The Story Guy (Novella) (11 page)

“And let her grow out her hair.”

“Yeah.”

I move out of my chair and awkwardly curl into his lap, relaxing when he lets me hold his head against my neck. I comb my fingertips against his scalp, forehead to nape, the way my mom did for me when I was little and upset. The motion soothed me. I want it to soothe him.

His breath is warm and soft along my collarbones, but his hands stay on the arms of the chair.

“I’m not a good man, Carrie. That’s what I am trying to say.” His voice is gentle, but very flat. He carefully moves me so he can stand up. He looks at the floor but picks up one of my hands, stroking the back of it, circling the knuckles with his finger.

“I’ve hurt you and so many other people. I’m never sure that I’m not hurting Stacy. Stacy’s new social worker is really concerned and I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve really gotten on their radar in a meaningful way. I’ve got to focus, on what’s right for Stacy and—”

“What’s right for you?”

“I don’t even know what ‘me’ is. Lately, you know about as much as anyone. Another really good reason I have to go.” He curls his hand around my shoulder but drops it instantly. “It’s really not that it’s a secret, I’m not ashamed, but I’ve learned it isn’t anything I can share, either. No one can count on me but Stacy, and I’m not even
sure she can, either.”

I am never going to forget how he looks right now, as if he’s actually physically trying to hide the longing in his face.

He pinches the bridge of his nose again. “I have nothing to offer, and believe me when I say I am really good at figuring out exactly how much I can offer anyone.”

“That’s where I think you’re wrong.”

“Carrie—”

“No, hear me out. You dole out these stolen little pieces for yourself. You’ve been doing it for so long that you not only have no idea what you need, you have no idea what anyone else might need, either. No one is all or nothing. Grown-ups don’t need someone to be all or nothing.”

“Stacy’s not a grown-up. She never will be. She’ll always be my little sister,
just
my little sister.”

“Right. I know. What I mean is
you’re
the grown-up. Who knows other grownups who know how to help and share. Who, in fact, when they grow to like and respect you, want to help you and share because it makes them feel good. Because no one should have to give everything they are to just one other person at the expense of their own life.”

“That is in no way my experience.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ You don’t understand. When I say Stacy will always be just my little sister, I mean she can never be anything else. She can’t grow up, go to school, date, have a family. She’s in a lot of pain, and probably doesn’t understand why. All she knows is me, or some kind of routine that represents me and the physical comfort I can provide.” Brian looks right in my eyes now, but it’s hard to hold his gaze because my tears keep blurring it.

“In the beginning, I did work harder to get out more, get to know people, and you’re right, at first, people act like they want to help. Women, in particular, seemed understanding that I couldn’t drop everything for a date, or that we might have to hang out at my place.”

“So what happened, Brian? Please, please, explain this to me.”

“Nothing so dramatic. People just live. Their lives get filled up with all of these—things.
They can actually fill their lives with things I can’t even imagine because my entire adult life has always been full of Stacy, just Stacy. It’s why I can’t stand, can’t
stand
, Carrie,” he says as he angrily swipes away another tear, “those moments I told you about, the one where I can almost imagine a whole life with someone else, filled to the brim with other things. Because I can never have that. I already have enough, what I’ve been given. Everything else is just a reminder of how easy it is for me to hurt someone. You. Stacy. I can’t move in any direction.”

“Brian—”

“Even if what you say is true, I have to go. I really have to go, I have to go back. I just had a few minutes, really, to get away. And I didn’t want to leave things at that stupid pergola. Because you’re not,” he says as he slides my tear-splattered glasses up my nose, “just a Wednesday. You’re
not
. You weren’t after two minutes of talking to you on the bench, and I had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my entire life. I can’t imagine ever wanting to kiss someone as much as I always want to kiss you.”

I’m totally desperate, I know, but I wrap my arms around his middle and hold tight. He keeps his arms away from me, but eventually, holding him, I feel him tuck his chin over my head. Then he whispers, “You’re the sweetest girl, the best girl, I ever kissed, Carrie West,” and rubs his face into my hair like a child, breathing deep.

This time, as I let him go, I make sure I walk away first.

