Never Never
Page 4
I have a two-second silent debate with myself, aware that if I step away from him, it’ll make me look like a coward. However, I’m also aware that if I step forward, I’ll be challenging him to something I don’t want to deal with right now. He obviously has issues with me and whatever it was that I chose to do Friday night that pissed him off.
I compromise by giving him no reaction whatsoever. Look unaffected.
I lazily move my attention to the sink and turn one of the knobs until a stream of water begins to pour from the faucet. “Save it for the field,” I say. I immediately want to take back those words. I hadn’t considered he might not even play football. I assumed he did based on his size, but if he doesn’t, my comment will have not made a damn bit of sense. I hold my breath and wait for him to correct me, or call me out.
Neither of those things happens.
He stares for a few more seconds, and then he shoulders past me, purposefully bumping me on his way out the door. I cup my hands under the stream of water and take a sip. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and glance up. At myself.
At Silas Nash.
What the hell kind of name is that, anyway?
I’m staring, emotionless, into a pair of unfamiliar, dark eyes. I feel as though I’m staring at two eyes I’ve never seen before, despite the fact that I’ve more than likely looked at these eyes on a daily basis since I was old enough to reach a mirror.
I’m as familiar with this person in the reflection as I am with the girl who is—according to some guy named Andrew—the girl I’ve been “banging” for two years now.
I’m as familiar with this person in the reflection as I am with every single aspect of my life right now.
Which is not familiar at all.
“Who are you?” I whisper to him.
The bathroom door begins to open slowly, and my eyes move from my reflection to the reflection of the door. A hand appears, gripping the door. I recognize the sleek, red polish on the tips of her fingers. The girl I’ve been “banging” for more than two years.
“Silas?”
I stand up straight and turn to face the door full-on as she peeks around it. When her eyes meet mine, it’s only for two seconds. She glances away, scanning the rest of the bathroom.
“It’s just me,” I say. She nods and makes it the rest of the way through the door, albeit extremely hesitant. I wish I knew how to reassure her that everything is okay so she won’t grow suspicious. I also wish I remembered her, or anything about our relationship, because I want to tell her. I need to tell her. I need for someone else to know, so that I can ask questions.
But how does a guy tell his girlfriend he has no idea who she is? Who he, himself is?
He doesn’t tell her. He pretends, just like he’s been pretending with everyone else.
One hundred silent questions fill her eyes at once, and I immediately want to dodge them all. “I’m fine, Charlie.” I smile at her, because it feels like something I should do. “Just not feeling so hot. Go back to class.”
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t smile.
She stays where she is, unaffected by my instruction. She reminds me of one of those animals on springs you’d ride on a playground. The kind you push, but they just bounce right back up. I feel like if someone were to shove her shoulders, she’d lean straight back, feet in place, and then bounce right back up again.
I don’t remember what those things are called, but I do make a mental note that I somehow remember them. I’ve made a lot of mental notes in the last three hours.
I’m a senior.
My name is Silas.
Nash might be my last name.
My girlfriend’s name is Charlie.
I play football.
I know what jellyfish look like.
Charlie tilts her head and the corner of her mouth twitches slightly. Her lips part, and for a moment, all I hear are nervous breaths. When she finally forms words, I want to hide from them. I want to tell her to close her eyes and count to twenty until I’m too far away to hear her question.
“What’s my last name, Silas?”
Her voice is like smoke. Soft and wispy and then gone.
I can’t tell if she’s extremely intuitive or if I’m doing a horrible job of covering up the fact that I know nothing. For a moment, I debate whether or not I should tell her. If I tell her and she believes me, she might be able to answer a lot of questions I have. But if I tell her and she doesn’t believe me…
“Babe,” I say with a dismissive laugh. Do I call her babe? “What kind of question is that?”
She lifts the foot I was positive was stuck to the floor, and she takes a step forward. She takes another. She continues toward me until she’s about a foot away; close enough that I can smell her.
Lilies.
She smells like lilies, and I don’t know how I can possibly remember what lilies smell like, but somehow not remember the actual person standing in front of me who smells like them.
Her eyes haven’t left mine, not even once.
“Silas,” she says. “What’s my last name?”
I work my jaw back and forth, and then turn around to face the sink again. I lean forward and grip it tightly with both hands. I slowly lift my eyes until they meet hers in the reflection.
