Lullaby of Love (8 page)

I’m sure she does. Here we go. I nod, acknowledging I’m listening to him as I eat my salad, and let him finish.

He leans in, “Yeah, well, I hear from some of the other guys on the baseball team that she’ll make your eyes roll into the back of your head. . . and if I weren’t hooking up with Gretchen, I’d have a go at her myself.”

He’s a class act
. I look down at the rest of my salad—that somehow looks less appetizing with each word out of his mouth. I’m
absolutely
glad that my sister’s never encountered him. First glance, I’d probably knock the shit out of him—never having thrown a punch in my life.

“Think about it—it’ll get me some points, maybe with both of them.”

I move my eyes up from my tray to look at him—I’m sure if someone did a CT scan, his brain would be in the shape of a dick. “Yeah, I’ve already thought about it. No thanks.”

He shakes his head, like I just passed up the last chance of ever knowing
carnal pleasure
. “I just don’t get you man. You never bring anyone home—you’ve got to be getting backed up.”

I’m done
.

These girls actually get into bed with him—I can’t even finish my lunch near the guy. “Listen Vince, I’ve got class in a couple of minutes—see
ya back at the building.”

shay

“I could eat a horse!” Jenny pulls open the door to Mama
Gia’s. A small rope of bells jingles against the glass. I follow close behind listening to her speak in Italian to the greeter at the front podium. Who laughs and motions a waiter, and leads us to a table in the center of the room. This is right up her alley; it’s a chunk of Italy—at the base of campus. Most people come here for a semi-formal occasion, or anniversary I suppose. I’m sure even some for a first date.

Jenny introduced it to me and my parents the day we moved me into my apartment, and were all too tired to think about cooking. My parents loved it. My dad thought Jenny was a saint; guiding me right to some good decisions about getting life started here. First the apartment, now
the best little Italian restaurant
he’d eaten at in years. With a stomach full of spaghetti, I could tell he was feeling more and more at ease about me being here on my own—with Jenny. Anyway, since then we manage to eat here about once a month when we’ve had an especially long day—just getting back from breaks and into the swing of things seems to be a regular, for one of those days.

She says some things in Italian again to the waiter and all I can pick up is “. . .
Guido
. . . “

A moment later he’s returned with bread and oil.

“I ordered for us,” she says, dunking a torn off piece of bread into the oil and motioning for me to dig in.

“Thanks. You’re sure you told him only marinara sauce, not meat sauce this time?” I ask, reaching in the basket for a slice of warm bread.

“I told him last time too—he just got it wrong.” I laugh at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” I smile and keep tearing my bread, swiping it in the oil. She probably did say it right. She’ll never admit it though if she didn’t, which completely amuses me. I think the one thing that bonds us more than anything else is our stubbornness.

At any moment I expect her to delve into an inquiry about. . . Dane. Even thinking his name heightens something in me. I’d prefer getting through most of our meal though before she does begin asking questions. I decide to direct conversation for a while, as long as I can anyway.

“Did you get through your classes unscathed?”

“
Me?
It’s the little shits you should be worried about. I’ll say it a thousand times—why would anyone want to be a teacher?” She rolls her eyes and gestures to the waiter to get our water glasses refilled.

I spend half of my time entertained by her. “They’re not that bad,” I jibe.

“Not that bad! Who sedated you?”

I pass my glass to be filled. My smile is stuck. I could have the worst day and get near her energy and forget even why I was feeling that way to begin with.

“Okay, your Pollyanna optimism is your strongest trait—I’ve come to accept that,” she allows jokingly, seeming all but put-out forking her spaghetti to spin against her spoon. “But today you’re almost skipping—and we can’t have that. So spill, fess up about the runner with legs up to my neck. What’s his name? Mundane?”

So she did notice.

dane

I don’t even want to study. I just want to lay here looking up at the ceiling thinking about her. I’ll give myself thirty minutes to rest and get composed—then I’ll have to hit the
books. . . no matter what.

She grips me.
And for some reason I don’t mind. It’s not worth it to mention it to anyone; I don’t know even enough about her yet. All that I do know is I feel alive inside and out near her, like a
man—
protector
, not like anything I’ve ever felt before. And yet, there’s a resistance to her—I can’t understand it—at the same time, a want in her eyes. I know it. I saw it.
She’s just so damned vulnerable
—it consumes me.
God
—I’ve not thought about it the last couple of days—maybe she has a boyfriend
.
But I don’t see it
. There’s no way someone that timid. . . she’s just too shy. I close my eyelids picturing her. . . the gentleness in her movements, the sweet way she says things. . . and how when I looked for that brief moment into her amber eyes. . . what I  saw, transfixed me.

I’ve got to get out of here and go for a run
.

I grab my keys to the apartment off my dresser and lock up, making my way down the street to the stadium. It’s sure to be open and people still around, at least until the sun starts to really set. I’ll run until I tire myself. What studying I don’t get done tonight, I’ll do around classes tomorrow.

shay

I’m a stupid girl.

He ran into me—he showed up to apologize—and I’m standing here
again. . . waiting for
what?

