He pulled the cloth back and leaned close to me. He blew the skin there. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies that simple act gave me. He affected me and I had started to wake back up to it. I didn’t want that. Didn’t deserve that. Couldn’t think about that right then. My breaths came heavy and quick.
His index finger found a loop of my waistband. “You okay?” he whispered against the skin there.
Oh my God. “Yes,” I answered, letting out a shaky breath.
He stood upright and pulled out three small Band-Aids. Each time his warm skin grazed mine, I had to swallow. The butterflies grew more and more frenzied with every move he made, and I found myself silently begging him to finish before I fainted. He was sensory overload. I glanced at him over my shoulder, noticed how careful he worked, noticed his hands. He was everything overload.
When he was done, he stood and carefully slipped the towel from the inside of my waistband. He threw one end of the towel over his shoulder then held both ends; the veins in his forearms popped out. I stood as well and faced him. He was six inches from me and my heart raced harder. I looked up at him.
“There you go,” he whispered over the tinkling rain. It had slowed to a drizzle.
I swallowed once more. “Thank you.”
His hair was still wet, so he brought the towel up and absorbed some of the water from his neck.
He smiled something crooked at me and I had to look away from him.
“Why are you my friend?” I asked him again.
“I don’t know,” he answered, but it didn’t confuse me.
I didn’t understand it either. Salinger’s waters ran deep. Depths I could never reach. I’d never be able to hold my breath that long. He inhabited those depths. I could see him down there, peaceful, placid, quiescent, idle in the sand there. I trod above him, desperate to be near him. He would wave for me but my hands were too busy for him, too busy trying not to drown.
He was a perfect person. I’d have never believed that if you’d told me people like him existed, but he was. He was perfect. He was selfless. He helped me, was a friend to me. He let me do things but sort of shoved me up when I would start to falter. He didn’t do drugs. He went to school. He was smart. He read. He studied. He worked hard. A jack of all trades. A chess master. He was interesting. He had values. I’d never met anyone like him.
He was careful around me, though. He trod carefully. Never went too far. Always controlled himself.
I knew what that meant. Men were only careful around you if they weren’t interested. Men were consistent in that, I thought. At least that’s what I’d experienced, and that fact killed me a little inside.
“Why are you friends with me?” he asked me.
He’d volleyed it back, but there was something else there. His eyes begged me for something, but I didn’t know what.
“Because you are here for me.”
“That’s it?” he asked, staring at the tops of his boots.
“No,” I whispered, “because—”
I like you. I like you because you push me, because you pointed me in the direction I should be going and gave me a little push. I like you because you were intolerant of the things no one should tolerate, because you speak your sharp mind, because you constantly strive for improvement. I like you because you are gorgeous, more than gorgeous, actually, because your skin on my back felt like heaven, because you are exactly my type, because you smell incredible. I like you because you are kind and compassionate. I like you because you treat other people’s problems like they’re your own. Nobody does that anymore. Nobody helps others for no reason anymore. I like you. More than I should. More than I deserve.
I stared at him.
“Because?” he asked.
I swallowed. “Because you’re the best person.” I answered him, but only partially.
If I’d said how I’d really felt, he’d run for sure. I think he thought me a novelty. Me with my chess ability. Me with my out-of-this-world problems. Whatever he’d felt for me romantically before was, for sure, gone the night he’d seen me at the store. The thought of that night made my cheeks warm, my eyes sting. I shook the emotion clear.
Like sand through my hand, he’d slipped through, but that was okay with me. As long as I could have this version of him, I’d be happy.
Any version of Salinger was a good version. I had to learn to accept that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“TOMORROW’S OUR DAY OFF,” Salinger mentioned toward the end of one of our shifts the following week.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to sleep in.”
He smiled at me and my heart stopped a little. “What’s so funny?”
“You won’t be sleeping in,” he said, ripping up a box.
I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but my heart began to beat erratically. “What do you mean?”
“I have this friend,” he began. Oh, God, please don’t try to set me up with someone. You’re killing me, I thought. “He’s a little eccentric, but he’s the most brilliant player, beside yourself, that I’ve ever met. I think he could prep you for tournament.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
“What’s his name?” I asked him.
“Bernard Calvin.”
“Cool.”
He studied me, trying to gauge something. “Never heard that name?” he asked.
“Never,” I admitted, already feeling embarrassed. “Should I know him?”
Salinger laughed, chucking boxes of cereal onto shelves five at a time. “Maybe a little, Lily. He’s only the best living chess player in the world.”
“Oh, shit, really?” I was right to feel embarrassed.
He stopped and looked at me. “Just a lover of the game, I think. You just like to play.”
“Yes,” I confirmed, filling in boxes next to him.
“I like that,” he told the shelves. He looked down toward me. “I’m not that much fun for you to play, I suspect.” My cheeks tinged hot. Yes, you are. He misinterpreted the blush, though. “I knew it.”
“No!” I insisted.
“It’s okay,” he said, brushing it off with a wide smile. “I can’t tell you what an ego check you are for me sometimes. There I am, trying my absolute damnedest and you’re half-watching television then take three seconds to decide your move when I’m taking five minutes.”
“That’s not true!” I sobered my panic. “Seriously, I’ve never had so much fun as when I play with you, Salinger.”
His eyes widened briefly then he turned and grabbed another cardboard box full of cereals. I hid my face behind my hair, feeling a little vulnerable.
He cleared his throat.
“Me too, Little.”
“Little?”
“Yeah, it’s my nickname for you. Do you hate it?”
“No,” I told him.
“That’s what you are to me, you know. A little mystery. A little unpredictable. A little hard to read. A little storm. A little Lily who packs a great, big clash.”
My stomach clenched. “Are those good things?”
“A little.” He smiled.
My blood ran hot throughout my entire body and I avoided eye contact.
“Where is this Bernard Calvin?” I asked him, desperate to distract myself from him.
“He lives in New Orleans. He’s a little eccentric. There’s only a few people who know where he lives, and I’m one of those he trusts. Keep that info quiet, though?”
“Of course,” I promised.
He trusts me.
“He was unseated as world champion twenty years ago, but it was proved the opposing team cheated. He never came back after that.”
“Unreal.”
“What do you think? Wanna take a little road trip?” he asked me.
“Um, I don’t know.”
“Come on,” he encouraged, “it’s only three hours away. We’ll be back the same night. He and I have been talking tournaments you should enter to set up your rating.”
I was scared; I won’t lie. I’d never really left Bottle County, save for the museum trips as a kid for school. For all the talk my group rambled on about in our promises to one another, there was the comfort that none of us were actually serious. I thought on the buckets of rainwater on the floor at home, the floor itself, and the girls.
“Okay,” I said.
“Good,” he offered, another crooked smile on his glorious face.
After work, Salinger showed up at my house at four in the morning. I had a little bag packed, just in case, as did he.
“You ready?” he asked me, his voice deep from the early morning hour.