If I Stay (2 page)

When he finished, the entire room stood and clapped, and our eyes met again.

“He's looking at you,” Brandon whispered. “Totally. He's totally staring you down. If you don't nab him, I call dibs.”

“His poem.” I gasped a little, warm and achy in the best sort of way. My heart, if it were to
sprout wings, would have been soaring.

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “It didn't even suck like the rest of them.”

I closed my eyes quickly, but when I opened them he had already disappeared. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling, chalking it up to the alcohol dancing delicately in my brain. I'm not sure how much time passed, but when I was finally snapped out of my daze by the sound of Brandon's laughter, Chelsea was handing me a dark-looking shot that smelled simultaneously both fruity and tropical. A wide grin complimented her lips that were otherwise unfortunately pouty.

“Don't worry,” she said, winking at Brandon. “It tastes mostly like Mango. You'll like it.”

I slid my wallet from my back pocket, but she shook her head and told me that it was on the house. So, as to not offend, I quickly downed the shot, noting that it did taste a lot like Mango...and also a lot like cough syrup. Brandon ordered two shots of tequila, drinking them down like they were water and nothing else.

I wonder where he went
. My mind was buzzing. And although the words were more meant to be posed inside of my head than actually spoken, Brandon nudged my shoulder like there was sudden mischief afoot.

“I'd say he's right in front of you.”

“What?” I snapped. “What are you talking about?”

And, because sometimes I'm just
that
oblivious, Brandon grabbed me by the shoulders and physically turned me in the direction that The Stranger was standing.

He looked down at me, a half-smile tugging at his mouth and an almost fascinated softness in the way he said:

“
He-llo
.”

Don't blow this
. Oh God, I was really dying.
Do. Not. Blow. This.

“Hi,” I said quietly, feeling just slightly intimidated. Not just because he was undeniably attractive, and the way he said
Hello
(of all things!) somehow managed to race up my spine like frantic fingertips. But he
was
tall. Really tall. My head barely brushed against his shoulder. I felt like a mixture between a midget and hobbit. Like a Mobbit. “I mean, you...”

I was blowing it. Completely blowing it. And The Stranger seemed nothing but amused.

“...your poem. It was really great.”

Great. Really great. That's all I could come up with. Still, the dark-eyed man smiled, nodding his head and taking a few moments (agonizing, terribly agonizing) moments before he spoke again. Brandon, like a teenage girl, was practically salivating as he watched from directly behind.

“Well, I always appreciate a compliment,” he said. “And your name is?”

“Gemma,” I replied. “Yours?”

“Ben,” he said. “My name's Ben.”

From his spot, Brandon scoffed a little, and his drunken stupor was all the more glaring when the next sentence tumbled out of his mouth.

“He's like Edward Cullen. Minus the stalker-vibe and creepy eyes and the whole thing about sparkling in the sun. Like, who IS this guy?”

He turned to Chelsea, who was practically in stitches, leaning over the bar and holding her sides.

“Another one of those red concoctions you were whipping out earlier, Chelsea. And you don't have to worry about the whole
idea
of alcohol thing with me. I'm indestructible.”

Ben pressed his lips together, and with reason enough I quickly steered him away.

“Is that your friend?” Ben asked, laughter ringing in his voice. Like it was funny and not completely horrifying.

“Yes. Admittedly, yes. I swear, he's really great to be around when sober.”

“He seems like he'd be fun to be around either way,” Ben smiled. “I like people who aren't afraid to just speak whatever it is they feel like saying.”

He cocked his head, just slightly, to the side. “But you seem relatively quiet.”

“Not quiet,” I insisted. “Just...I'm not sure how to put it.

You, strange poetry-writing man, are gorgeous. On a scale of 1-10, you would be off the charts. And I am scared. So very, very scared.

My mind spun in counter-clockwise circles. A mixture of
please stay forever
and
excuse me while I leave and hide for the rest of my life
was wracking my entire being as Ben stopped at the entrance to the Open Mic floor, his hand reaching out to tuck away a stray strand of hair that had fallen between my eyes. Suddenly, none of those feelings mattered anymore. His touch, the simplest gesture of his fingertips against my skin, was entirely electric.

“Listen, Gemma. I'm not usually this forward, but let me buy you a drink. There's something about you that makes me think you're worth knowing.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “If I'm worth knowing. I could be totally boring. Dramatic. An absolute mess.”

“Well, there's certainly no certainty in anything,” he quipped. “But I'd like to find out.”

TWO

I could see Brandon from our spot at the secluded little table that Ben led us to, stepping aside and letting me slide in first. The proper gentleman.

“Thanks,” I said, watching out of the corner of my eye as Brandon hopped down from his place at the bar and disappeared into the crowd. I knew then that I wouldn't see him until the next morning – and likely, we'd have company.

When I turned back to Ben, he was watching me quietly. His look was heady, curious. A little bit on the devious side, but I'd later discover that his deadly-demon gaze was something that could not be helped. It was forever a part of him.

