True to his word, the shower goes off in just a couple of minutes, and after another few minutes I hear the turn of the doorknob and brace myself for … I’m not sure what. Zenn in a towel?
But that would be too much like some soapy TV show. My real life isn’t hot guys, fresh from the shower, roaming around in towels. My life is more staid and predictable than that, like a PBS documentary. Sure enough, he emerges in clean jeans and a fresh T-shirt, his hair damp and as messy as his short hair gets, like he towel dried it and that’s about it.
And good lord he smells amazing.
“So … are you sick?” I ask. He doesn’t look sick. Just … tired. “Can I get you, like, some … soup or 7 Up or something?”
He smiles a little and shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just got a lot going on.” He scrubs both hands over his hair in a gesture of frustration and helplessness and then slips them into the back pockets of his jeans. This might be my cue to butt out. But … I’m choosing to ignore it because he seems so overwhelmed.
So alone.
In a moment of boldness or insanity, of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, I stand up and cross the few steps between us and slide my arms into the triangles his arms make with his body. I press myself up against him lightly in a tentative hug. He doesn’t move and I almost pull away, but I’ve committed myself now and I think it would be worse to have him look at me with confusion than to stay pressed against him in my just-trying-to-be-comforting hug. At least this way we don’t have to make eye contact. Besides, he feels so solid and warm. I carefully ball my hands into fists, keeping them away from his body, and allow the rest of me to linger, press, enjoy.
He hesitates for a second longer before pulling his hands from his pockets and I mentally prepare myself for the rejection of him pushing me away. But instead he wraps his arms around me, pulling my body more tightly against his. I nearly sigh from the feeling. We stand, my cheek pressed against his chest. I inhale the clean, simple smell of him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask him again.
“A little better now.”
There’s something slightly flirtatious in the way he says it. It’s a tone he hasn’t used with me before and it makes me blush against his shirt. God, my fingers itch to be splayed across his back, to grasp at his T-shirt and slide through his hair. Instead, I tangle them together behind him so they won’t go all rogue on me.
The music is still coming from the bathroom and it might be my imagination but it feels like we are swaying slightly as we hug. I feel Zenn’s face near my hair, his breath on my ear, the rough brush of his chin against my temple. I look up slightly and his mouth is right there, just above mine. Neither of us moves. We hesitate in indecision, my breath catching in uneven hitches. His arms tighten around me just slightly.
“You sure it’s nothing contagious?” I whisper.
He looks down at me, shakes his head, barely. We breathe the same air for a moment and I think maybe he’ll kiss me. Maybe I’ll kiss him. Maybe I’ll open my hands and press them against his back with the rationalization that touching him, just once, will be worth whatever fractal he gives me.
But he doesn’t kiss me and I don’t kiss him. I don’t unclench my hands.
What happens instead is the apartment door flies open
with a pop. We drop our arms from each other quickly, guiltily, but not before the couple standing in the doorway sees us.
“Well, fuck me!” Zenn’s mom exclaims, thumping a case of beer onto the kitchen table. “Zenn’s got a girlfriend!”
Zenn’s head falls in a gesture of irritation and embarrassment. They enter the apartment and set a bag of groceries down next to the beer. His mom has forgone her devil costume for a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that looks like it might be Zenn’s. Some kind of clip — I think it’s called a banana clip — holds back her hair, and her bangs are teased like it’s 1990. She holds out her hand to me.
“Hey, Zenn’s girlfriend. I’m Cinde.”
Apparently she doesn’t recognize me from Halloween. No surprise, I guess, since she was half in the bag that day.
“I’m not …” I start, but then I figure what’s the point. She’s just teasing us anyway. I hesitate a second before grasping her hand quickly and letting go. It’s enough to trigger a fractal, but I’m prepared and I take a deep breath. It stays small and manageable, just a small whirlpool of fuzzy darkness. “Eva,” I tell her.
The man holds out his hand as well. “Mike,” he says. I’ve barely even touched him when the army jacket fractal sweeps over me and I nearly lose my balance. I pull my hand away rather rudely and lean against the table. Zenn gives me a funny look.
Mike has the same thick, dark hair as Zenn, though slightly flecked with white at the temples. The same bronzy skin, same dark, vaguely Asian eyes. I put two and two together.
“Mike’s my ... dad.” Zenn says the word like it’s foreign and unfamiliar in his mouth.
“Oh,” I say, and sway on my feet a little. “Nice to meet you.”
“Are you okay, hon?” Cinde asks.
Zenn pulls out a chair and gently pushes me onto it. “Just a little warm,” I say.
Cinde gives Zenn a teasing look and I realize she thinks I’m flustered from being wrapped around her son. But I’ve nearly forgotten about that in the fractal chaos.
Cinde pops open a beer. “How ’bout a cold one?” she says, and holds the can out to me.
Before I have a chance to answer, Zenn groans. “Jesus, Mom.”
“I’m kidding! Shit, everyone’s always so fucking serious!”
I have no doubt that she swears often, but it feels like she’s doing it now to seem cool and young. She offers the beer to Mike and he declines as well. Instead he gets me a glass of water from the faucet. Cinde sips the beer and flips open the folder on the table, oblivious to the fact that I might pass out in her kitchen. “You guys having a study date?”
Zenn speaks for me. “Eva was just dropping off my homework.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Cinde hums, like homework is a code word for blow job.
“I should go,” I say, standing up so quickly I nearly topple over.
“I’ll drive you home,” Zenn offers.
I still feel weak and nauseated. I would love a ride. “It was nice meeting you both,” I say even though I don’t really mean it. I secretly wish they had never shown up.
“Likewise,” Cinde says, and lifts her beer in a sort of toast.
Out in the truck Zenn starts the engine and leans back against the headrest. “Fuck,” he says. “Sorry about that.”
I pretend I’m not embarrassed at all. Like I get caught pressing my body against boys every day. “Don’t worry about it.”
He puts the truck in Reverse and rests his arm along the back of my seat as he turns to back out of the driveway. For some reason, the gesture feels almost as intimate as the hug.
“So … your dad, huh?” I say.
Zenn nods tightly, not playing along.