Not Looking for Love: Episode 4 (8 page)

He shakes his head and smiles. "Forget it. It doesn't matter. There's not much gardening to do during the winter anyway."

I lean back against his chest. "Can't we just go away this week?"

His hand is traveling up and down my thigh, warm and dry. "I'd love to, Gail, but I can't. I have stuff to do next week, and Thursday's Thanksgiving. But some other time, I'd love to."

 
I crane my neck up, so I'm looking into his eyes. They're soft like melting snow. "Why didn't we do anything last night?"

He grins down at me, his fingers digging into my thigh. "Is that all you're here for?"

I bury my face in his chest again, hugging him tighter. "Of course not. This is nice too. I just wish I knew where I stood with you."

He laughs again, but it's not a happy sound. "You know, I've been asking myself the same thing since I met you."

The words sting, mostly because he has good reason to say them. "OK, but are you just going to send me another text breaking up with me after you leave here today?"

It's what I really want to know, the question I've wanted answered all week. His body tenses and he lets go of my leg, resting his palm somewhere behind me.

"I should go get ready," he says finally, and moves to stand up.
 

I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him back. "Tell me."

"I already told you, Gail," he says, trying to pry my fingers open. "Now let me go."

"I don't want you to leave," I say, but let him go anyway, because it's what he wants.

"You don't? 'Cause I'm never really sure what you want," he says, evening shadows gathering in his eyes, lightning flashing in the distance.
 

I know my mouth is hanging open, but I can't close it, can't say anything.
 

"Don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about," he says, his voice cold and hard.

I shake my head. I don't know. I really don't.

He's standing now, looking down at me. "You say you want to spend time with me, but all you really want is to have sex, and that's all you ever wanted from me in the beginning, so I don't know if that's not still the case."

I bite down on my lower lip, to prevent myself from saying something hurtful. Such as that he's acting like a girl. Because he's so wrong, he couldn't be more wrong. But those first two nights we spent together will haunt me for the rest of my life.

"You still think I'm playing games with you?" I ask, swallowing the hurt and anger. "After everything?"

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "I guess. You drive me insane, Gail. It's like when we're not together, I think I could stay away from you, but then I see you and I know all that's just bullshit denial. But what I still can't figure out is whether you're chasing after me just because you want some fun outside your normal circles."

"What circles?" I finally find my voice, but it comes out as more of a hiss.
 

He shrugs, glaring at me now. "Like maybe you just want to make that Brandon guy jealous."

I'm shaking now, and not from the cold. I'll either cry or scream, or both, very soon. But I can't do either; he has to know how I feel. How can he not know already?

"I spent the night in your stairwell after you broke up with me. I humiliated myself in front of your friend when you refuse to speak to me. Yelled at you in the middle of a crowded bar. You honestly think I'd do all that just to make some other guy jealous?" I say slowly, evenly, because tears are riding just beneath my voice. "How crazy do you think I am?"

"I don't even know you," he says, sounding a lot younger. He's not glaring at me anymore, but his eyes are still filled with questions.

"I want you to know me," I whisper. "But you seem very set on finding reasons, any kind of reasons, why you shouldn't."

He sits down on the bed, looking off at the front door. "I have good reasons. But only if you're as fragile as you're acting."

I smack his arm so hard it stings. Tears are bubbling up from my throat, exiting through my mouth, my eyes. "I'm not acting."

Then I bury my face in my hands and let the tears flow, let the sobs come. I can't stop them anyway; he can think what he wants. As long as he gives me time to prove him wrong.

He doesn't touch me, doesn't move. I don't even know if he's looking at me, but he must be, because I feel tingles all along my neck, snaking down my back.
 

He sighs and runs his hand down my hair, resting his palm against my lower back. "Alright, Gail. Maybe some of what I said is just part of the bullshit denial."

"What do you mean?" I manage to say between sobs.
 

"If any of that was true, it'd be easier for me to let you go."