It’s 7:02, there’s a person sitting on the bench, buses are filtering past, people are moving about getting to their offices early; I’m sure to meet with students before classes start. And I’m lingering before I go in, here way earlier than I need to be, and there’s no sign of him.

My insides are quaking with every anxiety of wanting to see his face again.
It could be just that though—he was a decent guy.
I look down at my watch, 7:05. I stay looking at the glass faceplate, feeling too embarrassed and ashamed of my thoughts to look up and move in haste getting inside, in case someone detects me. My eyes are filling with tears and the numbers on my watch become cloudy.
No one near me out here could know my private thoughts, but I know, and I feel foolish.

I slowly lower my wrist to my side, trying to accept my misunderstanding of things, and lift my head to walk up and indoors. As I do, I see someone a little taller, much further down the sidewalk at the crest of the hill.

It’s him
.

Tears fill my eyes again as my emotions overtake me.
Be calm, think.
I have about one minute before he gets here to gather myself.
Maybe he wasn’t intending to see me; it’s past 7:00.

Think.

I’m shaken. For the first time I have to decide between. . .  exposing
me
. . . a little of what I’m feeling by just being here. . .  or succumbing to my fears and fleeing. I risk being rejected. . . I know this, that’s part of it. . . I’ve never known this nervousness that’s tormenting me with each second that passes. If I do rush inside, and he did want me here, he’ll think I’m avoiding him.

Stay
placed. . .
stay placed
. . .

dane

Look up. . .

See me.

I move a little faster weaving through people.

About fifty more feet—
don’t go inside.

That goddamned paper for my first class!
I couldn’t get out the door right when I wanted to.

Her back’s turned now—she hasn’t seen me yet.

. . .
Twenty feet
. . .

“Shay,”
I say quietly not to startle her. She turns around. “
Oh. . . hey. . . what’s wrong?
” I see what’s wrong—she didn’t think I was coming. She wanted to be here just as much as I did. I want to bring her close to me and hold her in my arms.
“Would you want to go for a walk?”

“Yes.”

I place my hand in the small of her back, guiding us through people until we get to a place less congested on the sidewalk; she doesn’t resist.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
I can see from the side her face lightening and there’s no need for explanation from either of us.

We walk in silence for a couple of minutes.

“Have you ever been to a Yale track meet?”
I ask now that I’ve steadied my mind.

“I haven’t. . .”

“Would you be interested in coming to one—this Saturday, well, part of one. The events last most of the day, but my heats
are in the early afternoon?”
I offer. Knowing what I just did spontaneously and maybe too soon. It doesn’t have to be a real first date, just an
outing
—
school outing,
in some sort—not putting pressure on her.
 
I thought about it late last night. Coach Malloy will be there; he’ll have one of my two athlete’s passes, and I’d sure like her to have the other one.
“It’s against Harvard.”
I don’t know why I said that, or why it would make a difference. It’s just now that I’ve asked her, her quietness makes me nervous.

“Yes, I know. . . I’ll come.”

“Good.”
I want to reach for her hand and turn her to me and tell her how I can’t get her out of my mind these last days, and how happy I feel just being near her. “
Maybe tomorrow morning we can talk about where to meet at the stadium and the time. . . if that’s okay with you?
” I see her lips form a small smile.

“Sure, that’s alright. . . I’d like that.”

“Same time. . . 7:05?”
I suggest somewhat playfully, trying still to calm her from the nerves we both felt earlier.

“7:05,”
she agrees, smiling forward as we continue our walk.

shay

I stop by my apartment on my way up to Jenny’s. I told her not to make anything for herself for supper, when I asked if she wouldn’t mind some company later on.

The aroma of the small roast and vegetables that I turned on in the crock pot before I left this morning, makes my stomach growl. I grab an oven mitt from the drawer and slowly lift the lid, checking it. Just right. I unplug the cord and take out another oven mitt so I can get it upstairs.

Before I go I want to change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I hurry getting ready, knowing we’re both starving. Lunch came early today when Professor Richards decided we all needed to meet on his lunch hour at 12:00 in his office. I don’t think anyone is too comfortable with the thought of breaking bread in his company. So when word got around, we were scrambling to force down any lunch that we could.

Sorted.
I grab the crock pot and head out, steadying it with one hand underneath as I reach and shut the door to lock it.

As I get to the third floor and make my way down the hall, I can see Jenny’s door is slightly open. I knock lightly with my foot, pushing it, and walk inside. “Hey, I’m here,” I call. No sign of her.

“Be right out.”

I put our supper on the counter and plug it back in, looking around at the table to see if it’s cleared off enough to eat on—just her backpack and some papers that she’s been grading. I won’t disturb it.

“Hey,” she steps out from around the corner, putting her hair up into a ponytail. “Yum! What’s that smell?!”

“You like it? It’s just a rump roast and some vegetables that have been cooking all day.”

“
Yeah!
—Great! Let’s eat! Can we?” She slides her papers into a pile, tapping the edges smooth and putting them into her open backpack and onto the floor. “Would you grab a couple of plates out of the cupboard and some silverware? I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like? I’ve got Sprite, lemonade. . .” I see her bent down in the refrigerator, sliding some things around on the metal shelf. “And some expired milk—your pick.”