Are You Mine

Chapter 13


Saige


A few days after he tells me he loves me, I wake feeling worried that with his admission there’s even more pressure on me to be a certain way. I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. It’s as though I’ve stepped into one of those romantic comedies. The ones that make it seem like a girl like me could actually get a guy like Fox. There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with me; I know that, but I’m not the typical girl who gets the guy.

He said he loves me. I was absolutely terrified. Still am, I think. Love is a choice, and what a huge choice it is for him to give his love to me. He’d probably say it’s not a choice. That you can’t control how you feel, but I know you can. I’ve controlled how I’ve felt all my life.

As I sleepily enter my living room, out of the corner of my eye, I catch something moving. My feet leave the floor as I jump and clutch my hands over my heart.

“What the hell, Myka?”

She’s had a key since I got the place, but she rarely uses it, especially at this time of day. I glance at the clock and realize it’s barely morning anymore. I’m such a lazy lump. Everyone else in the world is probably up and around by now, but I’m just rolling out of bed at a quarter till noon.

Squinting, I get a closer look at my friend. “Are you crying?

She scrubs her eyes with her balled up fists. The black eye make-up smears, giving my steampunk friend a more gothic Victorian look. It’s not half bad, but I doubt this is the time to tell her that. I cast a gaze toward my kitchen and wonder if whatever has her this upset could wait until I grab a cup of coffee, but think better of even chancing it. Myka’s crying, which means anger could explode from her at any moment. I’ve learned with her that when one emotion surfaces, a million others are close behind, lying in wait just beneath her skin, and one misplaced word will unleash the molten, fiery lava of all of them.

And I’m not strong enough for that volcanic eruption.

“What’s going on?” I ask after she fails to answer my first two questions.

“Val gave me these!” She lifts one leg, showing off a knee-high boot with laces up the front and buckles that look like gears up the side. The heels have to be four inches.

I don’t get why she’d be crying over boots she looks awesome in. “So?”

“So! They’re Stpunk Steampunk boots!”

“Okay. Don’t you like them?”

At the disgusted noise that comes from her, I realize I’ve missed something huge. I sit down in the chair and wait until she decides to tell me what’s wrong with them.

“I love them.”

“So the tears are for—”

“Because there will never be a better guy for me, Saige! And in a month or so, he’ll be in Maryland and I’ll be in the city!”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, you won’t be that far apart.”

Myka stills her whole body, and she just looks at me. It’s not a glare because there’s no hate in her eyes, but it’s definitely something intense, like she’s wondering how stupid I could be. “It’s almost four hours between schools.”

“Okay, but it’s not like he’s moving across—”

“Ugh!” she says as she flops down onto the sofa, but it’s not much of a flop. With Myka, everything’s graceful, so she sort of floats in a crumpled lady sort of way. “Why can’t he just go to NYU with us? I mean, he got in! What the hell is in Maryland anyway?”

“Isn’t his dad in Maryland?”

Myka turns her green eyes to me. Now she’s glaring. Obviously I’ve spoken too much truth. The best friend’s job is to let the other person complain and whine as much as they want without bringing realism or logic in at all. I’ve always failed at that.

When she’s finished trying to reduce me to a puddle of inadequacy, she leans her head back against the couch and scrubs her eyes again.

“You’re messing up your make-up,” I say as I stand and go into the kitchen. When I come out with coffee, I say, “He’s a good guy, and I admit you two are great, but you can’t be pissed because he’s going to the school he wants to—”

“You’re so lucky!”

I take a sip of my steaming coffee as I wonder what she means. “Lucky?”

“Yeah, I mean, Fox isn’t going to Maryland.” It’s like she’s realized something because now she sits up, wipes her eyes again, then focuses completely on me. “You guys are a couple now, right?”

“Um,” I say. It’s all I can get out before she pounces.

“I knew it!” She claps once and settles back down. “But he’s not going to school, right? So you’ll still be able to see him every day once school starts.”

I haven’t thought about it. I seem to be living day to day, or moment to moment with him. Apart from featuring in my Californian daydreams, he hasn’t made it into my thoughts about the future. “I’m not under any false notions that we’ll be together for longer than the summer.”

“God, you’re an idiot,” she says, exasperation clear in her tone.

“You can go away now,” I say, standing up again and pointing toward the hallway that leads to the front door.

