CHAPTER ELEVEN
Judging the Distance
I adjust the pillow behind my back and look at Eric, who is sitting on the extra bed in my room. “How long have we been at this studying nonsense?”
He yawns and rubs his head, smoothing down the buzz cut that is just starting to grow out. His head is fuzzy and soft, which I know because I’ve developed a fondness for rubbing it as though it’s some sort of genie lamp. Every time that I do this, he yells out, “Three wishes!” I always respond with something like, “Triple D breast implants, a basket of mini alpacas, and a spray can of whipped cream!”
This exchange is less traumatizing for both of us than what I should answer: I wish for parents who are alive, for a brother who doesn’t hate me, and for Chris to rip off my clothes and ravish me on a regular basis.
So, yeah. I go for the amusing wishes instead.
“So,” Eric says, grimacing. “Do you think we’re ready for this test? I hate essay exams.”
“Multiple choice would be worse. I never can pick just one answer. I always want to write in the margin, ‘I pick B, but depending on the approach you use to think about the character, D can be correct, too. ‘ You know?”
“Exactly!”
I smile at him. We have become regular study partners for the class we share, and every Saturday for the past month we have met up in my room or the student union in an attempt to stay on top of its demanding assignments. He is warm and easy to hang out with, and fortunately does not look so much like Chris that I can’t bear to be around him. But anytime that I see his last name written on anything, my stomach knots up.
The truth is, I have no idea where I stand with Christopher Shepherd. The last time I was alone with him was the night he bolted from my room.
I guess it isn’t that surprising. After our first encounter in his room, which was just kissing and minor groping, Chris made himself pretty scarce. Once he’d finger f*cked-me up against the door of my room, he became almost invisible.
Christ, if I’d f*cked him, he probably would’ve just vaporized.
Although it seems like he has.
The only guy I do see all the time, besides Eric, is Sabin. He is constantly texting me to check in and hounding me to go to parties with him, despite the fact that I almost always turn him down. Instead, we meet for coffee at least twice a week, and I listen as he rambles on about girls (lots and lots of girls), and acting, and spouts general silliness. I adore him.
I’m also seeing lots of Estelle. She recently coaxed me into a pedicure so extreme that I was scared my soles might bleed when I went running. She’d also dragged me to a salon to have my unmanageable hair cut and highlighted. Although I initially resisted her attack makeover, I admit that I feel better about how I look now. My hair now has bright blond streaks running through it, and the curls fall more softly thanks to the good cut. I am starting to look like my former self.
I stare at Eric.
“Why are you smiling at me?” he asks, smiling back at me.
I shrug and then look off to the side. It is stupid.
“What is it?” he prods softly.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
But my inner voice is loud. You have friends. You have friends again.
The door to my room flies open, slamming into the doorstop. Estelle steps inside, her knee-high boots tracking snow and water onto the tattered wood floor. “What a stupid f*cking bitch! My roommate can just go to hell and f*ck the devil for all I care.” She storms across the room and sits down in the desk chair. Her hair is damp and glistening, and despite her diatribe, she looks angelic.
“I see it’s snowing out,” Eric says calmly.
“Yes. It is.” Estelle crosses her legs and removes the cashmere scarf from around her neck. She is fuming.
“Damn it,” I say. “I wanted to run later. I hadn’t even noticed the snow.” I lean forward and glare out the window at the wet snow that is falling. The streets have just been fully cleared from the last snowfall yesterday, and now this. The indoor track is fine, and it’s probably safer when I run during the dark early morning hours, but I much prefer running outdoors. The track is smooth and predictable, but I do not like running in circles. Plus, there are other people there. I prefer solitary running, and when I’m at the college gym, there are other students around to see my slow, ungainly style. My new, expensive sneakers, however, will probably last longer without being subjected to the wet, snowy streets.
“How far do you run these days, anyway?” Estelle asks.
“Oh.” I think for a minute. Two playlists isn’t really a definitive answer. “I don’t know, actually. Probably a few miles. Maybe more.”
