11
UNDECIM
Calla
I sort through the million different kinds of pasta sauce, picking one, before I find Dare in the shampoo aisle.
I’m halfway to him when my eye falls on Dove, the kind of shampoo my mother used. I can almost smell her hair as she hugged me, and my throat clams up and I pointedly look away, because that’s what I have to do when something reminds me. I have to ignore it and put it away for later. Because I simply can’t deal with it now.
“Are you ready?” I ask Dare. He nods, then eyes my heaping cart.
“Good thing we brought your car and not my bike,” he observes. I have to laugh, but I don’t want to explain how my father is sliding, how we’re out of every imaginable thing in my house. So I don’t.
Instead, we check out and load our stuff into the trunk and get on our way.
But once we’re on the road, Dare turns to me.
“I could use a drink. Could you?”
I’m giddy that he thinks I’m old enough, but I shake my head. “I’m not twenty-one,” I tell him sheepishly, but honestly, why am I embarrassed? My age is not my fault.
Dare grins, unaffected. “I meant a soda, young one.”
“Oh. Well, I know a coffee house. And they have sodas.”
“Let it be so, then,” he announces theatrically, like he’s at the helm of the Starship Enterprise.
“You’re not a Trekkie, are you?” I ask, scared that I might finally be finding a fault in this seemingly perfect guy as I turn the car down a narrow city street. He glances sidelong at me.
“What’s that?”
“You’re from England, not Mars, right?” I demand. “A trekkie. Someone who watches marathons of star trek and goes to star trek conventions dressed as an Ewok. You’re not that. Hopefully.”
“I take offense to that,” he says seriously. “First, an Ewok is from Star Wars, not Star Trek. Any good trekkie would know that.”
He pauses and I’m appalled because oh-my-gosh there’s no way.
“And also that you’d think so little of me. I’m not a trekkie. I’m a die-hard Whovian. I don’t think I can be both.”
Dr. Who, England, of course. I smile limply and pull into a parking spot.
“I just admitted a guilty pleasure,” he tells me, with his hand on the handle. “It’s your turn. What’s one of yours?”
Honestly, I haven’t thought about any pleasures in six weeks.
“Um.” Daydreaming about you. “I like the Arctic Monkeys.”
He barks out a laugh as I name the British band, and gets out of the car, coming around to open my door while I’m still fiddling with my seat belt. I look up at him, mesmerized by his manners.
“I’ll try and look past that,” he says solemnly as I brush past him, inhaling his cologne on my way.
He opens the coffee house door for me, too, and we wait in the trendy line for our turn. He looks at me.
“And this is what I’m afraid the hospital café will turn into,” he says quietly, like he’s sharing a secret. I nod, completely serious.
“Yeah. I can see that there’s a need to worry.”
I picture the sterile hospital environment, shrouded with the screams from the Psych Ward and giggle. “Tons of need to worry.”
Dare raises his eyebrows. “I’m glad we agree.”
We get our sodas, but instead of heading to the car, Dare heads for a table. “Do you mind if we sit for a minute? I’m sure our food will be fine for a few minutes in the car.”
“Ok.”
I sit across from him and play with my straw, and we stare at each other. After a minute, he smiles and I decide that his smile might be my new favorite thing.
And then I promptly feel guilty for having a favorite anything.
My mother is dead and I killed her. I’m not allowed to enjoy things anymore.
I stare at him as flatly as I can, ignoring the way little fingers lap at my stomach, urging it to flip over and over as Dare looks at me, as his silver ring glints in the sunlight.
What is it about that one motion, that one tiny thing, that always sticks in my head? It’s so stupid. Such a silly thing to focus on.
“As me a question,” Dare finally says, breaking the silence. “I know you want to.”
“I don’t,” I answer evenly.
“You lie.”
I sigh. “Maybe.”
He grins wickedly enough to send a nervous thrill through me. “So ask me.”
“Um, let’s see. How long are you staying here?” I ask conversationally, like I’m not dying to know the answer.
He shrugs. “I’m not sure yet.”
I stare at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“It has to be, because that’s the truth.”
“But sometimes the truth is deceptive,” I fling back at him, and this sobers him right up.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, somewhat defensively. Hmm. Interesting reaction.
“I just meant that sometimes, the truth is so crazy that it doesn’t seem true. Like you saying you don’t know how long you’ll be here. You have to know how long you’ll be here.”
He stares at me, amused now. “But I don’t.”
“You’re frustrating,” I tell him. He grins. “Guesstimate, then.”
“Fine,” he says, sounding satisfied. “If you’re worried about me leaving, I’ll guesstimate. I guess… I’ll be here as long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?” I ask.
