-18-
Last Night
I scan the six words printed against the screen, wondering why they came ten hours after I sent my own. I had left her cell on the nightstand last night and knew she must have seen it this morning when she got up. Perhaps it’s because unlike me, she wasn’t as affected by what happened between us.
No.
That was far too intense not to be remembered or taken seriously. I’ve never experienced that level of vulnerability with anyone before in my life, and I have a feeling that I won’t again. So no, I refuse to believe that she’s pretending like nothing happened, even though I was hoping for a little more than just, Sure, be there in an hour?
Since I only live ten minutes from the park, I take my time by picking up a couple of coffees, going through my emails on my phone, and waiting for her on one of the benches near the park’s northern most entrance, people watching. Though I’ve lived here all my life, the city, and its little spot of green in a concrete jungle, still amazes me. So many walks of life, personalities, ages, and cultures all strolling past me, all with different stories to tell. It’s like travelling the world without having to move a muscle.
I’ve been sitting under a large green oak tree for about ten minutes when I see her red hair come into view, a smile not far behind it. She’s wearing black scrubs, her hair up in a ponytail, swishing back and forth as she comes to a stop in front of me.
Her arms aren’t covered today.
When she catches me staring, she says, a little awkwardly, “This is all your fault, you know.”
I grin, unable to help it. “Really?”
A nod. “Yep. After not having to suffer the feeling of fabric grating against my skin last night, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to how it was.”
I stand up, handing one of the coffees to her. She takes it gratefully. “I’m glad.” And just because I can’t help it, I kiss her cheek, tasting the sweetness of her skin. When I pull away, she couldn’t look more surprised.
“Uh, I – um. What…what was that for?” she asks, swallowing hard as a group of Japanese tourists walk by, snapping pictures of everything with their disposable cameras, including a trash can that is overflowing.
My brows fold in, watching her face mask itself in confusion. I don’t know what to say to that. Does she regret what happened last night? Or is she just pretending like nothing went down between us, and expecting me to do the same?
She clears her throat, looking around uncomfortably before saying, “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Sure…”
“Um, do you want to walk?” She motions to the paved path in front of us, and I manage a nod, not really knowing what else to do.
We stay in step with each other, both staring down at the ground. I’m trying to figure out how to ask her why she’s acting clueless when she mutters, “So, how was your day?”
How was my day? “Fine…yours?”
“Good.”
Silence…
“Alright. This is awkward, and I don’t know why,” she admits, looking up at me with bothered eyes, made even brighter by the late day sun. “What is it that happened last night that you wanted to talk about? Did I do something wrong that I don’t remember? Drool in your car? Break my mother’s nose? Grim bit you and I laughed? What? It’s been stressing me out all day, and then this morning Moon called me and said that something was up with you, and I didn’t know if –” She loses air and has to stop. She struggles taking in a big enough breath to replace the one she just expelled.
I bring us both to a halt, my hand landing on her shoulder to spin her in my direction. Everyone else is forced to go around us, but I don’t care. All I can think about right now is: she doesn’t remember.
My fingers tense on her scrubs.
Schooling my features, I ask as evenly as possible, “What do you remember?”
She bites her lip, looking around uncertainly. I notice the hand clutching her coffee cup is nearly white. I didn’t mean to stress her out. I’m just curious. Leading her over to another unoccupied bench, I say, “Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just wondering what you think you did.”
She blows out a breath, her shoulders drooping in the same motion. “I don’t know. Last thing I remember is walking to the car, and then I think I fell asleep. Then I got up this morning, and I was in my room, still in my dress. Wait, how did I get there? I don’t recall the walk to the house.”
My worst fears are confirmed as she looks at me, utterly obtuse about what actually happened. To her, none of it was real. Calling me out in her dreams, tracing my face with her gentle fingers, like it was the only time she’d get to be that close… Saying she wished it was real. It’s all a lost memory for her. And I’m left to deal with it alone.
I swallow what little saliva I have left, unable to look at her any longer. I don’t want her to see how devastated what she just admitted makes me. I actually thought…I actually thought for a moment that she felt what I feel, which is every false emotion I’m supposed to have for her turning into something tangible; the first thing I’ve been able to really hold onto since my mother passed. But it’s all fake, at least to her.
Shit.
Working the muscle in my jaw, I say, as calmly as I can, “Like I said, you didn’t do anything wrong. I – I just, um. You…you fell asleep in the car on the ride back to the house. I carried you inside. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay after I left. That’s all.”