“Your last name?” My mouth is dry again and my words come out scratchy.
She waits.
I look away from her and back at the eyes of the unfamiliar guy in the mirror. “I…I can’t remember.”
I compromise by giving him no reaction whatsoever. Look unaffected.
I lazily move my attention to the sink and turn one of the knobs until a stream of water begins to pour from the faucet. “Save it for the field,” I say. I immediately want to take back those words. I hadn’t considered he might not even play football. I assumed he did based on his size, but if he doesn’t, my comment will have not made a damn bit of sense. I hold my breath and wait for him to correct me, or call me out.
Neither of those things happens.
He stares for a few more seconds, and then he shoulders past me, purposefully bumping me on his way out the door. I cup my hands under the stream of water and take a sip. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and glance up. At myself.
At Silas Nash.
What the hell kind of name is that, anyway?
I’m staring, emotionless, into a pair of unfamiliar, dark eyes. I feel as though I’m staring at two eyes I’ve never seen before, despite the fact that I’ve more than likely looked at these eyes on a daily basis since I was old enough to reach a mirror.
I’m as familiar with this person in the reflection as I am with the girl who is—according to some guy named Andrew—the girl I’ve been “banging” for two years now.
I’m as familiar with this person in the reflection as I am with every single aspect of my life right now.
Which is not familiar at all.
“Who are you?” I whisper to him.
The bathroom door begins to open slowly, and my eyes move from my reflection to the reflection of the door. A hand appears, gripping the door. I recognize the sleek, red polish on the tips of her fingers. The girl I’ve been “banging” for more than two years.
“Silas?”
I stand up straight and turn to face the door full-on as she peeks around it. When her eyes meet mine, it’s only for two seconds. She glances away, scanning the rest of the bathroom.
“It’s just me,” I say. She nods and makes it the rest of the way through the door, albeit extremely hesitant. I wish I knew how to reassure her that everything is okay so she won’t grow suspicious. I also wish I remembered her, or anything about our relationship, because I want to tell her. I need to tell her. I need for someone else to know, so that I can ask questions.
But how does a guy tell his girlfriend he has no idea who she is? Who he, himself is?
He doesn’t tell her. He pretends, just like he’s been pretending with everyone else.
One hundred silent questions fill her eyes at once, and I immediately want to dodge them all. “I’m fine, Charlie.” I smile at her, because it feels like something I should do. “Just not feeling so hot. Go back to class.”
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t smile.
She stays where she is, unaffected by my instruction. She reminds me of one of those animals on springs you’d ride on a playground. The kind you push, but they just bounce right back up. I feel like if someone were to shove her shoulders, she’d lean straight back, feet in place, and then bounce right back up again.
I don’t remember what those things are called, but I do make a mental note that I somehow remember them. I’ve made a lot of mental notes in the last three hours.
I’m a senior.
My name is Silas.
Nash might be my last name.
My girlfriend’s name is Charlie.
I play football.
I know what jellyfish look like.
Charlie tilts her head and the corner of her mouth twitches slightly. Her lips part, and for a moment, all I hear are nervous breaths. When she finally forms words, I want to hide from them. I want to tell her to close her eyes and count to twenty until I’m too far away to hear her question.
“What’s my last name, Silas?”
Her voice is like smoke. Soft and wispy and then gone.
I can’t tell if she’s extremely intuitive or if I’m doing a horrible job of covering up the fact that I know nothing. For a moment, I debate whether or not I should tell her. If I tell her and she believes me, she might be able to answer a lot of questions I have. But if I tell her and she doesn’t believe me…
“Babe,” I say with a dismissive laugh. Do I call her babe? “What kind of question is that?”
She lifts the foot I was positive was stuck to the floor, and she takes a step forward. She takes another. She continues toward me until she’s about a foot away; close enough that I can smell her.
Lilies.
She smells like lilies, and I don’t know how I can possibly remember what lilies smell like, but somehow not remember the actual person standing in front of me who smells like them.
Her eyes haven’t left mine, not even once.
“Silas,” she says. “What’s my last name?”
I work my jaw back and forth, and then turn around to face the sink again. I lean forward and grip it tightly with both hands. I slowly lift my eyes until they meet hers in the reflection.
“Your last name?” My mouth is dry again and my words come out scratchy.
She waits.
I look away from her and back at the eyes of the unfamiliar guy in the mirror. “I…I can’t remember.”