Monday, 1:43 a.m.

I will meet you on Wednesdays at noon in Celebration Park. Kissing. You can touch me anywhere. I will meet with you for as long as you meet me, but I will never miss a Wednesday. I’ll sit and I’ll wait like Greyfriar’s Bobby or Wilbur’s Charlotte or Godot’s Vladimir and Estragon. And darling, it’s getting cold, so have mercy. No picture necessary. I’d recognize you, see you, anywhere. I could fill my life with you.

Justin took the picture for me. I made sure to look directly at the camera. So. Now, I’ll wait.

Wednesday, 12:46 a.m.

At least I get to see the first snowfall of the year.

Friday, 8:10 p.m.

“Let me help with these dishes,” I say. I have to break the silence somehow, because waiting to hear everyone’s verdict is getting unnerving. After my freezing-cold vigil at the park this week, I called both Justin and Shelley, certain I must be going crazy. But I couldn’t stop thinking about, to my surprise, Stacy. A woman with long, dark hair who would never be anything but a little sister. Loved, cared for, but her path was straight and clear.

I’m certain that if Stacy had been given the choice, she would have wanted her own messy life with her own mistakes her burden alone. I bet she would have taken risks and filled her life to the brim. Maybe after she grew her hair long, she would have cut it short again, dyed it pink. I don’t know. No one ever will.

Thinking about Stacy was an epiphany that I had choices. Full, lush choices. An embarrassment of them, compared to Stacy, compared to Brian.

If I wanted, I could choose to make my life a place that Brian could step into. He didn’t have any room to move, but he still found that hour, once a week. I can choose to give that hour to him and make it the most expansive time in the universe. I could. If he wanted me to.

I have a life to live.

So now I’ve been fed and fussed over by Justin and Aaron, Shelley and Will, and it almost makes me feel guilty, all of this love in my direction. Because I’m not
just
thinking of Stacy, of course. Somewhere in the city tonight is a man barely holding himself together, even while the hours in front of him are filled with the endlessness of literally breathing for his sister, to keep her together.

Aaron reaches back to the counter, grabbing a second bottle of wine. He takes the corkscrew from Justin. “You’ve met him?”

Justin shakes his head. “I’ve
seen
him. Before I knew he was Brian, I realized he was the guy who came in with the Windsor Corner people, sometimes, for story hour. He’s always really patient with the whole day-care group, and his sister, if that matters.”

“It does,” I say. I squeeze my eyes shut, hard. I’m glad I’m facing the sink. They’ve already witnessed enough of my tears this evening, but at Aaron’s long moment of quiet, I turn around.

“It does, Carrie.”

Shelley holds her glass out to be filled. “I’ve seen Brian, too, without knowing he was, or would be, Carrie’s Brian.”

Carrie’s Brian
. If only I could. If only he were.

Will looks at Shelley. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shelley says to her wineglass. “I realized Brian’s the guy who the storytime volunteer, the one who reads for the adult day-care program, depends on to kind of make the hour work. The day-care workers use the time for a break, but the clients still need all this help, and so—”

“Brian does it,” I finish.

Shelley smiles. “Yeah, he does. It always kind of pissed me off, actually, because it didn’t seem right that this patron was doing more work than one of our volunteers, but I never found a way to step in. I also might have noticed that Brian was pretty hot.”

“Hey!” Will pretends offense, but it’s obviously hard when Shelley smiles at him like that. He leans over and kisses her, and something in my chest gets big and aching.

“But?” I say, trying to breathe easy, inviting the objections that seem to be floating around the table like candle smoke.

“He might not be ready.” Justin looks in my eyes, letting me see his regret.

I close my eyes to let go of the tension in my shoulders. “That’s the thing. It’s okay.” I open my eyes to watch Justin drape his arm over Aaron’s shoulders, Aaron reach up to hold his hand. Will smooth back Shelley’s hair, lingering at her neck. These gestures make me homesick, somehow.

“I’ve decided. I’m waiting.”

“Every Wednesday,” Justin says. To his credit, he does not look pitying.

“Every Wednesday.”

“And that’s enough?” Shelley asks.

