce. And tomato. I haven’t eaten a vegetable in months. They’re too expensive and the convenience store I usually shop at doesn’t sell fresh produce unless you count brown bananas. This sandwich is a masterpiece.
“We can eat in my room,” Alice says.
I follow her in and two things strike me instantaneously: how at home I feel and how much I want to leave. Immediately. Comfort and discomfort are clashing inside my mind and my chest. My knee-jerk reaction is to make up an excuse to leave, so that’s what I do. “Hey, Alice, I need to check the answering machine. I’ve been gone for a few hours and Johnny’s probably gone, so…” I trail off because I don’t want to stretch this out into a full-on lie.
She’s sitting on the end of the bed, her legs dangling over the edge of the footboard, and taking a bite of her sandwich. “Oh,” she says with a full mouth. I know it’s not ladylike, but it’s just one more thing about her that’s cute. It’s cute until I hear the hurt in her voice.
“Will you be around later? When I’m done with my work?” I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to come back, but I’m uncharacteristically trying to give myself an in if I do.
The corner of her mouth curves up in hope before she says, “Sure, I’ll be here.”
I leave her eating the best sandwich that’s ever ended up in my stomach.
There wereno messages on the answering machine, but it’s three hours before I psych myself up enough to go back down and knock on her door. Waiting for her to answer, I repeat the reminder,You’re nothing. She deserves better. You can’t be with her.
When she opens the door, I know it’s true, but I stay anyway.
Her room feels, once again, like home. It makes my heart beat erratically and my palms perspire. I can’t acclimate to home or the idea of it, and my nerves spiral.
When she sits on her bed, I remain standing because there isn’t a chair in the room.
“My brother won’t be home tonight, he’s staying at Inga’s.”
I immediately drop and sit on the floor because I’m not sure if that statement was purely informational or purely invitational. “Okay,” I say, slipping out of my sweatshirt because now my pits are starting to sweat too.
“What do you want to do, Toby?”
Because I’m alone in an apartment with this beautiful, kind, fierce girl who sets me on fire, I want to say,Kiss you. For hours. But because I know I shouldn’t, I say, “Listen to you play one of your songs.” Because I really want that too.
That smile emerges, the one that’s a little shy and a lot playful. “Really?”
I nod, still in the habit around her, and then answer, “Of course.”
She brings her hand to her mouth and taps her bottom lip with her pointer finger before running the tip of it back and forth; she’s thinking. “I’ve been working on something new, do you want to hear that?”
“I want to hear everything,” I answer earnestly. I don’t want to lie to her tonight. I don’t want to hide from her tonight.
Her smile grows impossibly wide. “Good answer, Toby. Can you please hand me my keyboard? It’s on my dresser.”
I stand and retrieve a smallish keyboard that’s already plugged in to an outlet and set it on the bed in front of her.
“Thanks,” she says as she turns it on and presses a few buttons. Before I can sit back down on the floor, she pats the bed next to her. “Sit by me. If we’re touching, I don’t feel like I’m alone playing for myself.” The pause is significant enough that she prompts a second time. “I won’t bite.” As my butt depresses into the mattress next to her and my shoulder grazes hers, she adds loud enough that I can hear her, “Unless you want me to.”
God help me, she’s flirting. The sound in my throat is almost a laugh.
That makes her laugh. “This one is still rough. I’m struggling with the intro, so I’ll skip that part for now.”