“Get over yourself and sit back down.”

As much as I hate that I do, I follow her instructions.

“Fox is an awesome guy, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Totally and completely in love with you.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t hurt him.”

Before I can say anything to it, Myka gets up. “And I’d love some coffee, thanks for being a generous hostess and asking.”

Why am I so bad at this stuff? Maybe I should be thinking about the end of the summer and my plans and how they involve or don’t involve Fox. He says he loves me, and I feel strongly for him, too. Maybe I am an idiot because I can’t do this whole relationship thing right.

My stomach starts to ache, so I set my coffee on the table. What if I do move to California in the fall instead of attending NYU? I couldn’t expect Fox to follow me there. His family is here. But I have enough money to fly him back for visits, so he could come to California with me.

And if I stay here and go to school, then I can move him into the apartment I’m sure I’ll get in Manhattan. He’ll be close enough to his mom and dad that he’ll feel comfortable with living in the city. The only things that might mess it all up are his jobs, but there’s plenty of work in New York. The warehouse and restaurant he works in now aren’t special. He can do that anywhere. If he even wants to work. If he wants to go to art school, I could pay for that for him. I have more than enough money sitting around, generating even more money.

But what if he doesn’t want to move to California? What if he won’t even move to New York with me? He might say he loves me, but I don’t know that it’s enough, especially since I’m so defunct at giving him reciprocal things. I haven’t declared my love for him. I haven’t done anything other than almost break up with him.

A nervous panic starts eating away at me now. What if this is just a summer romance? What if he’s not really mine? What if I can’t keep him?

***

A week later, I stand on Fox’s porch, a little package in my hand. I’m not good at expressing things verbally, so I went out and bought something to help show that I care about him. He hasn’t pressed me to say I love you back to him, but I want him to know I have feelings for him. Deep, meaningful, scary, nerve-wracking feelings.

I knock and wait, but when the door opens, it’s not Fox who greets me. It’s his dad. “Hey, there Saige,” he says.

All of the sudden, I realize I don’t know what to call him. He’s my boyfriend’s father, but I don’t know his first name and who knows if calling him Mr. Harrington is what he wants. “Hi.”

“Come in.”

I do and close the door behind me before following him into the living room. “Fox is in the shower. He’ll be up in a minute.” Mr. Harrington points to a chair, so I sit. I fully expect him to start a conversation, but he’s engrossed in the television. A soccer game is on, and he’s watching every move with care.

“That’s bullshit,” he says out of the blue after five minutes. “How the hell is that off-sides?”

He looks over at me. I can’t stop the smile from forming as his face reddens. “Sorry about that, Saige. It’s been a while since there’s been a lady present.”

I don’t say anything, but keep the smile on my face as I turn back to the television. When he returns his focus back to the game, I study him. It must be a tough life. His wife’s in a mental hospital, and he’s alone. He has Fox, but that means he’s had to parent his son all by himself.

I wonder what their lives were like when Fox was in school. It was probably hard to work and help with homework, and I can only imagine with Fox’s learning disability that homework took a lot of time. I want to ask, but I know I won’t, so I watch as a team in red kicks the soccer ball back and forth with a team in blue.

“Hey! When did you get here?” Fox’s hair is still wet as he enters the room. He squishes down into my chair with me, forcing my body to shift until I’m almost sitting on top of him. I glance over to his dad, but he’s not paying attention. “I missed you,” Fox whispers into my ear before giving my temple a little kiss.

I can’t think of anything to say, so I nod toward the TV. “This must be your channel, right?”

He pushes his lips out as he knits his brows together. “I do watch it a lot.”

“No, because of the name. Get it? Fox Soccer?” I point to the logo at the bottom of the screen.

He smiles and gives me a humoring chuckle. “Leave the jokes to me, okay?”

“Because yours are so much better. Check this one out,” I say. I looked up a joke site last night in preparation. “What’s brown and sticky?”

“Ew.” He wrinkles up his nose. “What?”

“A stick.”

“Oh, God,” his dad says with a groan. “You’re perfect for each other.”

“Hear that, Saigeypoo? We’re perfect.” Fox starts digging his fingers into my sides, but I grab his fingers before he can do much tickling damage.

