Pulled (15 page)

“
Naya,” I say, starting to protest. I don’t get far, because our hands find their own way, unable to contain their combined need any longer. I don’t even know how my hand has unclenched itself from the iron grip it was in, but it has, and it's now tucked perfectly inside hers.

I’m overwhelmed with emotion and actually hear myself gasp. Simply holding her hand, I know in my core that she is destined to be with me, and I with her. But I can’t articulate it. I can’t even speak. I am too consumed with the warm, pulsating current of her hand in mine.

The way they fit together seems only to confirm that this is our destiny, that we were made for each other.

We sit hand in hand, not speaking for what could have been an eternity before I'm finally able to speak.

“
Are you okay?” I ask her.

She smiles a big, warm smile at me. “I’m right as rain.”

Her smile melts my heart, and I laugh lightly. “My Grams says that, although I don't think she has any idea what it means.”

More silence.

“
So what now?” she asks eventually, stroking the back of my hand so gently with her thumb that I doubt she realizes she's even doing it.

“
Now…I guess we go to rehearsal.”

And just like that, reality comes crashing down on me. We aren't in some sort of magical world where I'm allowed to touch her whenever I want. We are actors in a play, and nothing more.

Slowly, we get up from the bench and start to release our interlaced hands. The reaction of the withdrawal is immediate, and causes us both to flinch.

“
Either you need to go ahead of me, or we need to keep holding hands,” I say, waiting for her to go ahead of me. But she doesn’t. She takes my hand again, and the pain retreats as fast as it came.

“
We go in together,” she says.

“
Together,” I repeat, squeezing her hand a little tighter against mine. This girl is going to be the death of me.

When we walk into the black box, Elizabeth
is there, talking to a few of the ensemble dancers who have arrived. She turns in time see us enter. Her eyes look down and notice our hands. One of her eyebrows shoots up to the sky in surprise.

“
It’s just easier this way,” I say, brushing by her.

“
Whatever works,” she says with a huge smile.

To her credit, Elizabeth
uses our newfound ease with one another to her advantage. She makes sure that whenever possible Naya and I are touching, but rips our bodies apart when she wants that certain ‘longing.’ It is both torture and relief mixed together in dance. If we can pull this off, the play will truly be magical.

At the end of the night, Naya and I walk out of the theatre together, finding 'our' bench without words.

“
Well, that wasn’t too bad,” I say, not wanting to let her go.

“
No. It wasn’t,” she confesses. A small smile creeps onto her lips.

I’ll
have
to let her go now. She was only mine for rehearsal and now that it's over, she belongs to someone else.

“
On three?” I say, grinning to try and hide the pain.

“
One…”

“
Two.”

“
Three,” we say together. I slide my hand out of hers and we both grimace. She turns quickly without a word, taking my heart with her.

Naya

My body is shouting at me to turn around and go back to him, but I push my feet hard against his pull.
He's not yours, Naya,
I hiss at myself with each step I take.
He's not yours.

Dutifully, I check in with Seth once I'm home. Thankfully, he seems otherwise occupied by John and the beer run he just made. We say our goodnights and then I collapse into bed, pulling the sheets over my head and cry myself to sleep.

Morning comes all too soon for my liking, but I crawl out of bed, grateful for the weekend. Maybe a few days away from Etash is all I need to pull myself together.

After I down a Pop Tart, I make my obligatory call to Harold and Tina and begrudgingly take care of the ‘bill’ issue. I tell them about my first week of college, and they feign interest in all of the right places.

Although I would never admit to their faces how much their waning interest in me hurts, I know I’ll grant them their wish soon enough. As I hang up, I silently resolve to make my calls to them less and less frequent.

In the shower I try to wash away some of their rejection, but the hot water feels like shards of glass against my back, which still hasn't healed over enough to take on the assault of the pelting drops for more than a moment at a time. Gingerly, I put my robe on and head back to my room to bury myself in homework.

I have just finished reading a section on how to use a stipple sponge for make-up class when there is a knock on my door. Startled, I jump up from my bed to answer it.

As I pull open the door, I see Seth frowning at me.

“
You're not dressed yet?” He scratches the back of his head, then gives me a quick peck on the cheek. I'm surprised by how wrong it feels.

“
Just give me a second to throw some clothes on.” I shut the door behind him as he walks in and plops down on my bed, causing some of my books to bounce to the floor. He doesn't bother to pick them up.

I walk over to my closet and pull on some jeans and a light blue sweater.

“
Okay, I’m ready,” I say, slapping an elastic around my hair. “Are we going to lunch? I'm really craving some of the cafeteria's macaroni and cheese.”

He walks over to me and yanks the elastic out of my hair; the strands fall over my slightly bruised face. Right. I'm still not presentable yet.

“
I’m sorry, but cafeteria food is not on our agenda.” Seth says, giving me an evil grin.