Estelle tosses up her hands. “I wish my roommate were a runner. Maybe then she’d be too busy to bitch endlessly about my laundry pile. She’s an obsessive-compulsive neat freak.”
“You are a slob,” Eric says.
“Shut up. And she wants to turn on the lights and roll up the shades at ungodly early hours, and she gets bullshit that I might want to sleep past six f*cking o’clock in the morning. She barrels around the room intentionally making loud noises until it’s impossible for me to sleep even with pillows on my head. I hate her. Why did I get stuck with such a stupid loser?”
“You didn’t choose to live with her?” I ask.
“Hell no. I know, I know, you’re wondering why I didn’t put in for a particular roommate like everyone else. Girls don’t like me. Which is fine. I don’t like other girls much either. Except for you. You, I like.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re not a moronic bitch.”
“I don’t think you’re a moronic bitch either.”
“Good. So the final straw was this morning. Is it unreasonable not to want to wake up to Michael f*cking Bublé? It is not! So while she waltzed around the room humming to herself, I did some humming to myself, too.”
Eric slams his book shut. “Estelle, you did not!”
“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
Estelle examines her perfectly manicured red nails. “I whipped out my biggest vibrator and turned it up to high.”
“Oh my God.” I am not sure what else to say.
“She was not happy, let me assure you. And frankly, I wasn’t all that thrilled with the results, either. Have you ever tried to masturbate while singing ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ at the top of your lungs? It’s not easy. Plus, I’m not in the stockings-and-tinsel mood yet. It’s only November, and I refuse to deal with Christmas until after Thanksgiving.”
“Of course she was pissed off.” Eric is blushing, and his sigh echoes throughout the room. “You’re not supposed to—”
“Blythe? What do you think?” Estelle crosses her arms.
“I think that I don’t want to listen to Michael Bublé’s music, but that thinking about him while I masturbate is something to consider. He’s not bad looking. That said, I might choose a different method to retaliate against a roommate. One that doesn’t, you know, involve a high-speed vibrator.”
Estelle taps her foot for a minute and then smirks. “So no anal beads either?”
Oh God. “Probably not,” I advise.
Eric has turned nearly purple.
“What am I gonna do?” Estelle clomps from the desk chair over to my futon and throws herself down, resting her head on my legs. “I hate that abominable wench.”
“Move in with me,” I blurt out.
She rolls over to look up at me. “What?”
“You could move in with me. I have this double to myself. There’s no reason that you should be so unhappy.” What am I doing? Why can’t I stop talking?
“Really? Really?”
“That’s awesome of you,” Eric says.
“Yes! Yes! I accept your freaking amazing offer! Let’s do it now! Let’s move me!”
“Now? Like, right now?”
“No time like the present to make positive changes, right? Right?” Estelle is already on her phone. “You’re rockin’ my world right now, B.”
***
It doesn’t take long for Estelle to orchestrate things. It seems like only an hour passes before we’ve loaded most of her things into a pickup truck. The plan is for Eric and me to head back to my dorm room while she stays behind to clean up. The pickup’s wheels skid dangerously as we come to a stop sign.
“Of all the days to move, Estelle has to choose this sloppy one. She couldn’t have waited a few days for this weather to clear up?” Eric’s cheeks are slightly rosy from the chill, and he turns up the heat.
“Estelle wouldn’t be moving for another six months then,” I point out. “You know how it is here. Matthews College is a bag of frozen peas in the giant Wisconsin freezer.”
“True.” Eric checks for traffic and then crosses the intersection. “Thanks for helping us move her stuff out of her dorm room. You didn’t have to. You’re doing plenty already by letting her move in.”
“No problem. It’s a good thing you have this truck, considering that she lives on the far end of campus. Lugging this shit by hand would’ve sucked.”
“Actually, this is Chris’s truck. It may be old as dirt, but it runs great. The rest of us have newer cars, but he said that he wanted to go with something used. Something that has stood the test of time, which he thinks bodes well for the future or something.” Eric pats the dashboard. “At least Sabin put in a killer sound system.”