Lie, lie, lie.
“Oh,” she says with a stumped expression, not having expected it to be something so simple, I imagine. “Moon made it sound like you were – never mind.” She shakes her head before taking a sip of her coffee. Looking down at it, she inquires, “How did you know how I take it?”
“After seeing the ice cream and fudge you took down at Serendipity, I figured you were a cream and sugar kind of girl.” I smile, and it actually hurts with how false it is. But she doesn’t look up to notice.
“Hmm. Well, you were right. Next time, though, get some chocolate in there. I kind of have an addiction to feed.” She continues to smile, looking relieved that things are back to normal between us, or maybe the fact that she didn’t do something last night that she would regret today. If she only knew…
We talk for a little while, some about the party, but mostly about how she fears the meeting she has with her mother tonight. “She called me at work and said she wanted to go over some things. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m guessing wedding plans.” Her happy demeanor dies at the word “wedding”, and she looks down at her sneaker-clad feet, kicking little pebbles away with their tips.
“Want me to come?” I ask, still feeling the effects of her broken memory. I can’t figure out how she doesn’t remember what we did. What I said. What I admitted. It’s like having someone grab my heart and pull it through my chest.
Of course, she has no idea what I’m feeling, sitting there, unaware as she looks at me, eyes appreciative of my offer, but, “No, it’s okay. Whatever she dishes out, I’ll be able to handle it. But thanks.” Looking down at her watch, she says, “Crap, I have to get back. My mom wanted to meet at seven for dinner. I’ll call you later and let you know what it was about, alright?”
She stands, readjusting her drawstring bag over her shoulder, looking up at me as I join her. Caramel eyes mixed with honey stare at me with a seed of doubt behind them, causing her to ask, “Is something wrong? You’ve seemed kind of upset today.”
Oh, where do I begin?
Yes, everything is wrong. I like you, and I shouldn’t. I like you, but you don’t know how I like you. I’m upset because I held you last night and you don’t remember. I’m upset because I killed my mom, and for the first time in three years, I forgot about it while I was kissing you. Nothing is right. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Just a lot on my mind,” I say, shrugging it off. “But yeah, call me later. Let me know if you survived.” I smirk at her, using everything within me to make it look easy, normal, and it seems to do the trick, because she smiles back, latching her strong arms around my middle.
Head resting against my chest, I feel her take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Thank you, Jagger.”
My chin moves to rest on the top of her head, a slight breeze blowing her scent to me. Lilacs. “For what?” I ask quietly.
“For getting me home last night. I guess I really needed the sleep. Oh, and I’m sorry I made you carry me.” She chuckles, pulling away from me, eyes slightly guilty. “But then what’s all that time in the gym good for if you’re not using it to pick up unconscious girls?”
I nod, rolling back on my heels. “Yep, it’s why I do it. Though there’s not much glory in it when said girl is unconscious and can’t kiss you as her thanks.” I jump my brows at her, and she slaps my shoulder, smile small but amused.
“Yeah, yeah. Mr. Chivalry.” Eyes still glittering, she looks at me, expression softening. “Goodbye, Jagger.
I mirror her. “Goodbye, Cyvil.”
***
“Dude, where were you today? We had a golf date, remember?” Rosy says through the phone, sounding as pissed as Moon had been when I told him I’d be unable to make it this morning.
“You’re only mad because you didn’t have me to distract Moon from you.” Walking into my apartment, I turn on the light, illuminating the space that seems empty even with furniture in it. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get a cheaper apartment, a smaller space.
“Okay, yes, that is one reason, but for real. We missed you today, man. You’ve been MIA the last few days.”
“I know,” I sigh, putting my keys on the counter. I haven’t talked to the guys since Sunday, which is like a year in our terms. “I’ve been…doing stuff.”
“Yeah, and by “stuff” you mean sitting on your couch, watching infomercials, and pretending the world outside your house doesn’t exist.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” I ask, flopping down on the exact couch he was talking about, staring back at a black television screen. It’s what I do most days when I’m not hanging out with them.
“You know what’s wrong with it. And don’t even pretend that things haven’t gotten worse. I’ve noticed how you’ve been, Jag. Something’s going on with you, and you’re not sharing.”
Letting out a breath that gets semi-caught in my chest, I admit to the ceiling, hoping it might make me feel less heavy if someone else knows, “I kissed Cyvil last night.”
