Page 93 of Facing Off
I inhale an uneven breath and get up. My hand goes tothe lock. I push it open, but I can’t budge the door. There’s a hockey captain-sized weight blocking it—until there’s not.
The door opens.
Hughes is there. So close. His hand palming the door frame.
For a moment, all I can do is stare up at him. Those uncertain, vulnerable blue eyes. That hopeful but weary expression tightening his mouth like he’s holding his breath and waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“I—” He swallows, then rubs the back of his neck. “I’m really glad you’re coming out. Not that I didn’t like talking like that, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me ever…again…”
The tops of his cheekbones go pink as he smoothes his palms down his pants.
I want to hug him.
This revelation makes my eyes round, and is followed by a fair amount of horror and anxiousness, because I can’t.
If I do, it feels like everything will change.
I step back.
Hughes’ hand shoots out. A brief touch on my arm. “Don’t go back inside. We should eat. Dinner is ready!”
“I—shouldn’t?—”
A flicker of something that looks like fear, but can’t be, crosses his eyes. “We don’t have to talk about anything that happened. I promise you, we won’t.”
I’m frozen.
“Please, Sonya?”
I manage a nod, because at the end of the day, he’s right. I can’t hide in a bathroom forever. Not only will we be in Oslo together, but he’s always going to be around.He’s my brother’s captain. Kavi is married to Dmitri. There are group hangouts and some games I go to. Our lives intersect.
I have to find a way to face him and move on, even if this whole situation is getting far riskier in ways I refuse to examine properly.
Hughes leads me to a table that’s been set up for us. On a white tablecloth are white plates with gold accents, polished silver cutlery, and long-stemmed wine glasses. Small plates are also covered in metal dome-shaped cloches.
We’re in the clear, coasting through the open sky. Even so, nothing is made of glass. Anything that can be bolted down is secured.
He pulls out my chair and makes me sit down. “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of everything.”
He says it in such a calm and reassuring way, but it doesn’t end there. Those words repeat, even when he doesn’t say them. I hear them unsaid when he pours me a glass of wine. In the way he uncovers the domes, asks for my preferences, and serves me exactly what I like, picking out every olive in a bowl of pasta. It’s in the refills I don’t have to lift a finger to receive. How he picks up a fork I accidentally drop and gives me another one without missing a beat. I hear it especially loudly when he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, one that kept poking the corner of my eye. When I grumble at him, he winks.
All these actions land right in the center of my chest, water nourishing earth that’s been parched forever. It’s dangerous, and I tell myself that we can’t have any more personal conversations, but Hughes tricks me into hearing about his first job, him shoveling snow in his small town. His gangly years when he failed his driver’s license testtwice and had to bike house-to-house for a below-minimum wage job.
I scoff and talk about my first job manning the fryer at a fast-food joint. How the manager hated me, but my coworkers were nice since I was the youngest. That I’ve grown to hate tater tots, but continue loving onion rings.
Somehow he gets it out of me that I got the job in the first place because ballet classes were expensive.
Soon we’re fighting over dessert, much closer to our normal selves. Giving me a bit of hope that maybe everything hasn’t shifted fundamentally between us. That soon we can go back to how we used to be—and that it won’t destroy me.
A Tupperware container is brought out.
He made homemade cookies.
“Pass,” I tell him. “I’m already full.”
“But I want to hear what you think. I’ll even say please.Please, Sonya. Try them, darling!”
“Ugh. You’re so annoying.”
