When My Heart Joins the Thousand(27)

“Do what?”

“This. Everything.”

He gives me a tiny smile. “I guess we can just play it by ear.” He bites his lower lip. “Do you . . . do you want to get lunch tomorrow?”

“I have work.”

He lowers his gaze.

“We could have dinner instead, maybe.”

His breath hitches. “Really? I mean, great. That sounds great.”

“Do you want to go to Buster’s again. Or someplace else.”

“Actually I was wondering . . . would you like to come to my place?”

I blink and turn toward him. For a few seconds, I’m too surprised to respond.

“I’m actually a pretty good cook,” he adds.

What does it mean, that he’s inviting me? What would it imply, if I accepted? “We’re just going to eat dinner,” I say. “We’re not going to have sex.”

Color rushes to his cheeks. “Well, yeah. I mean, no. Of course.”

“Which is it,” I ask.

“That was a question?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. So . . . you’re asking me if I . . .”

“I like having clearly defined boundaries,” I say. “I’ve never been in this situation before, so I need to know what your expectations are.”

His face is bright red now. “I just want to cook dinner for you. Honest. I wasn’t planning on making any moves. After last night, I thought we should take things slow.”

I pick at a loose thread of my sleeve. “Just be friends, you mean.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Is that what I want?

Things are so much simpler with animals. With human beings, everything is so complicated and ambiguous. There are people who remain friends without ever having sex. Then there are friends with benefits, people who have sex but don’t bother with the other aspects of a relationship. And then, of course, there’s romance, which is something I don’t understand at all.

This feels dangerous. I should say no; I should retreat, regroup, try to figure out what all this means.

“Yes.”

A wide smile breaks across his face, and suddenly—despite my misgivings—I’m glad I agreed. “Great. I’ll email you the directions.”

I nod.

We look at each other, and I find myself preoccupied, once again, with those uncanny eyes. Blue within blue. I’ve never seen anything like them. I want to ask, but the words stick in my throat.

“You know,” he says, “I just figured it out.”

“What?”

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

I furrow my brow. “Why.”

“Neither is made of cheese.”

I blink a few times. “Well, now you’re just being silly.”

“But I made you smile.” His voice softens. “You’ve got a nice smile, you know.”

I touch my lips, surprised. I hadn’t realized I was smiling.

Later, sitting on my couch, I open up my laptop. Blue sclerae. I plug the words into the search engine, and a list of medical sites pops up. I click on a link and start reading.

Blue sclerae can result from loss of water content, which causes a thinning of the tissue, allowing the underlying dark choroids to be seen.

I scroll down to causes. There are forty-seven possible medical causes listed. Among them are skeletal disorders, chromosome and ocular disorders, and high urine excretion. I think about calling Stanley to ask if he urinates a lot, then quickly reject the idea and go back to scrutinizing the possible causes listed on the website. Sometimes, it says, there is no specific cause. It might mean nothing.

I close the browser window. Probably I’m overthinking it.





CHAPTER TWELVE


When I pull up in front of Stanley’s house that evening, my movements feel automatic, as if my mind has become disconnected from my body. Which maybe is a good thing, because in my mind, I don’t feel prepared for this.

His house is small and blue, with a brick chimney, a neatly tended lawn, and a single car—a nondescript gray import—in the driveway. There’s a row of azaleas beneath the window, though they’re no longer in bloom.

I’m wearing a black T-shirt with a graphic of a small white bunny bearing bloodstained fangs over the words NO ORDINARY RABBIT. He answers the door wearing a burgundy sweater, and he’s swapped his metal crutch for a cane carved from dark reddish wood—mahogany, maybe. “Hi.” His voice cracks a little. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi. Come in.”

I slip my shoes off on the mat and take a few cautious steps into the living room. It’s small and clean and smells faintly of cinnamon. The armchair and the couch are upholstered in brown corduroy. It looks very soft. I resist the temptation to run my hands over it and instead ask a question that’s been on my mind for a while: “Does anyone else live here.”

“No.” He averts his gaze. “This was my mother’s house. She left it to me.”

On a bookshelf stands a clear plastic terrarium, a network of colored tubes and little round houses filled with wood shavings. A small brown gerbil is running on a wheel.

“That’s Matilda,” Stanley says.

“Do you give her things to chew on,” I ask.