“I’m sure she doesn’t want to watch soccer, Fox. Why don’t you—”

It is an obvious dismissal, so Fox doesn’t wait to hear the rest. “Exactly what I was thinking. Why don’t I. . .” He lets the sentence hang, then to my surprise, stands up. He’s almost holding me, so I straighten my legs and plant my feet on the ground.

When I’m out of his arms, I straighten my shirt. “Bye,” I say to Mr. Harrington.

Once outside the room, I pull on Fox’s arm. “What’s your dad’s name?”

“Joshua.”

I file the information away so I can call him something comfortable next time. Then I remember the box in my hand. “Hey, so I got you something.”

“Me?”

I avert my eyes for a moment, heat flooding my face. “Yeah, you.”

“You got me something?”

“Yeah.”

He waits for a second, then holds my shoulders as he gives me a little shake. “Well, what is it? I love surprises.”

“I figured.” I hold out the box, and he wastes no time taking it.

“What is it?” he says. I’m captivated by his childlike voice, the excitement so clearly obvious on the surface of him. I wonder if that enthusiasm and anticipation takes over his whole body, and what it feels like. He’s so different from me; I can’t help but be a little frightened by it, but I also can’t help but want to experience it a little.

“You have to open it. It’s not wrapped, just flip open the box.”

“You’re so silly,” he says. Of course he knows how to open a box. It’s the thrill of the unknown that has captured him. He asked what it is out of delight, not because he really expected me to tell him.

I chew the inside of my cheek now. I’m staring at the box, waiting for his strong hands to open it, but instead, they come at me, the one holding the small box presses at my waist, the other cups my cheek. Fox leans in. Before his lips can touch mine, I take a breath. I can taste him in the air, so when he finally does kiss me, I’m already halfway intoxicated.

The kiss is soft and drawn out, but it’s not chaste. There’s something humming just beneath the surface of it. That something is full of passion and lust and unspeakable desire. It could go anywhere from here, but Fox doesn’t let it. He pulls back, flashes me the charming smile I now see when I close my eyes to go to sleep, then looks down at the box in his hand.

With one finger he flips it open. Even with a bowed head, I can see his jaw drop. It looks like he wants to say something, but I can’t hear anything. Finally, when I tilt my head, he’s staring right at me, like I’m the gift and he doesn’t have diamond earrings in his hands.

“Saige,” he says in a whispered breath. “These are. . .”

“Do you like them?”

“Hell, yes, I do! But they’re too much.”

I deny his words with a shake of my head. “No, they’re not. They’re not enough.” Maybe he doesn’t realize that I’m trying to express something to him, but again, I can’t find the words.

“These probably cost—”

“I know enough about gift giving to know you don’t ask the giver how much the gifts cost.”

There’s true remorse in his eyes as he says, “Sorry. It’s just. . .they. . .I mean, they’re probably worth more than it costs for an entire month of my mother’s hospital bills.”

I let out a breath and feel like an idiot for buying them now. When he puts it in that perspective, I should’ve just paid for his mom’s hospital stay. I’m chewing my cheek so much, it’s starting to sting.

He must see because he takes me in his arms again. “I love them, Saige, but I’ll never be able to give you anything like these. It’s not fair to you.”

I pull away, take his hand, and head down to his basement room. On the stairs, I say, “That’s not true, and besides, I have so much money it’s meaningless. You draw me pictures all the time. Those are worth more than money. I think I’m the one who comes out ahead.”

While I’m proud of myself for my response, I wish I could’ve mentioned the affection and love he gives me in abundance. I should’ve told him I loved him, too. But the time to do so has passed. He’s in his little bathroom, putting the earrings in his ears, a huge smile on his face, so I start looking at all the drawings and paintings that weren’t here the last time.

“Who’s this?” I ask loudly.

Out of the bathroom, he glances at the painting I’m standing in front of. The earrings look good on him. They’re not too flashy but demand a certain amount of attention. “That’s Luis Suárez.”

I study the image again. “So soccer player?”

“English footballer,” Fox corrects. “One of the best strikers in the world. He’s from Uruguay.”

“So you’re obviously in love with him.”

Fox laughs. “Not him, his ability. I wish I had his talent. Then I could be a footballer and buy you expensive things.”

As his finger comes up to touch the earring in his left ear, I worry that maybe they weren’t the right thing to buy for him. Will the earrings just be a reminder of how different we are?