“
What do you mean?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. He laughs at my dark expression.

“
You’ll see.” He takes my hand and leads me out of my room.
Once we get into his car, which he has parked in a handicap spot, we drive for about thirty minutes before Seth pulls into the parking lot of a store I've never been into before. One look at the elegant dresses in the shop’s window is a clear indication of
why
I would never have a need to step inside.

“
What is this?” I ask.

“
This is a store,” he says, making a grand gesture with his hands to the door.

I glare at him. “I know it’s a store.
Why
are we parked in front of it?”

“
Because, my beautiful girl, it's our anniversary and I’m taking you to a super fancy restaurant tonight.”
Crap.
It
is
our anniversary.
How did I forget that?
“And as much as I love your sexy jeans,” he continues, “they just wouldn’t do for tonight. So, we’re here to get some new duds.”

“
Seth, my trust fund doesn’t really allow for this type of spending…” I begin.

“
Relax. You’re not spending a dime. This one’s on me,” he replies. He jumps out of the car and is opening my door before I can protest any further.

Thankfully, we are the only ones in the store, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like the ugly duckling surrounded by swans. The store clerk seems peeved with us until Seth whips out his gold card, then she is all too eager to help.

After trying on what seems like a hundred dresses, we finally agree on the simple beaded, high-backed black dress that will hide my unhealed lash marks. Seth picks out a handsome dark gray suit that hangs perfectly against his broad shoulders. Although he’s dashing in the suit, I can’t help thinking about tattered jeans and bare feet.

When I head back into the dressing room to try and squirm out of the dress, Seth grabs me by the arm.

“
Where do you think you’re going?” he asks. “I’m not letting you out of that dress for the rest of the day. Besides, you’ll be late for your next appointment.” He winks at me, and starts leading me to the door.

He drives me to a beauty salon, where three women surround me. After an hour of hairpins and what had to have been three cans of hair spray, and globs of concealer on my bruise, we head to dinner.

The restaurant is dimly lit, but even in the darkness I can see that the walls are all covered in dark wood and mirrors. The tables have crisp white tablecloths, crystal goblets and more polished silver utensils than one person could ever possibly need for one meal.

I should feel like Cinderella on her way to the ball, but instead I feel used. Being all glammed up like this is just not me and I can’t help but feel sad that after two years together Seth doesn’t seem to know this about me.

We’re finally seated at a large table in the corner and I feel a bit more relaxed, tucked in discretely at the back of the room. I pick up the large menu in front of me, intimidated by its elegant font. When I open it, I’m speechless. The
entire
menu is in French. I lower my menu and glare at Seth.

“
It’s in French,” I hiss.

“
Oui,” he smiles, bringing his menu back over his eyes.

“
I don’t speak French, let alone read it!”

“
But I do,” he says simply.

Aggravated, I close my menu sharply and cross my arms. The waiter comes to take our drink orders. I search the menu frantically for something that looks like it could be iced tea when Seth shocks me.

Casually, he puts down his menu and picks up the wine list and asks for a bottle of wine.
I wait for the waiter to laugh or at the very least card him, but all he says is, “Very good, sir.”

I watch with my mouth wide open as the waiter walks away.

“
What?” Seth asks, innocently.

I lean across the table.

“
We’re minors,” I whisper.

“
Not tonight,” he smiles.

Chapter 9

Etash

The hour-plus drive to Grams' nursing home passes in a daze Saturday morning. The songs on the radio are doing little to erase my thoughts of being allowed to hold Naya's hand last night.

When I get inside, I’m told that Grams is finishing her breakfast and will be ready shortly. To pass the time, I pour myself a cup of coffee in the lobby, surprised by how I'm actually starting to enjoy its bitterness.

Sitting in a cream high-back chair, I flip through their collection of AARP magazines a few times before counting the beige carpet squares that cover the home's floors. The squares, I'm told, are not only cheaper, but more practical in a place where 'accidents' are known to occur. I’ve gotten up to 120 stain-free squares when Nurse Morgan tells me I can see Grams now.

Making my way up the old oak stairwell, I run my hand against the smooth, well-loved banister. Every time I come here, I can't help but think about this banister and how many hands have run up and down it.

The building is an old, renovated farm house from the 1800s. The love that has gone into fixing it up after all the years of disrepair is something that never fails to touch my heart. Visiting Grams here has always been like visiting an old friend.

“
Anyone home?” I ask, tapping on her door.

“
Etash! Come, come,” she says, waving me inside. Even though she’s in a nursing home with dementia setting in, no one seems to have told her about it. She is fully decked out in traditional Middle Eastern garb, a look she has had since the day she came to live with us from India, never caring in the least how much she stood out in our forced Americanized family. Long, gold earrings dangle delicately from each of her ears, their small diamonds winking hello to me as they dance in the morning sunlight.