Page 13 of I'll Catch You
9
Claire
I’m havingdifficulty getting a good enough view of my ass in thismirror.
“Just stay still,” I tell myself, my bare butt sliding down the edge of the porcelain sink. I twist and bend and try to keep myself from sliding and to get my tweezers at the correct angle to pull this splinter from my cheek but I have everything going against me: the heat, the slipperiness of the sink, and the fact that these tweezers were never any good to beginwith.
The lobsters are chilling in a bucket of ice in the sink downstairs. I think my freezer is on the fritz again. I’m going to have to bring my pudding cups to Crabby’s to keep them cold. That’ll be a good pairing to the old fries Cassie and I like. Pudding cups and a bag of old fries. As long as I have good food for Brynn I don’t care what I eat. I’ll eat her discarded pizza crusts. She doesn’t like the crusts. I can’t live without them. We’re a perfectteam.
I squint my eyes as I peer down over my shoulder into the mirror, at the big globe of my ass with the tell-tale black speck and pink irritated skin around it. I throw the tweezers into the sink with a clank and hop off the edge, pulling my tee shirt down around my hips and pulling my shorts on. This isn’t working. I wash my hands because you can never be too hygienic and grab a towel to dry off before going backdownstairs.
It turns out the migraine I was planning to fake actually came to fruition, and the splinter isn’t helping. Remember when you were a kid and wanted to play hooky from school so you decided the day before the intended hooky day that you had to start planting the seeds then and there? You’d start complaining of a sore throat, or you’d ball up your fist and cough into it, or put your fingers to your temples and shake your head in a motion of concern for your own well-being.
Then there’s the thing where you’ll decide you’re going to play hooky and actually get sick. I think this is the universe’s way of telling you that you can’t stand in the way of what’s going to happen with or without your consent. I should have known telling myself a migraine was coming on would be a surefire way to earn myself an actualmigraine.
With my freezer liquifying, I reach in and grab a bag of peas, go over to the couch and lay down with my feet up on one of the arms and put the cold bag on my head. That feels good. My migraine should be gone soon. They usually only last about forty minutes or an hour, and after this I’ll have to go back to working on my splinter and trying to decide if I want to let Peter come over fordinner.
I lay back and try to let myself relax for a minute. It feels good. It almost feels like everything is going to work out and be okay. I feel my muscles loosen and I cross my arms over my chest and snuggle into the couch. It’s lumpy and bumpy but if you know where to position your torso and limbs it’s like a hug from an oldfriend.
I’m already thinking about the lobsters. Maybe I should do Peter the courtesy of letting him cook for me. Besides, I could use some company. Brynn won’t go near lobster and she’s wary of any kind of seafood, ironically. She thinks lobsters and crabs look likebugs.
I’m suddenly jolted back to reality when I hear the snap of my screen door closing. I grab the bag of peas from my forehead and spring to a seated position on thecouch.
“Hello?” I call out, peering toward the frontdoor.
“You keep your door unlocked?” I hear a male voice call to me. I recognize it as Peter’s instantly and it feels like a smooth trickle of honey dipping through me. It’s as calming as the day is long. I rest my arms on the back of the couch and rest my chin on them. Peter’s coming through the door again with a shopping bag and what looks like a takeout container inside. I’d think it were from Crabby’s if the bag had our logo on it. I’m a little insulted. He should be patronizing Crabby’s if he’s in the mood for some takeout. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence that he’s choosing to take out his lunch from someplace else, especially if he thought Crabby’s fish and chips are “superb” as he saidyesterday.
He walks into my field of vision again, passing me on the couch and coming around to sit next to me. I eye him curiously and mutely as I watch him pull the takeout container from the bag and set it on the coffeetable.
I watch him as he looks around. It’s like he’s inside a museum and trying to decide what exhibit to look at first. His eyes land on the fireplace and the mantle where I have photos of me, Brynn and Cassie. He looks out the big, sliding glass doors at the left of the fireplace, which lead out to the porch and the beach and the white sand and blue sky and ocean beyond it. He catches a look at the glass and wood display case where all of my dad’s treasures arehoused.
And the whole time, I’m watching him take it in. It makes me think of seeing Brynn grow up before my eyes and seeing the world though hers. A fresh take on things. In her world, lobsters are big sea bugs and as often as I gently remind her that in some parts of the world bugs are consumed as a great source of protein, she refuses to waver. Now, seeing things through Peter’s eyes, observing my surroundings as though I’ve just stepped into this house, it’s making me feel like I’m seeing things anew again. It sends a tickle through my body and when his eyes cast toward mine I feel myself soften to him. I can’t help myself. Even though I should be annoyed at him barging in here and bringing me food, I can’t help how I feel. I’m grateful. I don’t even know his lastname.
His eyes stay on mine for a moment, sending a ripple of desire through me. He could put his hand on the back of my neck and pull me toward him right now, brush his lips against mine and I wouldn’t stop him. I’d welcome it. I’d tell him he was a jerk for barging into my life like this and turning it completely upside down. I’d tell him that I don’t want him and I’m a fool for letting him kiss me. When his gaze travels down to my lips I feel him touching me there. Then he averts his attention away fromme.
If he were mean for making me want him, now he’s being mean for taking itaway.
“I brought you some lunch,” he says, popping open the takeout container. He grabs a fork and a packet of vinegar from the plastic bag. “I hope you don’tmind.”
“I don’t mind,” I reply, “but you’re not doing yourself any favors by getting me fish and chips from some other restaurant. This is your idea of ingratiating yourself tome?”
“Just sit still and tell me what you think.” He drizzles a few drops of vinegar onto the fish and then spears a corner with the fork. Putting his hand beneath the bite he’s flaked off, he brings the fork to my mouth. It’s hot, it’s crispy, it’s flaky, it’s salty. It’s good. It’s perfect. It tastes just likeCrabby’s.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I tellhim.
“Do you realize that any random person could barge in here whenever theywant?”
“The only person I have to be afraid of barging in is you, Peter. Everyone else is welcome.” I grab a napkin and wipe the corners of my mouth. Oh, and he brought what looks like sweet tea, too. I grab the takeout cup and put the straw to my lips. I don’t know how I knew it was sweet tea, but that’s what it is. “Too sweet for mytaste.”
“This is the signature dish I want to sell at the restaurant,” he says. “After I buy it from you and put money into it and bring it back to life and keeping you on asmanager.”
“Oh yeah?” I fold my arms across my chest and lean back into the couch. “Who’s recipe is that,anyway?”
“Yourgrandmother’s.”
I heart goes flip-flop and I swallowthickly.
“This is from Crabby’s?” I rise to my feet and go over to the sliding glass door to look out at the ocean. Peter is getting to me. Maybe it isn’t him. Maybe it’s the heat or mymigraine.