“I’ve read about him,” I say.

“Oh, don’t read about him.”

His firm voice and the quickness of his response forces a short giggle from me. “Why not?”

“Because sometimes he’s in the press for the wrong things.”

“I thought you’d be happy I did an internet search on Liverpool.”

Fox wraps his arms around me. “I totally am. Just don’t form your opinions based on the articles you read. Watch him play, and you’ll know all you need to.”

“What about these guys? Footballers, too?” It’s obvious they are, but I wanted to work in the term footballer to show Fox that I pay attention to him.

“Yeah. Liverpool players. That’s Jonjo Shelvey, Martin Skrtel, Danny Agger, José Enrique, Glen Johnson, Martin Kelly, and Steven Gerrard. I’m going to get around to the rest of the team. I just need a little time.”

“These are really good.”

“Thanks.” He squeezes me and nudges the side of my head with his chin. Inside his arms, I turn, tilting my head, just as he brings his lips down. God, I wish this kiss lasted a lifetime. Only then would I be able to savor it as much as it deserves. It’s everything I didn’t know I needed a kiss to be. Soft, warm, enticing. It makes my stomach flutter and my world boil down into a two by two area—just enough for us to fit into.

It lasts so long and has the potential to shift into something less innocent, something a little heavier as he runs his hands up and down my back. I clutch at the sides of his shirt. I fear letting go because my hands might work on their own accord and travel to all the places on his body they haven’t felt yet.

My nerves get the best of me, and I pull away. I press my lips together as he takes my hand to lead me to his drawing table. Spread out before us are the next couple of panels for “Myka’s Metal Valentine.” All they need are words; my words to finish out the beauty he’s captured on what started out as a blank, white page.

***

The ride up to the hospital is nice, but subdued. As we pull into the gravel parking lot of the place, the nerves unleash inside me. Fox was right, trees and flowers surround the building, giving the land the feel of being a retreat, but once I scan the building, there is no mistaking it for anything other than a hospital focusing on mental health.

Fox puts his car in park and kills the engine. I focus my gaze on the windows of the massive building. Though the sun’s reflection seems to block almost everything else out, I can still see the tight metal fencing that covers the inside of the windows. For a moment, I try to push down my fear, but no matter how much I swallow it, it comes back up. My legs bounce uncontrollably, and a shiver runs through me.

“Ready?”

I turn back to Fox. He’s already halfway out of the car. When he catches my look, he settles back down. A group of three patients cross in front of us, about twenty feet away, led by a nurse. One of them looks normal, like he could just be some guy walking to the library, but the other two have something wild about them. A tall man with wild gray hair scratches incessantly all over his body. His twitching makes my skin crawl as if the imaginary bugs have jumped onto me. The last patient traipses along with stars in his eyes. There’s an absent expression on his face as he looks up to the sky and over to the trees, down at his feet on the path, then over at our car.

Oh, God, his eyes are on me. I gulp as if he’s stolen all the oxygen around me, but then I feel Fox’s fingers thread through mine. “Are you okay?”

“Is your mom. . .” I pause to give myself a moment to tame my shaking voice. “What’s wrong with your mom?” He gives my hand a squeeze, and I lock eyes with him. “I mean, specifically.”

“Schizophrenia.”

All I know about mental illness is what I’ve seen in movies or read in novels, which means I don’t know much at all.

The fear of the unknown grips me in a vise so tight I feel nauseous. “Is she. . .dangerous?” I feel like an ass asking him, but I have to.

“You don’t have to do this, Saigey. We can go back to Pechimu. It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t want to meet my mom. I know it’s uncomfortable.”

He’s getting it wrong. “I don’t care if it’s uncomfortable. I want to meet her. I just need to know what I’m getting into. I don’t want to be shocked.”

Fox takes a deep breath and releases it slowly as he turns his eyes up toward the building. “No matter what I tell you, you’ll be shocked.”

“But is she—”

“Yes. She can be violent, but she’s on medication to help control it. She hasn’t acted out in a long time.”

“What does that mean? Acted out?”

He doesn’t respond right away, so I squeeze his hand.

“My dad told me that when she was still at home, she’d throw knives at the door because she thought they were getting in.”

“Who’re they?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Whoever poses a threat to her; the people she dreams up in her head.”