“…You what?”
“I kissed her. In her bed.”
“…”
“Hardcore.”
“…”
“And she doesn’t remember it.”
“Dude,” he breathes out, and then proceeds to curse zero to a hundred in Spanish.
“What did we discuss about you using your secret lingo in front of me?”
“If by “lingo” you mean language then no, I don’t remember that conversation. But seriously, that’s harsh, man. I’m sorry.” He pauses, then says, almost hopefully, “So…does that mean you’ve got a real thing for her?”
I close my eyes. “If you tell Moon, I’ll murder you.”
“TOO LATE!” I hear his obnoxious voice exclaim, forcing me to move the phone away from my ear.
Dammit. “You could have mentioned Ignoramus was there with you,” I growl.
“Sorry. He just walked into the room. Though I don’t know how. I locked it,” Rosy says, sounding perplexed. “Seriously, how’d you do that?”
“I’m amazing. I used this magical thing called a key. It lets you get through these portals you ordinary people call doors, and – oof!” What sounds like a pillow slamming into his face makes its way to me, and I smile.
“Thanks, Rose.”
“Yep.”
“Ah, come on. My nose is just barely healing, man! Ugh.” Pause. “Shoot, is that blood? Did you just make me bleed?”
Before fists start flying instead of pillows, I yell over the mix of Korean and Spanish swearing, “SHUT. UP. Both of you. Man, I’m so sick of you guys acting like we’re still in high school. We’re not fifteen anymore. Grow up.”
“Oh, whatever. You’re just pissy because you’re so in love,” Moon says in a sappy voice, completely ignoring my comments on immaturity. “It’s okay, J-dawg. I forgive you for being a bitch.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rosy complains in the background.
“You’re both losers and I don’t know why I’m friends with you. And Moon, if you speak a word of this to Cyvil, or Atillia, or anyone with a pulse, I will put you in the same body bag as Rosy.” I’m not even kidding.
“Alright, alright. Let’s drop the dramatics here for a sec,” he says, sounding somewhat serious. “So that’s why you were all happy this morning. You got a little action from the redhead, but then you talk to her, discover she has no idea you did…something, and now you’re upset. Did I get it right?”
I mutter noncommittally.
“Okay, so what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean what am I going to do about it? I can’t do anything about it. She doesn’t remember.”
“Then make her. Tell her the truth, kiss her again, do something! But stop complaining to us and going all emo over being in love with your fiancée.”
“I’m not in love with her.” I correct.
I imagine him raising that one eyebrow at me when he says, “You sure?”
…
“You’re in love with her.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“You know, you have a lot of nerve giving me advice on making a move,” I say, getting angry now. “When are you going to man up and do the same thing with –”
“Don’t you dare involve her in this,” he hisses before I can even say her name, and my brows rise in surprise. It takes quite a lot to upset Moon. But I guess if there was ever going to be a trigger for him, it’d be Ayla.
I rub my eyes, saying quietly, “You can’t tell me that it’s not the same.”
“It’s not.” A door closes, and I imagine he’s taken me off speakerphone at this point. “You’re in a position to get everything you want without any consequences if you confess. I don’t have that luxury.”
“Is that the excuse you’re sticking with?” I deadpan, the sky outside growing as dark as this conversation is getting. “Because if it is, then you’re pathetic.”
“You know what? Screw you, Jagger. Tell her or don’t tell her. I couldn’t give a damn anymore. Just make sure you don’t hurt my friend.” And with that, the line goes flat.
Building frustration with Cyvil, my dad, Moon, and my life burns a whole through my chest, begging for a way out. Crushing the phone in a white-knuckle grip, I throw it as hard as I can against the opposite wall with a scream, watching it smash into pieces all over the living room floor. It feels like a perfect representation of how my life is going, my own pieces irreparable.
***
I don’t talk to my friends for the next few days. The isolation I thought I felt before is nothing compared to this. The only one I’ve talked to is Cyvil, and that was only her telling me that her mother wanted her to start wedding plans, beginning with the dress. She sounded stressed on the phone, her words flying faster than a Bugatti. I didn’t know how to make her feel better except to reassure her that this is what we were expected to do, and that in the end, it’s not like it’s actually going to happen. It seemed to appease her.
“You’re right,” she’d said, and I could picture her nodding to herself. “At least they believe it’s real. That’s good.”
