Page 50 of Over & Out

Chris snorts with laughter.

“Well, shit,” I say.

Chris starts pulling them all out, one by one, handing each present to me, where I start a pile on the curb. She’s fully laughing now, pulling out each package like it’s Christmas.

I help her with the heavier ones, but I’m not looking at the presents. I’m staring fully at her. My eyes are glued to her as her deep, throaty laughter tumbles into in my ears, ringing all the way down to my toes.

I am in shit. Deep,deepshit.

Last week, I thought I’d be okay. I reasoned that all the feelings I was having toward my assistant were because I felt so shitty for hurting her. That I was maybe getting confused, because I felt the same way as I did when I played hooky last year. When I kept driving up to this dirt track a guy I met at an airport in Vancouver told me about.It’s a couple hours up the coast. Super hard to get to, but better than anything you’ll find down here.Where I met a girl on the bike. The girl Chris reminds me of, and who, I swear to God, if she hadn’t told me she didn’t ride bikes, I might have even thought was her.

Then, after that call, I knew it was more than that. Because when she showed up for me on that call, I realized I already knew she saw more of me than anyone else, and that’s because I promised her no bullshit. I promised her I’d show her the real me.

So yeah, now I’m in shit.

Because I thought I could just let those facts be. I thought I could quietly appreciate her from afar. But now? Now I see Chris with the little skip to her step as she carries the gifts back to the house with me. I see Chris with that sundress blowing in the breeze around the smooth skin of her calves. Each time she passes me with another present, she laughs, and each time, my breath gets stuck in my throat, because she’s not just beautiful. She’s a fucking angel. Wisps of hair glide around her face, buttery afternoon sun lighting them up like spun gold. Her lashes dip as she helps me with the last package, a massive box that was actually easier for me to carry on my own. Her dress is backlit by the sun, and the shape of her body, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breast cast in bas-relief like a statue in a museum—all of it has my thoughts expanding to things much more dangerous than a crush.

At that thought, I don’t even need to work to pull my face into a frown. It lands there all by itself. My heart thuds as awareness spreads through me.

“We’re stuck,” Chris says as she sets the last package down.

I drag my eyes from her to see we’ve blocked the door with presents. “Hang on,” I say. I manage to weave my way through some and bend over the others and push thedoor open. Everyone must have migrated out back, because inside, it’s quiet.

“You sure this is enough?” Chris laughs at the pyramid of presents in the living room after we finish dragging everything inside. The crooked bridge of her nose wrinkles as she eyes me.

Laughter sounds from outside, and briefly, Chris turns to look there. “I guess we should go to the back,” she says.

I nod. Then I say the weirdest fucking thing. “You know, my mom used to take me to museums,” I blurt out. “Art museums.”

Chris blinks. But she takes it in stride. “Oh yeah?”

“She hardly ever came out here. My dad separated us on purpose…doesn’t matter. Anyway, my dad hated them. Said they were for pansies. He’s a homophobe, among other things.”

What thehellis wrong with me?

Chris looks back at me, her head tilted. “Well, that sucks very much.”

“I just…there are tons of museums here. Do you like them? If you do, you should see some while you’re here.” I swallow.

“Hopper…why are you telling me this?” Her words aren’t harsh. They’re just the opposite. They’re curious. Like she’s a little confused, but still happy I’m sharing this with her.

“Because…” I clear my throat. “You look like a painting.”

For a moment, the only sound is the clinking of glasses outside. And the rush of blood in my ears. But Ikeep going, because I’m a fucking idiot, and when I go in, I go hard. “Your face—you look like that famous one with a girl and an earring, even though your earrings are different and you’re not wearing a headscarf thing. But the eyes, the…” I laugh.

Chris has gone completely still, her fingers pausing where she was straightening out her dress earlier. Her hand goes to her stomach.

What the fuck am I doing? “I’m…tired. It’s been a long day.”

But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t drop her eyes from mine either.

I keep seeing the way Chris looked at me in that chair while I apologized to her way too late. The way her fingers grazed across her stomach like she was holding on to something there, some secret. Some pain. I keep seeing how she looked so fucking beautiful the day after that, having defrosted just a little. I keep thinking about how I want to say things that annoy her just to hear what brilliantly cutting thing she’ll say back. How the guy at the grocery store thinks I’m so weird for only ever buying mandarin oranges; how I want to put them not just in the kitchen but all over the house so I can catch her doing the little toss she does with them before eating them, like they’re the best thing creation’s ever made.

“Vermeer,” Chris says finally.

I blink.

“The Girl with a Pearl Earring,” she says. “That’s the painting, right?” She hangs an arm over the top of her head to mimic the headscarf and parts her lips like the girl in the painting. I want to tell her she’s ridiculousbecause that looks nothing like a headscarf. But I also want to tell her I’m falling for her, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that information.

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