“Wait, so all of you have cars?”
“I know. It seems a little excessive, huh?” Eric turns on the wipers. “Chris insisted.”
“Chris insisted? Wouldn’t that be up to your dad?”
“Theoretically. I guess we think of Chris as the head of the household.” We turn a corner and hear a box in the back slide across the truck bed.
“Your father must love that.”
“Chris is just much better at handling things. He researched safety and performance and then informed us what we were getting.” Eric points ahead. “Hey, is this part of your regular running route? I saw you here one morning.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Show me your route and we’ll map it out. See how far you’re going.”
“Why? So I can tell everyone that I run a whopping one and a half miles? Besides, everyone is waiting for us so they can help unload Estelle’s stuff.”
“They can wait a few more minutes. C’mon. You should know. And now I want to know.”
“Okay, well, I usually come out of campus there.” I motion to the now snow-topped iron gate by one of the dorms. “And then I go all the way down Stanton Street toward the river and head left.”
I watch as Eric resets the odometer to zero. ”Here we go!”
“So Chris is an interesting guy, huh? What with making car assignments and whatnot.” I brace my elbow against the window frame and lean my head into my hand.
Eric glances my way briefly, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Smooth. Is there something going on between you two?”
I clear my throat. “No.”
“Oh,” he says, shifting gears. “We all thought maybe—”
“Nope,” I say, cutting him off. I think about seeing Chris half naked, and the way he pinned me up against the door and made me come in what was by far the most erotic moment of my life. “No, we’re just friends. Friendly. He’s … I don’t know… . He’s helped me feel better. But that’s it.”
“We were hoping it was something more.”
I blink a few times and watch the snow. “Maybe I was, too.”
“Sorry,” Eric says. “So much for Chris settling down.”
“He gets around a lot?”
Eric laughs. “Not like Sabin, but he has a past. He’s not one for long-term girlfriends, although I keep hoping. If he’d just slow down a bit… . But Chris is always racing to get to the next thing. The next class, the next project, the next step after graduation, all that sort of stuff.”
“Ha! I’m stuck in the past; he’s stuck in the future. End of story. What about you?”
“Maybe I’m a here-and-now kind of guy; I have no idea.”
“Well, you seem to like Zach a lot. He’s the here and now. Plus, he’s wicked cute.”
“He is wicked cute, isn’t he?” Eric pauses. “Wicked. Are you from Boston?”
“Not right in Boston, but about a half hour out.” I wiggle into the seat. The truck may have a few miles on it, but it’s comfortable as hell. “You moved around a lot, right?”
“We’re products of about seven different states, I think. I’ve lost count, but we lived all over New England, and spent some time in the Midwest. We may even have been near Boston when I was a baby. Not sure. Spent a summer in Texas when I was little. I remember parts of that.”
“So where do you feel like you’re from?”
“Nowhere. We’re from nowhere.”
“You can’t be from nowhere. Where did you live before you came to college? Where does your dad live now? Oh, turn left here.”
“Truthfully, Blythe.” Eric turns by the river. “Our father is not a good guy. We don’t see him, and we don’t talk about him. Wherever he lives is certainly not our home. It’s easier like this.”
I stare at Eric as he drives, realizing that Sabin told me something similar—although with Sabin, I’d assumed he was being dramatic. I reach out my hand and touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He nods. “Me, too. But I’ve got Estelle, Sabin, and Chris. And I have Zach, who I’m crazy about and who tolerates my insane family.”
“Make a right onto Hoover Ave., and then bear left and head back to campus up Webber Road. We’ll have to double-park outside Reber Hall.”
We ride without talking for a bit. The drive is peaceful, the hum of the motor and the bounce of the truck comforting. Finally Eric speaks. “We don’t even go home for Thanksgiving. We never go home.”
I draw a terrible cartoon of a turkey on the wet window. “Neither am I this year.”
“Good,” Eric says. “Then we get you for the holiday. There’s nothing better than a dorm Thanksgiving. We’ll have a good time.”
“Okay,” I agree. “That’s very nice of you.”