“Sure.”
She paused, and I knew I hadn’t done a good enough job of hiding my irritation. “You sound like you’re mad. Is something wrong?”
If you only knew. Since I didn’t want to lie to her any longer, I simply didn’t answer.
“Is this about Moon?”
Of course she would know.
“You’ve talked,” I said on a sigh.
“Well, yeah. He calls me every day. He seemed as upset as you just now when I talked to him this morning. But he wouldn’t tell me why. Will you?”
“No.”
“Great,” she said sarcastically. “So not only do I have a friend who sounds like his dog died, but also a pissed off faux fiancé to boot. And they say women are hormonal.”
Cyvil
I don’t know if there is anything I hate more than being out of the loop. And since dumb things one and two won’t tell me anything, that’s where I’m left: sitting on the edge of the circle of their boy drama.
When Sunday rolls around, I’m not sure whether it’d be a good idea to go to the Nunez family dinner or not. If Jagger and Moon have something going on, then I don’t want to be around them, quite frankly. Because heaven knows I don’t need the extra stress. But then Ayla calls me, asking if I’m coming over, and when I pause, she says, knowing exactly what I had been thinking, “Oh, forget about those two. They probably won’t even show up.” She sounded a touch sad about the last part of her sales pitch, but went on, “Plus, my friend Taji is coming over and we’re going to have a mehndi party after dinner. It’ll be fun. Just us girls.”
Uh…? “First, what is mehndi, and second, isn’t your brother going to be around?”
Her response was quick. “Rosy has a date with Hanna, and mehndi is an eastern tradition where women get designs applied on their hands and feet for weddings and special occasions. Really, it’ll be awesome. You should come with or without the boys. You’re always welcome.”
Well, my only other plans were to sit on the couch and watch melodrama TV while stewing over Jagger’s coldness to me since our night on the beach. So with that thought, I figured being surrounded by my own sex for once wouldn’t be such a terrible idea.
“Alright,” I said, hopping off the couch, “I’ll be there in an hour. Tell your mom I’m not coming empty handed this time.”
Exactly one hour later, I’m standing in front of the beautiful brownstone belonging to the Nunez family, a large, triple chocolate cake sitting in my hands as I balance it precariously, just managing to push the doorbell with my pinky. A minute later, the door goes flying open, and I’m greeted by an army of women.
Aunts, cousins, and Grammy welcome me in, cooing over how beautiful the cake is, and how sweet I was to think to bring it. They scurry me off to the kitchen, Lotta giving me a giant hug and kiss before she takes the cake from me, placing it on the island, saying, “It’s a good thing you brought it, otherwise we would have been stuck with Camilla’s fruit loaf.”
“I heard that!” an angry voice echoes from the dining room, and Lotta winks at me, making me crack a smile.
“Hey, you made it!” Ayla says with a great big hug as she walks into the kitchen, a girl with long black hair and beautiful rich skin standing behind her, a golden flower stud shining from her nose. When Ayla pulls away from me, she says, “Cyvil, this is my best friend, Taji. Taji, this is Cyvil, Jagger’s fiancée.”
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I say as we shake hands, her smile warm and friendly.
“Same here. It’s actually kind of an honor to meet the girl who nailed down the male specimen.”
“Taj,” Ayla hisses at her, looking back at me nervously.
I laugh, her spunk reminding me of Till. “Well, the honor is all mine. Speaking of which, has the specimen made an appearance yet?”
“No,” she says, almost relieved. “Mom talked to him yesterday and he made it sound like he had plans. Hopefully that means Moon will be a no show too.”
As though Taji knows the same thing I do, she gives me a roll of the eyes and a grin behind Ayla, mouthing, “She’s lying,” to which I give a subtle nod. The reserved look behind Rosy’s sister’s eyes says it all, and my heart kind of breaks for her.
Just like last time, the dinner table is full of laughter and conversations, stories and jokes told at one another’s expense. With it just being us girls, the energy is lively and unhindered, whereas I feel everyone kind of held back some of their wilder sides with the boys being present. Though these ladies may look sweet and innocent, their mouths certainly aren’t, and I can’t help but feel Atillia would love them.
After dinner, we all pitch in with the dishes, making the task fly by. Some help with clearing the leftovers, others wash plates, one dries, and I help Lotta put them away. While we are stowing the beautiful china back in the cupboard, Mrs. Nunez says to me, “So, I got a call from your mother the other day.”