I look up, my wet eyes stinging from the cold. "It's not true. None of it. And you can't."

He's leaning against his palm, his eyes wide and lost. "Yeah, maybe I can't."

I want to kiss him, but I shouldn't because then he'll just think that's all I'm here for. My stomach flips, knots unraveling as he cups my cheek, and guides my head to his lips. They're soft and warm, but my tears are cold and salty. The kiss is sweet, no tongue just lips, and it ends too soon, before my tears could even dry.

"I really have to go now," he whispers, his eyes narrowed studying my face.

"I could wait here," I offer, but he shakes his head.

"I'm not coming back here tonight. And I'll be gone all day tomorrow."

My heart drops into the very bottom of my stomach. It's like we're at the beginning of this conversation and nothing's changed. He still wants me to let him go. So I do, getting out of bed to put on my jeans.
 

"I could call you later," he says, standing so close I can feel his warmth all along my side.
 

"I'd like that," I say straightening up, my jeans hanging from my hand.
 

He nods and goes into the bathroom. I dress and finish off my cold coffee, waiting for him to come out of the shower.

Cold drizzle is hitting my face as I stand on the sidewalk, kissing him goodbye. I mute my phone as soon as he turns the corner, and bury it deep in the bottom of my purse, because I keep seeing the text I know will come until I can almost read the words.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A text comes just after midnight, and I'm gasping, my chest heaving, my hands shaking so hard I drop the phone twice before I can finally read it.

I'll call you tomorrow. It reads and the grin that spreads across my face would probably scare anyone to death.

OK, do. I write back, and then take a pill because otherwise I'll never get to sleep.

Dad's already packing by the time I get up the next morning.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" he asks, his bloodshot eyes studying me.

"I should study, and I have to go see Gran."

"Your aunt invited us for Thanksgiving," he says, zipping up his suitcase. "I told her you'd call her if you're coming."

My breath hitches in my throat, and I shake my head. Thanksgiving dinner with my aunt and cousins is the last thing I want to do. And all that must be written plainly on my face, because Dad's staring at me like he might cancel his trip.

"I'll call her. I might even go," I say, hoping he believes me.

I wave goodbye to him an hour later. Scott still hasn't called, and the silence in the house is pressing against me like a thousand ton weight, with the full force of gravity behind it.
 

Any other Thanksgiving break, I'd be sitting at the kitchen counter, making plans with my mom, deciding what stores we'd go to for the Black Friday sales, what movies we'd watch. I'm seeing it all so clearly, I can almost hear her voice. But I'm alone in the house and I'll never spend Thanksgiving with my mom again.

My phone rings, and I run up the stairs, taking two at a time. But it's Gran.

"You said you would visit me, Gail," she says without even a hello.

"I messed up, I'm sorry," I whisper back. "I'll come tomorrow."

"Don't bother," she says, a steely edge in her voice. "It's Bingo night tomorrow."

"On Tuesday then," I offer.

"I'll see you on Thursday anyway, at your aunt's," she says and I murmur agreement, not brave enough to tell her I'd already called my aunt and told her I had other plans. Call waiting is beeping in my ear.

"I'll see you soon, then," I say, tapping my foot against the floor, hoping she won't want to talk more, which luckily she doesn't.

I call Scott back as soon as she hangs up.

"Do you want me to come over now?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything right away, and the silence is deafening.
 

"You don't," I conclude on my own, wrapping my arm around my stomach, which is cramping up like I'm about to have the worst period. Only I won't, since I just started a new box of birth control pills this morning, having just finished the last.
 

"I do want you to come over, Gail," he finally says, but his voice is distant, like the entire world lies between us. There's a but in there somewhere and I'm holding my breath, waiting for it to come. Only he's silent again, like he's not even there anymore.

"I'll be right over," I say once I'm certain he's done talking.

When I arrive, he's leaning against the wall by the entrance to the alleyway that leads to his house.

"Wanna go get a drink?" he asks walking toward me as I exit my car.

