You Never Call

Winter break. It was cold outside, but cold calm, like the first quiet snowfall. Inside this one cozy house was Sarah’s party, and we were in it, arrived at the same time but now sitting paired off with other old friends we hadn’t seen in however long. A change here and there, and everyone looked better, but on the whole, nothing drastic. We were who we were.

For the holidays there were lights and cookies and warm spiced drinks. Across the room, I was spending a lot of time watching you. Not you the whole, but you the hands, you the laughing face. It felt so nice to just be around you again. Cause me and you go back, way back. Too many late night adventure stories to count, and here I was thinking how much I’d like to talk about them all over again with you. Laugh, bump your arm, be that person you were talking to.

Right now you seemed deep in conversation with some friend of yours, some pretty little chicky with a too-big head. I felt mean thinking that, I felt jealous. The party idea was nice and fun, but too much for what I wanted right now, some easy conversation and a calm in my nerves not from the liquor. If I could just say hi and talk to you for a few minutes, I kept saying…

But I kept waiting. I wasn’t going to interrupt you. I didn’t want to be a bother. Mara was asking me what I’ve been up to since summer, and I could barely shift my thoughts from you to give a coherent response.

“I’ve been pretty good.”

I wondered what it was you and that girl were talking about, trying to listen for your voice amidst the chatter. But that proved too difficult and too obvious. My eyes moved to your hands again, and the casual way you held that tumbler of coke and rum. I’ll get my own, I thought, but I had a lager to finish first.

Defeated, I resigned to playing socialite so I wouldn’t start obsessing, but I already was. Why were you so caught up? It had been so long since I’d seen you, and sure I spoke to you often on the internet, but you were here right now and so was I, and didn’t that mean something to you? In emails you stressed that as soon as you got the time, you and I would chill to ice cold status. You missed me. But there you were, keeping me just out of the corner of your eye. And every time you took a sip of your drink, you’d almost look at me. Almost, not quite. I think I was starting to get mad.

Mara had given up on me. Other people I was waiting to see had since arrived. I wasn’t even tipsy. And every time I’d start to forget and enjoy myself, I’d see you with that tumbler about to touch your lips, almost looking at me, but not. When I walked past on my way to the bathroom, I saw you look finally, out of the corner of my eye, but I was only a passing glance and you were back to your brunette in no time at all.

Fuck you, I thought, and made a face you weren’t paying enough attention to see. I took my time in the bathroom, all flailing hands and private pissy mirror moments, and when I came back, you were gone. The chickadee was busy talking to Mara and Sarah (who was this girl?). My seat had, naturally, been taken. I felt…better, with the situation changed, and disgusted because I wanted to find you. I grabbed my lager from the table, tossed back what was left, and went into the kitchen for something new. Time to get crunk, I thought, but we didn’t quite have the music going yet.

The kitchen was small. You weren’t in it. I poured myself a glass of wine, mulled and smelling like potpourri. Refreshing. Eight paces from the sink and I was holding up the doorway, eyes scanning the room, listening for a conversation to jump in to. Nothing stood out to me, though, and I found myself fidgeting too much with my hair, starting to feel too tense all out in the open of the doorway.

Just drink the wine… Be cool, and you’ll feel better in a minute.

That’s when I saw you outside, walking by the window on your way in. I felt a sneer working itself hard on my lip, and hopefully no one really noticed (I could blame it on the spice if I really wanted). Fast, I thought. I was drinking too fast, nervous, wondering how you hadn’t come in yet. I took another sip anyway.

The door opened with a forceful shake and a creak so characteristic of these old, sticky, poor houses, and you were behind it, hand on the knob, collar flipped up. You had no choice but to clap eyes on me. I was right there, a straight line away from you, head low in my cup, eyes up, and that cat-eyed look on my face. You halted for a moment, still holding on to the door, and I could tell then you’d been shook up. I remained casual cool-eyed, almost disdainful. Finally, you came inside.

Came inside, pulled off your jacket, and found your seat. Yeah, sit down, I thought, take your time. I’ll take mine with this wine and it’ll all be fine… Cause you’d exposed yourself just now and I had you like a hawk, talons ready to sink in. I was feeling vengeful for all my frantic thoughts. You didn’t look at me again until I was done and rinsing out my mug in the sink. Over my shoulder I caught you, and after a round of laughter, compelled or shaken, you rose, posture dedicating itself to bring you in here.

Inwardly I scoffed, then looked away. Had I won? Were you coming in here to talk to me? To yell at me for giving you a pissy look? Were you thirsty? I busied myself in mixing up more delicious spirits…

You stopped beside me. I glanced up, then got on to slicing that lime.

“Want something to drink, Ed?”

You were about to say hi. “Well, in a bit.” Pause to think. “What’s up?” You gripped onto your belt loops for dear life.

“Nothing much.” Sip to taste the mix. “Why?”

You looked down at me, apparently eager to get my attention again after all this. “Just wondering, you seem…”

“What, mad?”

I smirked. But you nodded, once, a slow cant of your head, the kind that stopped and paused long enough for the messy thoughts behind your eyes to gather themselves. Damn you.

“Molly, I’m sorry about her, she’s Lou’s sister. She came over to visit him and then he just fucking took off like he always does.”

“Left alone in the house with her skinny boy dream date…” (Play it cool, girl.)

“Something like that.”

“I didn’t know she was that old now.”

“Yeah…”

I had stopped being angry. You used the quiet voice on me, and the stoop to speak in my ear move, and I remembered that you were never a dick on purpose. But now you were close to me, no, really, literally close to me, and I could feel a heady warmth creeping up my collarbone. I looked down, narrow hips and veiny arms; your hand was on the table in front of me. I thought, this was too much, too obvious, I thought you weren’t gonna take it back to then, playing with dangling feelings that weren’t committed enough to hurt, even though I’d been playing out some fairy tale shit like this in my head the whole time.

I was going to move, away or anywhere, and I was going to touch you no matter which way, and I think you meant for that. Taller than me. Your eyes were intent, you shifted a little closer. I wanted my drink for how hard you were laying it on. Hard and fast, and I really don’t think you were playing this time, and here I thought I was in control just now. I could’ve been. This could’ve been different. I really missed you. I was losing.

“Molly.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go somewhere else, okay.”

Not do you want to, but let’s. I breathed heavy.

Then you put your hand (not from the table) on the slope of my neck. You had me. Now we were back in high school, operating on some silent shared mode of thought from eight years ago, except you were coming from the future, now. In control and coaxing and gentle and not waiting for my move like you used to. You gave me a squeeze and I started to walk, we started to.

I had no idea where we were going or where we would go or just what the look in your eye was trying to tell me. But we put on our jackets and excused ourselves and Lou’s little sister didn’t have anything she could do about it.

We left into the cold calm outside, the winter break, the take it back to then world from the future. I put my arm through yours and remembered the last time we did this and that one Robert Frost poem we spent a month picking apart.

Catching up in easy voices, the quiet night was lovely and dark and deep.

It was hours before we went to sleep.