I almost drop a very expensive looking tea plate as she tells me this, the glossy porcelain sliding against my fingers. Holding it with both hands as I put it back, I say a little unsteadily, “Um, really?”
“Mm-hmm. She said that you wanted me to design a wedding dress for you.” She puts a cup away on a lower shelf, standing back up with a frown. “I was kind of hurt, actually. I had hoped you’d ask me yourself.”
Placing the last of the plates away, I say, leaning back against the dining table, “I was, really. My mother just likes to jump the gun. She’s not one to wait for others to do what she thinks she can do herself.” I should have guessed she’d do this. When I told her I had become friends with Lotta through Jagger, she practically insisted I ask her to design my dress, to which I had agreed. But I told her I wanted to ask her myself. She couldn’t even let me do that.
“Don’t worry, I believe you. I remembered her from when I helped with your sister’s gown.” I can almost see the chill go through her at the memory, and I chuckle under my breath. “A very…aggressive woman, isn’t she?”
“You can say that again.” I shake my head, looking down at my feet, arms crossed over my chest. “I’m sorry she did that. I hope she didn’t give you any ideas about the dress.”
Her smile turns kind of annoyed. “Yes, she did actually. When I asked her if she thought the bride should have an opinion, she didn’t say anything. I’m going to assume I should just throw those notes away?”
“Definitely.”
“Already done.” With a knock of her shoulder into mine, she says, “Why don’t we go have some of that delicious cake of yours and talk about designs, hmm?”
Though the guilt of it all makes my stomach churn, knowing she’s going to be doing this for naught, I say, “Sure, sounds great.”
With the help of the rest of the family, we stuff our mouths with cake and come up with a simple design for my dress, Lotta recommending silk for the majority of it once I mention how much fabric bothers my scars.
“Well in that case, why don’t we do away with sleeves,” she erases the ones she had drawn on the stick figure in her sketchbook, “and give you a shear cape instead?” She uses long, clean strokes of her pencil, framing the shoulders of the figure all the way down to the mermaid style train with the ghostly outline of tulle. “It’ll look beautiful with a winter wedding, while at the same time giving your skin some air to breathe.”
Once she’s done, she hands the sketch over to me, and I place it in my lap, looking over the design. It truly is beautiful, the embodiment of what I’d want if I were actually getting married. The silky gown drops to the floor in a sleek mermaid style, pooling around the legs of the figure. The top is sweetheart shaped, with two small pieces of fabric draping around the sides of the shoulders. And to top it all off is the cape, looking like gossamer as it floats around the design, Lotta even having given it a hood to make it look more whimsical. It’s stunning.
“So, is there anything you want to change, or does this look like what you envisioned?” Mrs. Nunez asks over my shoulder, everyone else peeking in to see the final design after giving their input, awing over it once they get a good look.
“It couldn’t be more perfect,” I tell her honestly, unable to look away from the sketch.
“Jagger’s going to be one happy man,” Ayla says next to me, jumping her brows when I look at her. I laugh.
“Yeah, well, my mother isn’t going to be too happy about all of the exposed skin, but it’s not her wedding dress, so screw it.” And anyway, I know that if I had really gotten the chance to wear it for Jagger, he would have been proud that I hadn’t covered myself for her sake. The thought makes the moment a little less melancholy.
After a few minutes of chatter about the wedding, everyone asking if they’re invited, which of course they are, Taji says with a smile, “Well, I think this calls for a celebration. Mehndi anyone?”
All of the women murmur their agreement, and Taji grabs her bag, sitting in the corner of the chaise lounge she had been laying on. Opening it up, she takes out multiple tubes wrapped in yellow and silver foil, a small towel and pillow coming out last. Setting up her supplies, she says to me, “I think the bride-to-be should go first.”
She nods for me to join her over on the chaise, and I hand the beautiful sketch of my dress back to Lotta, who takes it and says, “Remind me to send this home with you after I make a scan of it.”
I nod, walking over to Taji, who has me sit down in front of her as she asks, “So what do you want done? Hands, feet, or both?”
Since I’ve never done this before, I admit, “I’m not sure. What do you like doing better?”
She shrugs. “Feet usually last longer with the stain, but hands are easier. It’s up to you.”
“Well, I’ll do a hand then.” As she places my hand on the pillow, now covered by a soft, mandala patterned towel, I ask, “How did you get into doing this?”
