Without Merit

“You call that romantic? I call it narcissistic and ethnocentric.”

He smiles. “Depends on the perspective you look at it from, I guess.”

He resumes sketching like he’s done with the conversation. But I’m stuck on that word. Perspective. It makes me wonder if I look at things from only one point of view. I tend to think a lot of people are wrong a lot of the time.

“Do you think I only see things from one perspective?”

He doesn’t look up at me when he says, “I think you know less about people than you think you do.”

I can feel myself instantly wanting to disagree with him. But I don’t, because my head hurts and I might be a little hungover from last night. I also don’t want to argue with him because he’s the only one still speaking to me at this point. I don’t want to ruin that. Not to mention that he seems wise beyond his years and I’m not about to compete with him intellectually. Even though I have no idea how old he actually is.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he says.

“Have you always lived in Texas?”

“I’ve spent the past few years with my grandmother, here in Texas. She died a year and a half ago.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say anything in response. “Where are your parents now?”

Sagan leans back in his chair and looks at me. He taps his pencil against his notebook and then drops it on the table. “Come on,” he says, scooting his chair back. “I need out of this house.”

He looks at me expectantly, so I stand up and follow him to the front door. I don’t know where we’re going, but I have a feeling it’s not this house he wants to get away from. It’s the questions.



An hour later, we’re standing in the antiques store, staring at the trophy I couldn’t afford to buy a few weeks ago.

“No, Sagan.”

“Yes.” He pulls the trophy from the shelf and I try to take it out of his hands.

“You aren’t paying eighty-five dollars for this just because you feel sorry for me!” I stalk after him like a tantrum-ridden toddler.

“I’m not buying it because I feel sorry for you.” He sets the trophy on the register and pulls out his wallet. I try to grab the trophy but he moves so that he’s standing in my way.

I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want it if you buy it. I only want it when I can afford to buy it myself.”

He grins like I’m amusing him. “Well then, you can pay me back someday.”

“It’s not the same.”

He hands the guy behind the register a hundred-dollar bill. “You need a sack?” the guy says.

Sagan says, “No, thanks,” and picks up the trophy and heads to the exit. Once we’re outside he turns around and hides the trophy behind his back like I didn’t just watch him buy it for me. “I have a surprise for you.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

He laughs and hands me the trophy. I take it and then mutter, “Thank you.” I really am excited to have it, but I hate that he paid this much money for it. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m not used to getting gifts.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He throws his arm over my shoulders and says, “You hungry?”

I shrug. “I don’t really feel like eating. But I’ll sit with you if you’re hungry.”

He pulls me into a sandwich shop a few doors down from the antiques store. We walk to the register and he says, “I’ll take the lunch special. And two sugar cookies, please.” He looks at me. “What do you want to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Two waters,” he says to the woman behind the register. He asks for them to go and then we take them across the street and sit at one of the tables next to the water fountain where we first kissed. It makes me wonder if he brought me here on purpose. I doubt he did.

The same question has crossed my mind many times, though. If he doesn’t see Honor as more than a friend, why did he kiss me at this fountain when he thought I was Honor? Because he definitely thought I was Honor. Not even the best actor in the world could have faked the confusion and shock when she called him on his cell phone.

I don’t ask him about it, though. Our conversation hasn’t veered in that direction and I’m not sure I can handle his answer right now. I’m too exhausted from the last twenty-four hours to add more heaviness to our conversation.

“Have you ever had one of their sugar cookies?” Sagan asks.

“Nope.” I take a sip of my water.

“It’ll change your life.” He hands me the cookie and I take a bite. And then another. It really is the best cookie I’ve ever eaten, but he exaggerated.

“When is the life change supposed to happen, exactly? Do I have to eat the whole cookie to get the results?”

Sagan narrows his eyes at me. “Smartass,” he says playfully.

I finish the cookie and watch as he takes a bite of his sandwich. My eyes are drawn to a new tattoo on his arm. It looks like GPS coordinates. I point to it. “Is that one new?”

He looks at his arm and nods. “Yeah, I did it last week.”

“What do you mean you did it?”

“I do my own tattoos.”

I tilt my head and inspect a couple more of his tattoos. “You did all of these?” I suddenly find them much more fascinating than I did prior to this knowledge. I want to know the meaning of all of them. Like why he has a tiny toaster on his wrist with one slice of bread. Or what “Your turn, Doctor” means. Or what the flag stands for. I point to the toaster. “What’s this one mean?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a toaster. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What about this one?” I ask, pointing to the flag.

“It’s the Syrian Opposition flag.”

“What does that mean?”

He runs his thumb over the flag tattoo. “My father is from Syria. I guess I did it as a tribute to our heritage.”

“Is your father still alive?”

That question changes something in him. He shrugs and takes a drink, looking off to the right. It’s like a wall raises behind his eyelids when he doesn’t want to elaborate. Which is pretty much all the time. I respect his need for privacy about his family and I grab his arm and turn it over to look at the rest of the tattoos. “So some of them have meaning and some are just random?”

“Some of them are random. Most of them have meaning.”

I run my finger over the GPS coordinates. “This one has meaning. Is it where you were born?”

He grins and lifts his eyes, meeting mine. “Close to it.” The way he looks at me when he says that makes me too flustered to ask another question. I continue to inspect every tattoo on his arm, but I do it quietly. I even lift his shirt sleeve so I can look at the ones on his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind as long as I’m not asking invading questions about why he got each of them. “Are you right-handed? Is that why they’re only on your left arm?”

“Yeah. I’d rather practice on myself than someone else.”

“You can practice on me.”

“When you turn eighteen.”

I shove him in the shoulder. “Come on. That’s seven months away!”

“Tattoos are permanent. You need to give it more thought.”

“Says the guy with a toaster on his arm.”