The Girl He Used to Know(24)
I’ve been smiling so hard since she started talking about Monte that my face actually hurts. How could any man ever be unkind to this woman? The affection I once felt for Annika might have gone dormant for a while, but it roars out of hibernation and makes me feel better about life than I have in a long time. There’s something so hopeful about being around her again.
I glance at my watch. It’s almost nine and I can already tell she’s tired by the look in her eyes and the way she’s leaning her head back against the edge of the bed. “I should go. Let you wind down and get some sleep.”
She walks me to the door. “Thanks for dinner. Sorry about the Ryan thing. I guess I just don’t ever think about that relationship anymore.”
For a second, her statement feels like a tiny ice pick to the heart. Is that how it works for her? Is that how she felt after me?
She catches me off guard when she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me. I groan softly when I register the smell of her skin. Liz had been a big believer in pheromones and though her scent hadn’t done much for me, I have a feeling she wasn’t all that drawn to mine either. I don’t know if I buy into that kind of thing, but whatever the cause, catching a whiff of Annika has always had a strong effect on me. I can’t explain what she smells like because it’s indescribable. On the rare occasion when she wasn’t spending the night in my bed at my college apartment, I would switch pillows and lay my head on hers. The odd thing is that Annika couldn’t stand perfume and only used unscented soap, so whatever I detected had to be coming straight from inside her.
This obviously isn’t our first date, and following some sort of protocol seems arbitrary and juvenile. I mean, we’ve seen each other naked. I know the sounds she makes when she’s turned on. There aren’t many places on her body that my fingers and mouth haven’t explored.
I hug her back and though it’s hard to let her go at the end, I do.
15
Annika
THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN
1991
“What are you going to wear?” Janice asked. She was standing in front of my closet sliding hangers to the left as she surveyed the offerings of my college wardrobe. What I wore had always been more important to Janice than it was to me. Before I started living with her, I chose a top and bottom based on how they would feel against my skin. The fact that they didn’t match and often clashed horribly had literally no bearing on my choice, and I couldn’t recall a single instance where my parents or brother had commented on my choice of clothing. Janice gently pointed out that I’d been walking around campus looking like a fashion “don’t” for weeks and helped me put together complete outfits so I could dress myself if she wasn’t around. It was yet another example of all the things I felt stupid about.
“A skirt,” I said. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to what she was doing, because I had my nose buried in a book.
“That’s all you ever wear.”
“Then why did you ask if you already knew what I’d say?”
“Because I thought you might want to wear something different for your first date. I thought I saw a pair of jeans in here once. Where did they go?”
“I left them in the laundry room and someone took them.”
“You never told me someone stole your jeans.”
“I left them there on purpose because I hate jeans. You already know that.”
“What about a dress? I have a really cute floral dress and you can wear my little white T-shirt underneath it. It’s long. I bet you’d like it.”
“The T-shirt will be too tight.”
“You’re smaller than I am. There’s no way it will be too tight.”
“I don’t want to wear a dress.”
“Do you know where he’s taking you? Maybe that would help me decide.”
“Was I supposed to ask?”
“He didn’t mention it?”
I’d given Jonathan my phone number a few days before the practice tournament and he’d called last night to confirm our date. “He said we would go get something to eat.”
“If you insist on wearing a skirt, can I at least pick out the top? And do your hair and makeup?”
I’d taken a shower and washed my hair, and that had been the extent of my pre-date beauty routine. I hadn’t bothered to get dressed and instead I’d put on the bathrobe I’d owned since I was fifteen and had been lounging in it most of the day. I figured I’d select one of my usual outfits a few minutes before Jonathan was due to arrive, and we would go. Already this was becoming more complicated than I’d expected. Janice treated me like her own live-version Barbie doll sometimes, coaxing my hair into elaborate styles and painting my face with things that felt heavy and goopy and smelled weird. If I acquiesced on the hair and makeup, she’d probably get off my case about the outfit. “I don’t care.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
She returned with a makeup case the size of a tackle box and sat down on the bed next to me. “I don’t want any of that foundation stuff,” I said, in case she’d forgotten how much I hated it.
I put down my book and did what she asked, closing my eyes when she stroked shadow across my lids and opening them as she applied two coats of mascara to my lashes. They felt heavy and I tried not to blink. “Are you almost done?”