As she tests a small dot of dark brown paste on a second towel I hadn’t noticed, she answers, “My mother is a henna artist, henna being what we call the paste. Mehndi is the design we draw with it. I’ve always kind of been apprenticed by her. We do it mostly for the women in our family for weddings and Hindu holidays, like Diwali.”
Moving the tube of henna to hover over my hand, she begins the design by putting a small dot in the middle of it, going around it with more circles, little loops, and flowers that look like lotuses and daisies. She works methodically in the waning afternoon light, the strong smell of the paste reminding me of dried leaves in fall. It’s comforting, and I grow mesmerized by the beautiful art Taji is swirling on my hand and fingers.
Looking over, I notice Ayla has begun drawing on one of her aunts, her hand moving in the same smooth strokes as Taji’s. When I ask how she knows what to do, she says, “I’ve been an apprentice almost as long as Taji has. I’ve known her and her family since I was seven.”
Wow.
After half an hour, my design is done, and I look down on it in awe. The beautifully feminine lines wrap around the top of my hand and crawl onto my fingers, the small flowers and loops making a tapestry of my skin. I give my emphatic thanks to Taji, telling her that she is a very gifted artist, and that I’d love to have this done at my wedding. And by wedding, I mean the one I’ll have many years from now. But to her, she naturally thinks I mean the one coming this winter.
“I’d love to do it for you,” she says, dark eyes shining with a smile. “Wedding designs are even more intricate. It’ll look beautiful with the design of your dress.”
As Taji wraps a special kind of padded tape over the dried paste, protecting it from falling off, a loud voice echoes over the backyard, every head looking up to see who crashed the party.
I don’t have to look to know who would be that obnoxiously loud.
“Good evening, women. Having a little estrogen party, are we?” Moon says, walking into the backyard with a giant smile and a wink at Lotta after she gives him an unimpressed look.
Ayla stills over her cousin’s hands, back stiffening. Looking over her shoulder, she says to him, “What are you doing here?”
His lips contort into a dramatic frown, dark hair ruffled like he just woke up. “It’s Sunday, is it not?”
“Dinner was over two hours ago,” she says, voice a little perturbed. “Where have you been, anyway?”
“Aw, is little Nunez worried about me?” He rubs his knuckles on her head like she’s some kind of kid, and if she wasn’t pissed before, she is now. Her eyes narrow on him dangerously.
“Moon, are you drunk?” I ask before she can do something about it, knowing he seems…off. Yeah, he’s always honest and a little brutal, but this isn’t like his usual style.
He walks over to me without a problem, falling into the chair on my left. He gives an overly done “Pfft”, his eyes looking heavy. “Of course not, Tessa. I’m as sober as I’ve ever been.” Pausing, he turns to the all-female circle we’ve created, saying, “So, can I be a part of the tribe?”
I lean forward, giving him a good sniff, only to come away surprised. I don’t smell any alcohol on him. He really is sober. So that means something is wrong. Very wrong.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask him quietly, not wanting to embarrass him any further, though that doesn’t really seem possible at this point.
Another “Pfft”. “Nothin’.” He smiles, but something sad lays behind it – missing its normally vibrant light, and a wave of sympathy for him goes through me. Standing up, I grab his hand and haul him behind me as I aim us for the back door.
When he starts complaining, I say, “We’re going to get you some water and solid food. Maybe you’re just dehydrated.”
In a small voice, too small for a man with such a big personality, he asks, “If I do, can I join the tribe?”
With a sigh, I say, “Sure. If you eat like a good boy, then you can join the chick tribe.”
***
I watch him closely as he scarfs down a piece of cake, making sure the water glass sitting next to him is full again once he drains it. Maybe it’s just my training in health care, but my first instinct is to always fill people up with fluids and calories when they don’t seem right. I’m hoping that’s the case with Moon, but, it’s been about twenty minutes since he crashed the party, and he hasn’t spoken another word since we entered the kitchen. What I can’t understand, though, is what possessed him to barge in here in the first place.
“Moon, what are you doing?” I ask once he drops the fork in the sink, the plate following after it.
“What do you mean?” he asks, sounding a little more like himself, a little less like the jackass he was when he arrived.
“What made you do this? Be disrespectful to Lotta by getting here late, treating Ayla like a child. This isn’t you.” Leaning against the counter, hands braced behind me, I wait for the answer.