I continue to direct Eric where to drive until we come to a stop outside my dorm. I almost wish that he would keep driving. Anywhere.
Eric looks toward the steering wheel. “So how far do you think you run?”
“No clue. I mean, I’m slow as shit, but I just run like an idiot until I can’t anymore. And I always end up walking part of it, too much of it, even though I hate myself for it. Oh God, is it shorter than I thought? I’m terrible at judging distance.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Tell me, tell me. I can take it.”
“Five point three miles.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He laughs. “Five. Point. Three. Miles. That’s pretty damn good.”
“Oh my God, seriously?” I am shocked. And giddy. I had no idea. “It’s not like it’s a marathon, but still… . That’s not bad, huh?”
“It’s not bad at all. You should be proud. I don’t think I could run a quarter of a mile. Good for you!” Eric opens the door. “Stay with the truck, would you, in case anyone needs to move theirs or something? I’ll start unloading.”
I bite my lip. Holy shit. Two months of running and I can run over five miles? It is true that I feel stronger, firmer. That I crave the workout. Six days a week sometimes doesn’t feel like enough, and the day that I don’t run leaves me restless. When I run as far as I can and push myself as hard as possible, my entire body feels it. The ache in my legs, the nausea, the pounding from my heart, and the prickly heat that covers my skin are all addictive. Yes, it is pain, but it is pain with a purpose. Maybe the purpose is to escape, but that escape is letting me heal. I can feel it happening.
A thump on the side of the truck startles me out of my thoughts. I roll down my window. “Hi, Sabin.”
“What’s happenin’, the cakest of all my baby cakes?” Sabin’s messy hair blows in the light wind. His leather biker jacket is unzipped, and he has on only a thin white V-necked T-shirt under it. A pair of faded red cargo shorts show off legs that are stuck sockless into unlaced hiking boots.
“Aren’t you freezing? It’s snowing, you nut!” I lean out the window and wrap my scarf around his neck.
“Awww! You care! But I’m all good, sweets. This is not cold, kid. Negative fifty with the windchill is cold. Today is refreshing. You on truck duty?”
“Yup. You didn’t see Eric? He already started taking stuff inside.”
“Okay. Stand guard for any suspicious-looking fellows passing by. Oh! Like this guy! Blythe, help me!” Sabin runs off, zigzagging wildly up and down the road as Chris approaches, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
Chris tucks his hands into his jeans and peers into the window. “Hi.”
“Hi, back.” We haven’t spoken in weeks, and I feel like an a*shole just sitting in his car like this.
“Sorry about Sabin. As usual.” Before he can say anything else, Sabin tackles him in a bear hug.
“Oh, thank God, it’s just my dear brother. I thought you were an obsessed fan. Or a zombie.” Sabin kisses Chris on the cheek, noisily and sloppily, and then grabs something of Estelle’s from the truck bed. “So, Blythe? Where, pray tell, would you like this?”
I crane my head out the window. “What the f*ck is that?”
“It’s a two-foot-by-three-foot oil painting of Jesus.” Sabin holds the atrocity out to his side as if it were a top prize on a game show. “A stunning portrait, done in shades of neon, and complete with an ornate gold frame. Fancy, yes?”
“That is some ugly crazy shit.” Chris closes his eyes.
“Oh f*ck,” I say. “Seriously? Is this for real?”
“Estelle makes interesting artistic choices. Regretting your decision yet?”
“No, no, of course not.” I slump into my seat. “I’m sure this will look striking above the bed.”
“I better get this priceless objet d’art out of the snow. Back in a sec.” Sabin swooshes from the street to the sidewalk on his boots like he’s skiing, and uses the backside of the painting as an umbrella.
I am alone with Chris, and it’s hard not to stare at him now that I’m given the opportunity. There is a strong family resemblance between Chris and Sabin, but Sabin is bigger and burlier, and generally more disheveled. Sabin reminds me of a big, messy kid, while Chris has a lean, groomed, and definitely grown-up allure. Chris is put together in a way Sabin isn’t. Even when Chris’s hair falls into his eyes, as it is doing now, it is perfect. And I know what is under his layers of clothing, how the muscles in his arms and chest are insanely cut and defined. I know how he breathes when he cups my ass in his hand … .