"Sure," I say. "Somewhere casual though, and close by."
 

I'm wearing my winter jacket but the cold is seeping right through it. He's only got his windbreaker on, so he must be freezing. I hand him my car keys and walk over to the passenger side.
 

 
A few minutes later we're parked by the beach, moonlight reflecting off the rippling black water. This is the beach with the broken pier, the one where I accosted him that first night. It's the one I've been seeing when I imagine my baby drowning. Why would he bring me here? As a reminder?

"Want to walk to the pier?" I ask through gritted teeth.

He looks at me, his eyes narrowed. "No. I just want to get a drink. Do you want to walk to the pier?"

I take a deep breath, hoping to chase away the anger. "No, I don't."

"We can if you want?"

I wrap my arm around his and pull him toward the boardwalk. Soft music is playing in the only place that's open. There's hardly any people inside, most of them sitting by the bar, watching a game. I lead him to one of the tables in the back.
 

"This is very casual," I say, scanning the menu. All they got is beer, pretty much, and hard liqueur. I order a glass of wine when the waitress comes over, Scott has a scotch.

"I wish we could go to that cabin of yours," he says, after finishing off half his glass in one long gulp. "It sounds like a nice place."

"It is," I say, trying to meet his eyes. But he's not letting me. "We could still go."

"Tell me what it's like," he says, finishing off his drink, and waving to the waitress for another.
 

"Well, it's out in the middle of nowhere, the only neighbor like a mile away, and it's right under a mountain. There are pine trees growing all around it, so you can hardly see the house from the main road. My grandfather bought it, because he wanted a place in the country. But then he hardly ever went there. We'd spend Christmas there sometime, me and my parents, when I was younger. It's a great place to just do nothing but watch movies all day."

I'm seeing it all so clearly, me and Scott, under a blanket by the fireplace, fat snowflakes falling outside.
 

The waitress comes back with Scott's second drink and I take a sip of my wine.
 

"I always wanted a cabin in the woods," Scott says, his voice so distant, it's like he's speaking to me from across the room.
 

He takes another long swallow of his drink, still not meeting my eyes. "My mom's family had a place like that, up in the far north. They immigrated to Portland from Sweden before my mom was born, but I guess they missed the ice."

"That sounds like a cool place. Did you ever go?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. Never. I just read about it in one of her diaries. "

Tears are a hard, prickly rock in my throat, as I'm picturing Scott reading his mom's memories. That must have been so hard. I can't even look into my mom's closet.
 

"I think it was in Alaska," he continues. "With nothing but miles of forests and snow and ice all around. The way she described it, it really was in the middle of nowhere."

It sounds like a desolate place, like escape.

I take his hand, squeezing hard. "You can just tell me what's bothering you. It might make you feel better."

His eyes loose the faraway look in an instant, turning hard and black like fresh coal.

"I'm sure it won't," He finishes his drink, orders another. He's still holding my hand though, not pulling it away. "Besides you said you won't ask."

I take another long swallow of wine, acid rising in my throat. I could press him, and rational Gail is screaming at me to do just that. But I ignore her, because I will do nothing to drive him away again. Absolutely nothing.

"So, I was thinking we could go shopping for furniture tomorrow," I say instead. I'd done more than just thought about it. I even browsed a catalogue, marked off the pages with the stuff he should buy. It's in my bag now.

He leans back so his leg is pressing into mine under the table, and squeezes my hand tighter. "That sounds like such a hassle. I have no idea what I want anyway."

I smile at him. "That's why I'm coming with you. So I can help you choose."

He grins at me, and finishes off his drink, waving the waitress over.

"Don't you think you had enough?" I ask.

"I was thinking we could pay, actually," he says, still grinning at me. "Maybe take that walk on the beach."

I let go of his hand and let him pay. I hardly drank half of my wine.

Outside, the winds are picking up, the clean scent of snow stinging my nose. But he wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I wrap mine around his waist so I'm not that cold anymore.