The Dark Light of Day
Page 32
“Yeah, well... that’s not the whole reason.”
“Then, what is?” I’ve never felt the desire to know anything more about anyone before, but Jake intrigued me on a level I was very unfamiliar with. If he had a diary, I would have unapologetically stolen it and read it.
“Pass,” he said smiling, using my own game against me.
“You can’t pass,” I scolded. “It’s not your game!”
“It is now.” He came around the counter to sit on the barstool next to me. He lifted his sandwich and in one bite had finished off half, laughing with his mouth full.
“You’re going to choke,” I said. Jake laughed harder and tried to swallow the food in his mouth. His eyes were watering by the time he got it all down. When he pushed away his empty plate, his forearm brushed mine. I jumped. It wasn’t just a flinch, either. I jumped high enough to knock over the stool I was sitting on and fall against the computer desk.
“Whoa, there. Are you okay?”
It took me a second to do an inventory. I was okay. It was just a brush of the arm. Nothing inappropriate. No harm done. It didn’t even burn all that much. I nodded at him and tried to catch my breath. Jake reached down and righted my stool. He patted the cushion, inviting me to take my seat again. Reluctantly, I did. I naively hoped that he would overlook what had just happened. Of course he didn’t.
“What was that about?”
“It’s nothing,” I answered.
“That didn’t seem like nothing. Was it because I touched you?”
“Pass.” I didn’t want to spend any more time on this subject, and making an excuse for my behavior meant lingering. The pass seemed like my best option.
“This little get-to-know-you lunch is really working out well.” Jake laughed. I actually laughed too. “How about this instead: since we’re going to be living together for a bit, and we are just so damned forthcoming about our personal lives, what if every day we answer one question and reveal one significant thing about ourselves? We can pass on as many questions as we would like, but at some point we have to answer. And no question can be asked twice in one day.” Jake seemed proud of these rules. I was terrified. “Any follow-up questions are allowed.”
“Like, I can ask you what is your favorite color?” I asked.
“We can ask those types of little things too, but by the end of the day you have to answer something significant.”
“Like, what you do for a living?” I offered. I raised my eyebrow at him.
“Now, you’re getting it, Bee,” Jake said. “And I’m gonna pass on that one. How did your Nan die?”
“Meth lab explosion.” It sounded downright silly saying it aloud, like it was a TV crime show instead of my life. I didn’t like talking about it, but it was public record, and in the vault of my secrets it was a relatively minor one.
“Bullshit! You’re making that up.”
“Look it up,” I told him. “Made the news and everything. Nan didn’t do drugs... well, not after the sixties, anyway. And yet somehow she wound up in a meth lab trailer in the middle of the Preserve during the bright light of day when she should have been on her way to my graduation.”
Jake threw away our plates and moved to sit on the couch. Instead of taking the seat next to him, I just swiveled to face him from my place at the counter. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Okay, let’s get one thing out of the way: let’s not say I’m sorry to one another. I hate that expression. What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything. I’m not sorry because you lost your mother and brother. I didn’t do it.” The words came out a little rougher than I intended.
“Okay,” Jake agreed. “No more I’m sorrys. How about we just tell it like it is?”
“Now we’re talking.”
“Bee, I am not sorry your Nan died because I didn’t do anything to contribute to her untimely demise, but it still sucks.”
“Better.” I laughed.
“What’s your mom like?” Jake asked.
I stopped laughing immediately. “Definite pass on that one.” I pointed to his arm. “The tattoo on your forearm: whose initials?” He glanced down at the intricate gray and black design on his left forearm that started somewhere inside his short sleeved shirt and ran down to the top of his hand, creating an interlocking SL.
“Pass,” he answered. “How long did you live with your grand-mother?”
“A little under four years. How old are you?”
“Then, what is?” I’ve never felt the desire to know anything more about anyone before, but Jake intrigued me on a level I was very unfamiliar with. If he had a diary, I would have unapologetically stolen it and read it.
“Pass,” he said smiling, using my own game against me.
“You can’t pass,” I scolded. “It’s not your game!”
“It is now.” He came around the counter to sit on the barstool next to me. He lifted his sandwich and in one bite had finished off half, laughing with his mouth full.
“You’re going to choke,” I said. Jake laughed harder and tried to swallow the food in his mouth. His eyes were watering by the time he got it all down. When he pushed away his empty plate, his forearm brushed mine. I jumped. It wasn’t just a flinch, either. I jumped high enough to knock over the stool I was sitting on and fall against the computer desk.
“Whoa, there. Are you okay?”
It took me a second to do an inventory. I was okay. It was just a brush of the arm. Nothing inappropriate. No harm done. It didn’t even burn all that much. I nodded at him and tried to catch my breath. Jake reached down and righted my stool. He patted the cushion, inviting me to take my seat again. Reluctantly, I did. I naively hoped that he would overlook what had just happened. Of course he didn’t.
“What was that about?”
“It’s nothing,” I answered.
“That didn’t seem like nothing. Was it because I touched you?”
“Pass.” I didn’t want to spend any more time on this subject, and making an excuse for my behavior meant lingering. The pass seemed like my best option.
“This little get-to-know-you lunch is really working out well.” Jake laughed. I actually laughed too. “How about this instead: since we’re going to be living together for a bit, and we are just so damned forthcoming about our personal lives, what if every day we answer one question and reveal one significant thing about ourselves? We can pass on as many questions as we would like, but at some point we have to answer. And no question can be asked twice in one day.” Jake seemed proud of these rules. I was terrified. “Any follow-up questions are allowed.”
“Like, I can ask you what is your favorite color?” I asked.
“We can ask those types of little things too, but by the end of the day you have to answer something significant.”
“Like, what you do for a living?” I offered. I raised my eyebrow at him.
“Now, you’re getting it, Bee,” Jake said. “And I’m gonna pass on that one. How did your Nan die?”
“Meth lab explosion.” It sounded downright silly saying it aloud, like it was a TV crime show instead of my life. I didn’t like talking about it, but it was public record, and in the vault of my secrets it was a relatively minor one.
“Bullshit! You’re making that up.”
“Look it up,” I told him. “Made the news and everything. Nan didn’t do drugs... well, not after the sixties, anyway. And yet somehow she wound up in a meth lab trailer in the middle of the Preserve during the bright light of day when she should have been on her way to my graduation.”
Jake threw away our plates and moved to sit on the couch. Instead of taking the seat next to him, I just swiveled to face him from my place at the counter. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Okay, let’s get one thing out of the way: let’s not say I’m sorry to one another. I hate that expression. What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything. I’m not sorry because you lost your mother and brother. I didn’t do it.” The words came out a little rougher than I intended.
“Okay,” Jake agreed. “No more I’m sorrys. How about we just tell it like it is?”
“Now we’re talking.”
“Bee, I am not sorry your Nan died because I didn’t do anything to contribute to her untimely demise, but it still sucks.”
“Better.” I laughed.
“What’s your mom like?” Jake asked.
I stopped laughing immediately. “Definite pass on that one.” I pointed to his arm. “The tattoo on your forearm: whose initials?” He glanced down at the intricate gray and black design on his left forearm that started somewhere inside his short sleeved shirt and ran down to the top of his hand, creating an interlocking SL.
“Pass,” he answered. “How long did you live with your grand-mother?”
“A little under four years. How old are you?”
