Left Drowning(16)

I want my mother right now. I want her so desperately that I physically ache to have her hold me, and it’s absolutely bullshit that I have no one. In the past, I’d tried to trick myself into thinking that I could connect with Lisa and that she would fill that maternal void. But Lisa never made much of an effort to conceal her lack of interest in housing her niece and nephew. Maybe James and I were too much of a reminder of her sister, or maybe it was just that Lisa is in her early thirties, single, and with no desire to domesticate her independent life.

Still, our “home” is—or was—Lisa’s house. It’s where both James and I have rooms. Guest rooms. It is by no means a place we love, but it’s what we’ve had.

My legs burn as I walk out of the room. My aunt is a bitch. I have made so many excuses for her near-total indifference to us, but I refuse to do that anymore. Her grief, her loss, also belongs to James and me.

I clomp loudly down the dorm stairwell in the midst of a mental tirade. I’m so sick of Lisa and her craptastically awful attitude. Not that I’m one to be complaining about someone’s attitude necessarily, but if my sister had died, I’d be a lot damn nicer to her children. I’d cling to them and smother them with too much love. Instead, Lisa has done the bare minimum. I hit the landing and continue to the basement of the dorm while I fume. It’s not like we’ve been a financial burden to her.

I enter the lowest floor of the dorm and turn left. If the basement numbers correspond to the ones on my floor, his room is directly below mine a few floors down.

Selfish. She’s inexcusably selfish. Fuck that. Fuck her.

Without hesitating, I knock on the door. I need help.





CHAPTER SEVEN


It’s Just Pain


“Hey, neighbor.” Chris smiles up at me. He’s sitting at his desk with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“Hi.” Of course, now that I’m here, I feel like an *, hit with the clear understanding that my showing up in this frazzled state is totally inappropriate. Yet I do not turn and run. The fact that he is using a pencil distracts me for second, because I find it totally adorable that in this technological age, he is still a pencil kind of a guy. “Sorry, you’re obviously studying. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. It’s just …” I struggle to catch my breath, partially from taking the stairs so fast and partially from my emotion. I put my hands on my hips and look down.

“What is it?” he asks softly. His voice is calm and patient.

“I tried to go running, and my playlist sucks, and it didn’t go well. Every song felt wrong and stupid. I felt wrong and stupid. And my aunt is just horrible. And …” I look straight into those intoxicating green eyes. “And why can’t I get over everything? My parents died four years ago, not a month ago, but it infiltrates my entire life. I can’t make it stop. I can’t be happy. I didn’t used to be like this. I used to be vivacious and fun. I used to be me. Your mother died, so you know what it’s like, yet you manage to have a life. I want a life, too. How do you have that? And … and … and my playlist sucks.”

He waves me into his room. “Sit.” Chris points at the bed, so I sit and watch as he gets up from his desk smoothly, despite the cramped quarters of his single room, and moves his chair so he can face me. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone. Let’s see this ineffective playlist of yours.”

“Oh. Okay.” I pass it over. The back of my hand brushes against his as I slide my phone to him. Some people describe certain physical connections as being like electricity. Sparks flying. When Chris and I touch, it’s different. I think of the feel of water. The way it is when you wade into the ocean and a small wave cascades against you, swirling sand over you and awakening every pore.

Slow motion, I think decidedly. He can make things happen in slow motion. The rest of the room grows blurry while Chris stays sharply in focus, and I watch him silently as he taps the screen. He has beautiful hands. Strong, deft, exacting.

Suddenly I notice that he’s been talking. “… impossible to run to this shit. You need an entirely different tone.”

“Hair metal? Oldies? Orchestral?” I suggest with a smile.

“Funny, funny. You’re trying to run at the same pace as these songs, I bet.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You’re competing. Don’t compete. The music has its own pace, and you have to make yours. Be in charge. Find a zone. A holding space.”

“Holding space?”

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll show you.” Chris pushes some papers around on his cluttered desk until he finds a set of earphones to put on. He stays fixed on the screen as he starts scrolling through options, only occasionally pausing to look out the small basement-level window behind me.

I lean back on my hands and wait. Save for the hint of sound that comes from the earphones that Chris has in, it is quiet. He swivels lazily back and forth in the chair, and I like that he is so engaged in whatever music he is listening to because it allows me to look at him closely. To take him in. I try not to squirm. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and it’s a good look for him. For me. Since he keeps brushing soft waves from his face, he could probably stand to get a haircut, but I like his gently scruffy look. And the way his hair falls against the back of his neck… . God, I find the tanned skin between his shirt and his hair almost intoxicating. What would it be like to have that skin under my lips, to slowly inch my mouth across his shoulders, to touch him lightly with my tongue… .