His false smile slowly fades, seeing how serious I am about this. I’m not leaving this kitchen without an answer, and he knows it.
Dropping the act, he hesitantly admits, “I haven’t been in the best state of mind the last few days. I thought maybe being around family would help.”
“So,” I say, my anger starting to rise, despite feeling bad he’s been hurting, “instead of coming to one of your friends and talking about it, or arriving to dinner on time, you decided to bust in here with an attitude and make an ass of yourself. Good plan.”
“Hey, it’s not like it’s a habit of mine, okay? I just wanted to hang and relax. I don’t know how to be uptight and moody on my own like your guy Jagger. I’m a happy person. I have no idea how to cope with, with –” His hands wave around, looking for the answer.
“With feeling depressed,” I finish for him, and once I say the word, his face falls.
“Holy hell. That’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m depressed.” He scratches his head, looking uncomfortable, almost unnerved. He wasn’t kidding when he said he doesn’t understand what this feeling is. “How do I get rid of it?” he asks finally.
I shrug from my side of the kitchen. “Talking about what’s making you sad helps.”
He winces, as though I said the wrong thing. “I can’t exactly do that.”
Um… “Why not?”
“Because it’s…hard.”
Letting out a breath of annoyance, I try to go at it from a different angle. “Alright, how about I guess what has you upset, and then you let me know if I’m close?”
He nods slowly, eyes still wary. “Okay.”
I start. “Since Jagger seems as upset as you do, I’m going to say it has to do with you two having a fight?”
A nod.
“Was it about…cars?”
“No.”
“Rosy?”
“No.”
“Golf?”
“No.”
This is getting frustrating fast.
“Did he say something rude?”
A nod.
“You know what, just spill it. If it doesn’t have anything to do with me, then why can’t you just tell me already?”
“Because it does have to do with you!” he exclaims, and I definitely wasn’t preparing for the outburst, so I jump, startled. His face scrunches up in apology. “Well, on one level.”
I wait a couple of minutes for him to explain further, but he stays mute. He continues to stare down at the counter, letting me stew over what the heck he means by “It has to do with you.”
Deciding that I’m just wasting my time, I start to head back to the party. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, then I’m not going to force him. Even though deep down it’s killing me to not know what I have to do with his fight with Jagger.
Hand on the doorknob, about to leave him and his drama behind, I hear him say over my shoulder, “He called me pathetic. Because I can’t find it within me to tell Ayla the truth.”
I slowly turn around, seeing the shame on his face, eyes looking out into the now lit up backyard – staring at Ayla laughing with Taji. It suddenly makes me wonder if that’s the look I wear when I think of Jagger.
Walking over to him, I grab his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. The small but significant gesture surprises me. Before Jagger, I never would have done this, afraid of people’s disgust when they felt the scars on my knuckles. But I know now that I have people in my life that I can trust. People who will hold my hand back.
“You’re not pathetic,” I counter, shocked that Jagger would say such a thing as I watch the same sight as Moon. “You just don’t want to upset the status quo. There’s nothing shameful about that.”
“But I’m lying to her,” he says against himself. “I’ve been lying to her for years. That’s not only pathetic, it’s wrong.”
Okay, so I can’t argue with that, but, “You can stop lying to her, if you wish. You can tell her the truth. After you apologize for messing up her hair like a five-year-old’s, of course.” I smirk, getting a small smile in return.
“I want to,” he admits. “But this isn’t the right time.”
I watch as Ayla sits there in the lawn chair, smiling at her family while they chat and gossip, but at the same time, you can see that something is missing. Her eyes keep darting back and forth to the darkened kitchen door, subconsciously searching for him. Just like he was looking for her when he stomped into the backyard.
“When is it ever the right time?” I say, more to myself, though I know he hears it. “There are wars going on every day, natural disasters destroying homes and families in every part of the world – lives lost in the most routine activities of everyday life.” My mind instantly goes to Jagger’s mom when I say this, and then my own experience as a kid. I guess what I’m trying to say is: “Life disappears without a second’s warning or our permission, Moon. All we can do is seize the moment, and hope we get another.”
I give his hand a final squeeze and then release it, finding my way out the door this time. Whether my little speech makes an impact on him or not, it made me realize something myself. If there’s something you want, then you need to go out and take it. And if it means putting yourself out there and risking getting hurt, then at least that pain will come with knowing that you tried; that you no longer have to live your life with the dreaded ‘what if’ hanging over your head.