Funny Feelings (17)

She’s up there, with her little red boots, some band t-shirt I don’t recognize, and a skirt that showcases creamy ivory legs. The shadows from the spotlight and the green and red Christmas lights play on the hollows beneath her cheeks, making the lines of her jaw stand out.

I realize that I know the shape of that jaw and how her cheeks pull up when she grins. How she smiles at Hazel and signs—not speaking for my benefit and only signing so that I know when it’s just between them. How she bites the tip of her thumb when she’s excited about something. I know how the corners of her lips try to pull down when she frowns—like the time I firmly declined when she hinted at setting me up with a friend of hers. How the apples of her cheeks make her eyes nearly disappear when she laughs full-out.

Fuck.

I have to tell her. As emotionally suppressed as I am, I know that I have to tell her that I’m developing feelings for her… I need to give her a chance to separate herself a bit while not cutting her out of Hazel’s life completely. I’ll have to find a non-lecherous way to tell her that it would be more appropriate for her to maintain some space, to somehow define the boundaries of this relationship. All of the late-night texts come back to me, and I feel a rush of embarrassment. Embarrassed to be pining after this young woman when she’s been nothing but a friend to us. She might jokingly flirt, but that’s just her. She jokes.

God damn it, Meyer. You can write a script full of comedic foreshadowing and, yet you still didn’t see this shit coming?!

And then the other, much tinier voice in my brain has the balls to chime in.

What if she’s feeling the same way back? What if this is more than friendship, or work, or whatever, to her, too?

I haven’t dared to let myself think this way in so long…



Before I know it the applause is crackling and I’ve stared, stupefied, for the entirety of her set. My mouth goes dry as she walks toward us, as she looks… different, somehow. Almost shy.

“Can we talk later?” I hear my own voice ask.

“Yes,” she smiles. Just, yes. No questions or hesitations or worried eyes. Just yes.

I feel myself smile back; a quick, small laugh barks out of me. She smiles bigger but looks down, again being demure. Though, that’s impossible because this is the same woman who once told me (in these mere months that I’ve known her) that she likes to make lists in the Notes app on her phone while she masturbates, in an effort to try and “train her brain to be more into organization and structure.” She wants organizing to make her excited and is attempting to Pavlov’s-dog herself into it. Shy, she is not. I clamp my lips down to stifle another laugh at the memory of it.

We start making our way to the exit after I grab Farley’s jacket from the spot behind the bar where she keeps it. We say our quick goodbye’s to Marissa—tonight’s bartender and Fee’s friend since elementary, her bunk-slash-roommate. Marissa also fluently speaks ASL, and Farley’s been trying to get me to hire her for tutoring, which I plan to take her up on soon.

As I help Fee into her coat, that hopeful, optimistic feeling continues to rise. That feeling starts firing off sparklers when she holds my hand on her shoulder and looks up to smile at me briefly.

Thwap

A towel slaps the back of my head. When I whip around and find Marissa at the end of the bar she yells over the noise, “Mistletoe!” and points to a spot above us.

Fee’s expression pales and she says “Marissa, stop it!” before she bolts out the door, holding Hazel’s hand.

I turn an annoyed glare back at Marissa, but she’s already been called over to the frat guys again.

“Jones—” I start, trying to catch up to her.

“Dad?!” she says as I get through the door. I frown as I follow her line of sight and see a man, with her same-colored hair, scowling down at her.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” she asks, her entire demeanor shrinking in on itself.

“I thought I would come convince you to join us for Christmas. When you weren’t at your place, I figured I might find you here,” he shakes his head, his lip curling in disappointment.

“I wonder if you can imagine how proud I am? How proud it makes me to see you putting that 720 verbal score to such spectacular use, up there telling stories about shitting yourself and giving blowjobs,” he spits.

“Dad, stop,” she whispers, voice catching on the words.

“Farley, when are you going to learn that this is not a serious career? Don’t you want to contribute something to society? Actually, to hell with society. Don’t you want a steady income for yourself? Medical insurance?”

“Dad—I’m… I’m actually starting to do pretty well for myself. I’ve been asked to do shows at quite a few different places around town, and I do—I do work hard.” Her voice is a hollow shell of itself. Unrecognizable compared to the sweet, booming cadence of her normal tone.

“You’re taking nothing seriously. Nothing. I know you’re hanging on to some misguided vendetta against me, but I only want what’s best for you. This—there’s no stability. You’re treating your life like a pinball machine. And you’re the ball! And who’s this?! Some guy you’re sleeping with?” He points a finger at me as I tuck Hazel more firmly into my side. “You look like you might have your shit together. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”