Page 64 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
His hand brushed the back of my hair, once and then again, until he settled into a rhythm of stroking it, gathering into a fistful, and then letting it fall, over and over. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re going to be okay.”
I leaned away, pulling my hair from his grasp, breaking our connection. “It isn’t okay,” I said. “I’m not okay.” I rubbed my palms against my jeans, trying to dry the sweat. “I’m so not okay. The woman I’ve lived with for the last ten years might die, and I shouldn’t care but I do, and I’m worried about where I’m going to sleep, and I’m worried the hospital is stressing her out.” I lurched up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I called you over.”
He climbed to his feet and wrapped me in a hug even though I didn’t return it. “So I could do this,” he said.
We stood that way for a long time. And then I put my arms around his waist. “You’re really not going to run away, are you?” I mumbled the question into his shoulder, but the brush of his chin against my hair as he shook his head gave me his answer before he spoke it.
“No.”
“You should run away.”
He laughed, but his eyes didn’t look happy. “Maybe. But I’ve done enough of that lately.” He cupped my cheek and ran his thumb over my cheekbone, smiling for real. “Staying sounds more interesting.”
“You say that now. Wait until I open that door.”
“I’m coming inside?”
I nodded. “Only a deranged person would cross that doorway knowing what you do. But yeah.”
He smiled. “I watched three episodes ofHoarding Horrorswhile I did my calculus homework tonight. I’m ready.”
I climbed the last two steps and flung the door open. “There’s no such thing as being ready for this.” I produced my jar of Vicks from my hoodie pocket. “Rub a little under your nose. Trust me.”
He did, and after a deep breath, he stepped in, his expression curious, maybe even a little disappointed as he surveyed the dingy but bare foyer. I said nothing, merely pointed at the opening to the front room. He took a few steps forward and then stopped, a loud whoosh of air escaping him as he caught sight of the disaster beyond the door frame. “Holy sh—”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” He walked in farther, following the rough path I had cleared in my search nearly a month before. “Is it all like this?”
“See for yourself.” I showed him the den and then the kitchen. That robbed his power of speech. A look of mingled pity and disgust swept over his face before he could hide it, and I whirled to leave. He caught my hand and squeezed it without saying a word. I led him to the guest room.
“Delphine’s making me find some picture for her. Mostly I look in here. I’m doing it on the condition that I can use any fabric I find. This is what about twenty hours of trying to clean up and organize looks like.” I watched his expression. “I found some insane stuff in here, like a whole box of nothing but gray orthopedic shoes. Delphine doesn’t even wear those. Another box had nothing but flower seed packets. Like a billion of them with black-eyed Susans on the front. And I couldn’t even count all the salt and pepper shakers.” Junk still overwhelmed the space, but the half of the room near the far wall had a more structured look to it. Boxes in neat stacks, trash bags bulging with clothes, and open bins of odds and ends each had their own sections.
“I can definitely see your touch,” he said. He looked at the chaotic side I hadn’t gotten to yet, noting the difference. “What about you? Where do you sleep?”
I led him up the stairs to my bedroom. I pointed at the card table on the landing that served as my makeshift sewing desk and the large fabric pile next to it. “That’s not emergent hoarding.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself,” he said. “You’re the sanest person I know.”
“Then you know messed up people.”
“Cam.” He pulled me into his arms and leaned down to kiss me. He took his time, something we never got to do. It was the first time we’d ever kissed and not had to worry about someone finding us. Heat licked through my veins and I melted into him, loving the feel of his arms as they held me up. He edged us back toward my bedroom door, and then reached behind him. “Cam,” he breathed against my neck. “Cam, I’m going to open it.”
I nodded, not caring, more interested in pressing kisses against his jawline. The door gave way, and he backed us up even further until his calves hit my bed, and he collapsed with me on top of him in an uncomplaining heap. Then we stayed that way for a very delicious while.
Eventually I came up for air and flipped on the bedside lamp, wondering what he was thinking. Could he tell how much it meant to me to have him there, right by me, where I could reach out and touch him whenever I needed to? And I needed to all the time. Here and now, later at school, over lunch, whenever he wasn’t with me, even. The itchy need to run my hand over the rough hairs on his arms or the lightly calloused pads of his fingers overcame me often.
Was it normal to always be brushing my hands against him, feeling all his textures, his corduroy jackets, his smooth palms? I didn’t touch him half as often as I wanted to because I was afraid it might not be normal to like the feel of someone so much. I worried that this was one of those freakish things I didn’t know because I didn’t grow up like a regular girl.
He propped himself up and looked around my room. The rows of books lined up by height and spine color. Three framed pictures on my dresser.Tear Girlon my nightstand. That was it.
“I like your room. It reflects you pretty well.”
“It’s barren. I’m now concerned by your statement.” That earned me a laugh, a ripple of low notes I only heard him use for me.
“It’s simple, not barren. I used to think you were complicated, but you’re not. You’re deep, but you’re not complicated.” He gestured to the pictures and the books. “You keep only your most important stuff in here. Seems like that’s exactly what you do with your life.”
“Thanks, Freud. I appreciate the analysis.”
