better option.
As if.
“But does he?”
“Ignore me? No.”
“I meant treat you nicely.”
“Oh, Mom,” I complain.
“Well, you’re avoiding talking about him, so I’m worried that he’s unkind to you.”
I put down my spoon slowly to have some time to form my thoughts. “He’s not unkind, Mom. He’s actually a very nice guy.” I feel a blush creep up my neck and I wish I could bolt out of the restaurant before anyone notices my discomfort.
“Uh-huh,” says Eric, and then less convincingly, “That’s good.” The way he looks at me, I’m afraid he sees right through me. He might know me better than my mother.
But she’s not very far behind, when she says, “You’re nice to him too, then?” It’s a neutral enough question, but her tone is far from it.
“We don’t see each other much,” I mumble, finishing my drink. “He works mornings, and I spend a lot of time at Izzy’s.”
Mo m smiles widely.
I’m angry at myself for being so transparent. Everyone seems to know what I’m thinking and how I feel. Everyone but me.
That’s what happens when you insist on ignoring the truth.
Didn’t I tell you to shut up?
****
I spend most of the afternoon walking the streets or resting in the park across from my place. Now, when I’m alone, I let myself think about Chris. I know myself well enough to know I won’t be able to avoid thinking about him for long. The things I don’t allow myself are always the most tempting, and the last thing I want is for Chris to become even more tempting than he already is. So I let myself think about last night, about his smiling green eyes and the drowsy entreaties to give him a chance. It all feels too real, too honest. That’s why I’ve decided not to give him a chance. But I let myself dream about it. If I let myself saturate this needy, gentler side of me with thoughts of him, I will eventually become fed up and I’ll get over him.
So I sit on a bench, eyes closed, catching the subdued late afternoon sunshine on my face. Every now and again I glance at the building entrance or the window of our apartment to see if he’s still there. He’s supposed to go out in the evening, but he’s still in. I saw him walk around the place a minute ago.
He seemed such a quiet, distanced guy in high school. He is different now that I’m living with him. He laughs a lot. He’s not reserved at all, but not too forward either. There is something boyish in him: he doesn’t possess the graveness and self-importance of other guys his age. There’s a softness and poise in everything he does or says. He’s not loud or rough like Adam, or sneaky like Jax. He’s just right.
Right for what ? Shit, Chloe, get a grip.
And then I see him exit the building with his sports bag in his hand. He walks up the street to the coffee joint there. He’ll get black coffee for the ride downtown where he’s meeting with his buddies. After five minutes, he comes out of the café, brown paper cup in his right hand, the bag in his left, his shoulder pushing the door open. He’s tall and lean, and I can imagine his grace on the slopes. I don’t know much about snowboarding but I remember Harper saying he was really good. I believe him just looking at Chris walk. I remember how he danced last night … Sigh.
The second he sits in his truck, I cross the street and even before I close the apartment door behind me, I’m unrolling my yoga mat and I’m at it with more dedication than I’ve shown in months. I need to build my inner peace before he returns home and shatters my resolve.
Chapter Eight
CHRIS
On Mondays, Salvo’s bakery is closed so I don’t have any deliveries to make. Today, I sleep in just because, although that’s not my usual MO. When I wake up and drag myself to the coffee machine, I find Chloe’s note on the fridge. She’ll be at Izzy’s the whole morning.
I can’t believe I didn’t hear her get up or go out. I feel shitty that she probably
As if.
“But does he?”
“Ignore me? No.”
“I meant treat you nicely.”
“Oh, Mom,” I complain.
“Well, you’re avoiding talking about him, so I’m worried that he’s unkind to you.”
I put down my spoon slowly to have some time to form my thoughts. “He’s not unkind, Mom. He’s actually a very nice guy.” I feel a blush creep up my neck and I wish I could bolt out of the restaurant before anyone notices my discomfort.
“Uh-huh,” says Eric, and then less convincingly, “That’s good.” The way he looks at me, I’m afraid he sees right through me. He might know me better than my mother.
But she’s not very far behind, when she says, “You’re nice to him too, then?” It’s a neutral enough question, but her tone is far from it.
“We don’t see each other much,” I mumble, finishing my drink. “He works mornings, and I spend a lot of time at Izzy’s.”
Mo m smiles widely.
I’m angry at myself for being so transparent. Everyone seems to know what I’m thinking and how I feel. Everyone but me.
That’s what happens when you insist on ignoring the truth.
Didn’t I tell you to shut up?
****
I spend most of the afternoon walking the streets or resting in the park across from my place. Now, when I’m alone, I let myself think about Chris. I know myself well enough to know I won’t be able to avoid thinking about him for long. The things I don’t allow myself are always the most tempting, and the last thing I want is for Chris to become even more tempting than he already is. So I let myself think about last night, about his smiling green eyes and the drowsy entreaties to give him a chance. It all feels too real, too honest. That’s why I’ve decided not to give him a chance. But I let myself dream about it. If I let myself saturate this needy, gentler side of me with thoughts of him, I will eventually become fed up and I’ll get over him.
So I sit on a bench, eyes closed, catching the subdued late afternoon sunshine on my face. Every now and again I glance at the building entrance or the window of our apartment to see if he’s still there. He’s supposed to go out in the evening, but he’s still in. I saw him walk around the place a minute ago.
He seemed such a quiet, distanced guy in high school. He is different now that I’m living with him. He laughs a lot. He’s not reserved at all, but not too forward either. There is something boyish in him: he doesn’t possess the graveness and self-importance of other guys his age. There’s a softness and poise in everything he does or says. He’s not loud or rough like Adam, or sneaky like Jax. He’s just right.
Right for what ? Shit, Chloe, get a grip.
And then I see him exit the building with his sports bag in his hand. He walks up the street to the coffee joint there. He’ll get black coffee for the ride downtown where he’s meeting with his buddies. After five minutes, he comes out of the café, brown paper cup in his right hand, the bag in his left, his shoulder pushing the door open. He’s tall and lean, and I can imagine his grace on the slopes. I don’t know much about snowboarding but I remember Harper saying he was really good. I believe him just looking at Chris walk. I remember how he danced last night … Sigh.
The second he sits in his truck, I cross the street and even before I close the apartment door behind me, I’m unrolling my yoga mat and I’m at it with more dedication than I’ve shown in months. I need to build my inner peace before he returns home and shatters my resolve.
Chapter Eight
CHRIS
On Mondays, Salvo’s bakery is closed so I don’t have any deliveries to make. Today, I sleep in just because, although that’s not my usual MO. When I wake up and drag myself to the coffee machine, I find Chloe’s note on the fridge. She’ll be at Izzy’s the whole morning.
I can’t believe I didn’t hear her get up or go out. I feel shitty that she probably
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