More than those things, I know how he sounds when he talks me down from pain.
I know too much not to be affected by his presence.
The windshield is nearly covered with snow. I squint my eyes. All the giant flakes cling to one another, and none are able to survive alone.
“Hey, Blythe, listen.” Chris leans into the cab of his truck and grabs my hand, but I refuse to look right at him. “About earlier … About that night?”
“What? What about it?” I focus on the snowy glass in front of me again. Those damn green eyes of his are too compelling, and I’m afraid they’ll make me all weak and pathetic. I have a right to show him how severely irritated I am. How confused I am.
“I’m sorry. That probably shouldn’t have happened. And I didn’t mean to just … to leave the way that I did. It wasn’t you. And I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t me?” I snap. “That’s got to be the goddamn dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re way too smart to say something like that. Don’t be such an a*shole.”
“Okay, yes. It was you.”
“Awesome. That’s great to hear.”
“No, I don’t mean like that. It was just too … I don’t know.”
I finally turn to see his face as he grasps for the right words. Chris looks lost, and I have a hard time not empathizing with that. More than lost, though, he looks scared. Something else that I understand.
Finally he continues. “It was too intense.”
Oh. He had felt that, too.
“It’s just that … I went too far with you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m not really boyfriend material.”
I glare at him. “That’s rather presumptuous of you. Who says I want a boyfriend? Or that I want you to be my boyfriend?”
This, I am somewhat surprised to discover, is true. While, yes, I have spent more than enough time fantasizing about Chris, and I can’t deny the fierce connection that I feel, I haven’t really considered the idea of having an actual relationship with him. I’ve imagined lots of nakedness and lust, yes, but commitment? No. Life is just starting to overwhelmingly and wonderfully creep back into my screwed-up soul, which means I am hardly equipped at the moment to sort out boyfriend stuff. It’s a relief to recognize this.
“Did you ever consider that maybe I’m not girlfriend material?”
Chris strokes his finger over the top of my hand. “Yes, you are. You’re outstanding girlfriend material. I’m the one who’s all kinds of f*cked up. Trust me. You and I are better off as—”
“Don’t you dare say the F word, or I swear to God I’ll pass out.”
He says nothing. His eyes are gentle, sorrowful even, and I feel terrible.
“It’s fine,” I continue. “Things got a little out of hand. We’re back to normal now. Restaurant buddies, dorm mates.” I stare at the windshield again and try to appear fascinated by the snow, but I can feel him watching me. “Stop looking at me. It’s annoying.”
“I can’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Chris takes an eternity to respond. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“What the f*ck are you talking about, Chris? I’ve hardly seen you at all.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to stay away from you. I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know that I can get into a relationship with you, either—”
“Chris.” I stop him, unsure what I want to say. My hand is still in his. This—touching him, being with him—feels impossibly comfortable and right. I put my other hand on top of his and squeeze. Is his a perfect hand? To some, maybe not. Aside from looking a little rough and chapped from the winter cold, the shape of his hand makes me wonder if he broke it as a child and it wasn’t reset well. But I love this hand. Chris may be imperfect, and he makes mistakes, but I can feel his heart, and I know that he is mine. In what capacity, I don’t know, because what I feel for him is complex. It’s so easy to be with him and yet also too much. I think I’m starting to understand a little why he ran from me that night.
Still, I want to be with him, in whatever way either of us can tolerate. I don’t want to give him up.
“Don’t stay away,” I finally say calmly. “Don’t. We don’t have to be boyfriend and girlfriend. We don’t have to be defined. We don’t have to let anything happen on beds or up against doors. We can just be us. We can just be this,” I say as I squeeze his hand again.
Chris leans in through the window and holds his cheek to mine as he wraps an arm around my neck and holds me. There are a million things that I want to say to him, and an equal number of things I don’t, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he feels the same.