“Like the nightmare picture?” I ask, thinking about the drawn image I’d seen weeks ago in his room.

“Yeah. She also freaks out about spies and double agents.”

I thought all that paranoia and conspiracy stuff was drummed up by Hollywood and writers, but he’s telling me his mother suffers from it. “But she’s okay now?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s all relative, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time she acted out, she tried to stab an orderly with a paintbrush.” He pauses. “Now she only gets crayons.”

It’s not usual for Fox to stay quiet for long, but we sit here for minutes without a word. His depressed mood is palpable, and I feel horrible because I know my toxicity has crept into him. I shouldn’t have asked all this stuff. I should’ve just visited his mother and let it happen instead of bringing up the past crap that probably takes his hopes away.

His voice halts the tense silence. “What do you get when you cross a dyslexic, an agnostic, and a schizophrenic?”

My body tightens as I cringe. I don’t want him to make a joke of his learning disability and his mother’s illness, but he does.

“A guy who is of two minds about whether there is a dog.”

It takes me a moment to work out all the parts, but when I do, I just frown at him.

“It’s a stupid joke,” he says. “Schizophrenics don’t have two minds or split personalities.”

“And dyslexics know the difference between god and dog.”

More silence then, he squeeze my hand twice before letting go. According to his expression, he’s back to being happy again. “Come on. I want you to meet my mom.”

My anxiousness doesn’t die down, but I don’t say anything else. I get the feeling he’s nervous, too. His normal cheeriness is subdued, but he’s not down like he was just a moment ago. Instead, there’s a soft confidence laced with a quiet trepidation as he holds my hand and leads me up the steps of the building.

Inside, it smells just like I thought it would. Antiseptic, dust, and soap. It’s not unpleasant, except for when I think about the smells those are masking. I don’t know what goes on in places like this, but with so many people and so many illnesses, it can’t be clean or tidy.

Fox checks us in at a security desk. We both have to show our driver’s license, and then we’re let through, but it’s not like we’re allowed to just go walking around. We have to wait in a room that’s set up to look like someone’s living room, only with way more chairs than someone would have in their home. There are magazines and toys. A television hangs on the wall and plays children’s shows. It sparks a question within me. How many kids have to come here to visit their parents?

It’s not like I didn’t get it before sitting in this waiting room, but now it strikes home how horrible it must be to have to come here just to see your mother.

I glance over at Fox just in time to see him run a light hand over his hair as if he’s perfecting it. He wants to look good for his mom. As I study him, he swallows, shifts in his seat, and darts his eyes around the room. Finally, he allows them to settle on me.

What would it be like to have to eat Christmas dinner with your mother in a place like this? How has that shaped the man before me? I reach over and take his hand, which he clasps as if I’m the only thing keeping him here. “Thanks for bringing me.”

Although he smiles, he says, “Don’t thank me yet.”

I can’t say anything in return because a nurse with short hair and callused, dried hands comes in. “Fox, it’s good to see you.”

“Hi, Etta. How is she?” he asks as he stands up.

As she leads us through corridors, Etta answers. “She’s good today. Said she might even want to take a walk with you.”

We stop outside of what looks like a recreational room. There’s only one person in there. A woman with dark, messy hair sits huddled up on the couch. Her arms are wrapped around her legs as she rocks just enough to be noticeable. That must be his mom.

“Do you think she. . .”

When Fox doesn’t finish, the nurse puts a hand on his forearm. “She knows you’re coming. She’ll remember you.”

“But will she know—”

“She called you her son just twenty minutes ago. Like I said, she’s having a good day.”

Fox turns to me. This is a completely new side to him. I’ve never seen the worry in his eyes. “Do you mind waiting out here for a minute? I just don’t want to freak her out if she’s having such a good day.”

The smile I give him is meant to be supportive, but I have no idea if that shines through. “Of course.”

It’s a relief not to go in with him. I stand to one side of a big viewing window into the room and watch as he tentatively walks near her. His arms are at his sides, the palms facing up.

What’s going through his mind right now? Is he worried she’s going to do something to embarrass him? Is he worried I won’t like his mom and judge him for her illness?

Probably not. Fox is better than that. Even if those would be my fears, I know they’re not his.

When his mother looks up at him, I move out of view from the window, afraid to let her see me just yet.