Page 45 of Only and Forever

I’m not a therapy girlie—I just can’t imagine pouring myself out to a stranger—but I have tried to understand myself a little better this past year, picked up a couple of books about family dysfunction, about attachment theory, and about how and why different people react to intimacy: anxiously, avoidantly, securely.

I’m avoidant. I know this. I’m averse to opening myself up to people. There’s this powerful grip around my chest that tightens when I try with Viggo. It’s too appealing already, to trust his goodness, to crave more time with our feisty wordplay, that energy that sparks between us, to lean toward every part of his body that my body wants. When I’m around him, I feel profoundly out of my depth. I felt that way especially today.

So I pushed. I bickered not in the fun way but the petty way; I broke his concentration and criticized our IKEA shoe organizer assembly. Because that made me feel safe.

Now I just feel like shit.

I’m better than this. I’mbraverthan this. No, I’m not experienced in living healthily with someone, without sex or passive aggression gluing us together. No, I’m not practiced at letting anyone help me with anything the way he has and will, but it’s two measly months, and yesterday, today, they’re going to be the exceptions,not the rule. Soon Viggo will be busy with his fully opened store. I’ll be busy working there quietly in the wings, and when I’m not, I’ll be writing and revising. This is just a... tricky moment. I can make it through without being a jerk to him. I can and Iwantto.

Carefully placing the bread on top of his sandwich, I add a generous handful of potato chips, a thick dill pickle spear. It’s nothing fancy like the fresh pesto avocado chicken salad Viggo made for us at lunch that I noticed he ate very little of, but it’s a meal nonetheless. It’s the best I can do.

I grab an ice-cold seltzer from inside the fridge door, shut the door with my hip, then lift the plate from the counter, armed with my peace offering.

I just hope he’ll accept it.

THIRTEEN

Viggo

Playlist: “Along the Way,” The Hunts

I’m in a foul mood when Tallulah walks in. My back is to her, but I hear her footsteps, feel her silence weighted with something enigmatic, something I can’t begin to decipher. There’s nothing about this woman I can decipher—how I feel about her or how she seems to feel about me. The past hour spent assembling these shoe organizers, the mindless distraction of following the instructions to build the first one, replicating the procedure as I began the second, has settled me somewhat, but not as much as I’d like.

I can’t stop fixating on Tallulah, how twisted up I am by my frustration with her. This—the two of us being roommates, working together—wasn’t supposed to be another hard thing to tackle. It was supposed to be simple, easy-breezy, swapping skills, rooming together for a couple of months, then parting ways.

Right now, two months sounds like a very long, exhausting time.

“You missed a screw,” she says.

I shut my eyes and exhale slowly, calming myself. “Not now, Tallulah.”

A ceramic plate lands gently on the floor beside me with a quietclink. I turn, just enough to inspect it, and feel my heart do a weird kick. Soft, thick-cut sourdough bread. A few juicy slices of tomato on top of arugula and thin-sliced turkey. Beside it, a towering pile of kettle-cooked potato chips, a chunky dill pickle spear.

My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles. My body’s just realized how hungry it is. Perhaps part of my shitty mood can be explained by the fact that it’s—I glance at my watch—seven in the evening, and I’ve hardly eaten today.

“I was trying to make a joke,” she says, lowering to the ground a few feet away from me. I’m already reaching for the sandwich, taking a bite that puts a hefty dent in it. “About the screw.”

“Hmph.” I stare at her, chewing slowly as I watch her crack open a seltzer can and set it beside my plate. Goddamn, this is a good sandwich. Lots of whole-grain mustard, just how I like it, and plenty of mayo. There’s something else I can’t place, something unexpected, but it’s good. It makes everything taste... more.

“Italian seasoning.” Tallulah nods her chin toward the sandwich. “That’s what you’re tasting. And lots of black pepper.”

My eyes narrow. How did she know I was wondering that?

“You looked perplexed,” she explains, once again apparently reading my mind. “I reasoned you were trying to figure out what was on it that was unexpected.”

I take my time chewing, then swallow. After picking up a chip and crunching into it, I take a bite of dill pickle spear. Having left her hanging long enough, I tell her, “It’s good. Thanks.”

Tallulah’s staring at me, her gaze unflinching. She doesn’t say anything, and it’s annoying. She’s so good at staying quiet, holding the upper hand.

“That was another brownie moment,” she finally says.

I lift my eyebrows, then take another bite of pickle. I’m quiet. She can have a taste of her own medicine.

“I panicked,” she continues. “I don’t know how to live well with someone like you.”

“Like what?”

She huffs, but she doesn’t seem annoyed, more like... stumped,as if she’s searching for the right words. “Friendly. Emotionally well-adjusted. Determinedly helpful.”

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