“No. I’m waiting because it’s not enough. What’s on the other side of the waiting is enough.”

Aaron squeezes Justin’s hand. “You have no idea what’s on the other side of the waiting.”

This time I shake my head. “Brian.”

Shelley sighs and exchanges what is probably meaningful eye contact with Will, which I try not to let make me crazy. It’s clear they already think I’m crazy. But none of them has ever known me when I’ve decided what it is that I want.
I
haven’t known me when I’ve decided what it is I really want.

“You could get to know him more and realize you were waiting on the wrong thing.” I appreciate Aaron’s sensible nature, it’s why I’m here, but it’s also what is, somehow, making my position seem stronger, brighter.

“So, then, I’m waiting to get to know him more. All I have is time.”

“Says the girl waiting for the boy who has no time at all.” Justin finally smiles.

“Maybe waiting saves time up. Maybe we can use it later.” I smile back and push my wineglass in his direction to fill up.

“To story guys,” toasts Justin.

“And Wednesdays.” Our clinks mix up with uneasy laughter.

Wednesday, 11:55 p.m.

I have to hold my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming, because,
ohGodohGod
, he’s here. He just skidded around the row of water fountains on his bike and then kicked the bike away without locking it, and he’s running, running toward me.

“Carrie!” I’m still just standing, my hands over my mouth. It’s possible I’m crying. He is nearly bent over, breathing hard. “Shit, Carrie,” he says, pulling with both hands on the back of his neck, “I was so afraid—fucking
Christ
—you wouldn’t be here. I am sorry, so sorry. I didn’t see—”

“I told you I would wait, that I would be here.” I’m nearly as breathless as he is.

“I know—but I would have come a week ago. I almost called you a hundred times since we talked at the library, but I just fucked that up, and things are not great, just not great at home—”

“No, it’s okay, I said I would wait. I really meant it. Like,
meant
it. Brian.” I laugh, giddy, but also because it is all so true. “I’m not used to not getting what I want. I’ve never had to throw a tantrum, or give up, or anything. That’s what I’ve been trying to
tell
you. I want this. I want you. And I don’t want Wednesdays-Only Brian, I want you, braids-his-sister’s-hair-fights-with-social-workers-BRFCA Brian. I want to steal two hours and eat pancakes, with you. I want to have a bad day and go home and have phone sex with you. I want to skip lunch and make out—”

He yanks me in by the waist and drags his bottom lip against mine. “With me?” He whispers.

“With you,” I whisper back, and laugh, until he just softens all around me, there’s no other word for it, as if everything on his shoulders has dissolved into fine crystals and blown away.

When I push my hands into the short hairs on his nape, they’re damp and cool from his hard ride in the cold air to get to me, and it’s the perfect sensual counterpoint to his unbelievably hot mouth.

This time, he’s all here, and I’m all here. I can feel him, right here with me. He
pulls back, sucking on my top lip and letting it go through his teeth, and looks right into me. I stand on tiptoe to push my hips into his, and he laughs and pushes back. “Goddammit, Carrie,” he says, gathering me closer, “you feel so good. You always feel so good.”

And I say, “Come home with me.”

“What do you mean?” he says, but I can feel his smile against my neck where he was licking against my pulse.

“Come home with me, right now, and make love to me.” When I say this, my heart trips over itself, and it’s painful, but it’s the kind of pain that means something is happening. That I’m living inside of this moment against its farthest boundary.

“You know, I didn’t get to finish what I wanted to say.”

“Were you going to say that you took a superlong lunch?”

“No. Well, I did, but that’s not it.”

“Tell me, but tell me while we walk to my car.”

Brian laughs, and we walk past his bike, which he locks up. Then he wraps an arm around my shoulders while we walk to the library garage. “I wanted to say that I didn’t see your personal ad. Your grand gesture. At least, not until this morning.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. I mean it, I wanted to call you—I think I might have at some point gotten the courage or the desperation to—but you know how I’ve been trying to catch up at work?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m behind on email. And this morning I got to an email from a colleague. I told you about her.”

Realization dawns. “The one you started all the lunchtime kissing with.”

“Yeah. And in her email there was a link.”