He shrugs.
I want to throat punch him.
“You’re seriously frustrating,” I answer. He laughs.
“I’ve heard that before,” he admits.
“I bet,” I grumble.
He’s laughing and the sound of it vibrates my ribs, filling my belly with warmth. It’s a warmth that I don’t deserve to feel. I try to shove it down, try to shove it away, but the guilt keeps coming back, present in everything I do.
No matter what.
I shouldn’t be sitting here enjoying myself, that’s for sure.
I shouldn’t be fantasizing about this sexy man, dreaming about him, wishing I could be with him. I don’t deserve it. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, and when I open them, I notice something on Dare’s boot, mixed with the grass from the mountainside.
Blood.
“Um. What’s that?” I ask stiltedly, because I already know.
He follows my pointing finger, then meets my gaze.
“It’s blood. I didn’t realize it was there.”
“What’s it from?” My words are calm, much calmer than my racing heart.
“From a raccoon,” Dare sighs.
My eyes meet his. “I hit it, didn’t I?”
He nods slowly.
“I killed it?”
He nods again. “It’s dead.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” My voice is shaky now, and I fight to control it.
His dark gaze doesn’t waver. “Because there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s dead, and I’m sure it was instantaneous. It didn’t suffer and I didn’t want you to feel bad about it. I’m sorry. I should’ve just told you.”
Oh my God. I’m a menace to society. I know it was just a raccoon, but it had a life, and then it came into contact with me, and now it’s dead.
“We should go,” I say quietly, pushing away from the table and heading for the door without waiting for him to respond. He does follow me, though, and when we reach the car, he turns to look at me in confusion.
“Did I do something?”
“Of course not,” I tell him tiredly. “Nothing at all. I should just be getting back. I’m sure my brother is wondering where I am.”
I haven’t left him alone this long in forever.
I drive this time, because I’ve got to be normal. I’ve got to put what happened this morning out of my head. You fall off a horse, you get back on. Your mom dies in a crash, you have to drive again.
When we’re sitting in front of the funeral home, I kill the ignition, and Dare hops out, grabbing eight bags of groceries while I carry four.
“You don’t have to cart these in,” I tell him as we tumble in through the back door. He doesn’t reply, he just heads straight to the kitchen, as though it’s his house, as though he’s been there before.
Curiously, I follow him, watching him begin to unload the items, putting the milk in the fridge and going straight to where the sugar belongs, sliding it into place.
“How do you know where everything goes?” I ask stupidly, watching him put the bread away. “You don’t seem the type to know your way around any kitchen, much less mine.” He pauses, lifting his eyebrow.
“It says Bread Box,” he points.
I flush.
“And the rest is common sense,” he adds, opening the cabinet above the stove and putting away the salt.
Still. He moves around with such familiarity.
I’m… imagining things, I decide. Of course I am.
When everything is done, Dare leans back against the counter. “Today was fun,” he tells me, his eyes gleaming, his body stretched out.
I nod. “Thank you for taking me to town.”
He smiles.
“Anytime.”
He starts for the door, then pauses and turns. “I mean that,” he adds. “I’d like to do that again. Go have a soda with you, I mean.”
He’s so beautiful as he stands bathed in the sunlight in my doorway. I gulp hard, trying to swallow the guilty lump in my throat. With everything that I am, or ever will be, I want to say yes.
But I can’t.
“I…uh….” I don’t deserve to. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to. My brother needs me.”
I turn around, because my eyes are watery and hot, and I’m ridiculous and I don’t want Dare to see me cry again.
Dare’s voice comes from right behind me, six inches away.
“Calla, look at me.”
I stare pointedly at the walnut cabinets, trying not to let the hot tears spill, because as much as I’m trying to hold them in, the tears keep welling up.
One escapes, slipping down my cheek.
Dare pulls me around, then drops his hand, staring me in the eye. He’s so intent, so serious. He wipes my tear away with a thumb.
“You deserve to have a life, too,” he tells me, his voice even. “You can take care of Finn and still take care of you.”
I don’t deserve it.
“You don’t understand,” I start to say, then decide I’d sound crazy if I tried to explain.
“You can’t say that, because you don’t know me,” I say instead, my voice harsh and stilted.
Dare runs a hand through his hair and his eyes glint like obsidian. “I guess not.”
And then he abruptly turns and walks out, his shoulders wide as he strides across my lawn, away from me.
Something bothers me as I wipe off the counters, and it isn’t until I flip off the lights and walk into the Great Room that I realize what it is.
He acts like I disappointed him.
I don’t know why.