“It was something about the way the light was hitting your hair, I think.” He started, tapping his fingers against the lacquered tabletop. “Almost as if your hair was set fire.”

Oh, God. He
was
a writer.

“So you have a thing for gingers?” I asked, giving him my best attempt at a flirtatious smirk. He laughed.

“You would be the first,” he admitted. “Not that I'm necessarily biased towards any one hair color. But I'll confess, that hair coupled with those lovely brown optics is something I certainly can't seem to pull myself away from.”

His eyes fell on my lips, and I could feel my breath start to quicken. The quiet beating of the organ that rested in my rib cage started to thrash around like a caged animal. What was he doing to me?

“So you're a writer,” I needed to change the subject to something else. Anything else. I just wasn't ready for this. “What's your favorite book?”

Just then, thank the Gods, Chelsea appeared with a tray of different drinks than what she was previously slinging. An amber liquid in tiny glasses that smelled mildly of almonds.

Ben smiled, handing her a few folded bills. Glancing down at them, her mouth dropped open.

“Keep the change,” he said lightly. She smiled with the intensity of a high school cheerleader on amphetamines, and I could tell that she was having about as difficult a time leaving the presence of this foreign Ben character as I was. Only I suppose I was the lucky one, sitting here, directly across from him. No other obligations aside from simply enjoying what I could grasp with my few senses.

With wide eyes, Chelsea quickly skirted away and reclaimed her place behind the bar. I looked down at my glass, uncertain even though I could feel Ben's eyes burning from across that small, small table.

“Here's the thing,” I said, embarrassed. “I don't really like the taste of alcohol.”

Ben's eyebrows raised, an unexpected concern sweeping over him.

“Well, then I'll order you something else. What would you like?”

What are you doing?
My brain was writhing, crawling the walls. I couldn't
not
drink what was being offered to me. So with one swift gulp, I swallowed the drink and slammed the glass against the table. It tasted, to my pleasant surprise, somewhat like almonds. Sweet,  thick, and warm as it sank into my blood. I could feel the slow caress against my face. My cheeks flushed, knees weak.

“It's fine,” I swallowed again, wishing for a glass of water. “That was nice.”

And it really was. But I was also really,
really
bombing. I just knew it.

“It was an amaretto,” Ben smiled, tilting back his own drink. When we were finished, he paused for a moment, his fingers brushing against the full-petal lips that were pursed, just slightly, as if in concentration. “And to answer your previous question, I would have to say that
my favorite book, by a wide margin, would be The Brothers Karamazov.”

“You read Dostoyevsky?” I nearly choked. Then again, could I really be surprised?

Ben nodded, running his fingers around the rim of his glass, and as I watched him I could have sworn that somewhere, likely in one my old Cosmopolitans, that I'd read something about hand-signals, and the various potential translations. Compelled, I looked down at my own two hands. The dark purple polish nearly black in the shadows beneath the table-top. By comparison, my literary knowledge felt utterly flat and boring. Had I read
The Brothers Karamazov
? Well, technically. Or, to be more honest, I'd skimmed over it.

Sparknotes may have also played a part.

“But what do you enjoy, Gemma?” he asked, his tone soft. “What do you like to read? Or, what do you like that extends beyond the borders of words on paper?”

I was convinced, at that very moment, that I could listen to him talk forever.

“I like Salinger,” I told him. “The Catcher in the Rye. Franny and Zooey. And some of his short stories, like A Perfect Day for Banana Fish.”

Ben smirked.

“Where you aware that many serial killers have been known to idolize Holden Caulfield? In fact, studies have shown that the majority of them, by a long shot, have stated that Catcher was their most favorite novel.”

I smiled, he smiled. Perfectly pleased with himself.

“I also like graphic novels,” I said quietly, and secretly hoped that he wouldn't think I was a
total
dweeb for reading works that consisted mostly of drawings. “Neil Gaiman is a favorite.”

“Brilliant. American Gods,” Ben breathed, twirling the ice around in his glass. “So you're into artwork?”

“Well, yeah. I draw a lot.”

I draw a lot
. Did I really need to take this conversation from something potentially sexy to something potentially pre-school? Yes. Yes, I did. Still, it was true. My apartment, from wall to wall, was covered with random artwork. While many of my fellow peers preferred painting or photography, I sketched. Spanning from realistic depictions to the various cartoon-styles like that out of super hero comics. I suppose I could say with some confidence that I harbored a certain talent in the field. Still. Compared to this brilliant mind who seemed so capable of merging words together like atoms, I felt a little bit lame. Or maybe it was just that my confidence was low.

I thought of Toby, and Brandon's snarky remarks. Maybe I had allowed myself to be beaten around emotionally for too long. Even the thought of my own very-existent talents seemed merely sub-par. And I
knew
that I wasn't sub-par. I was awesome. Really awesome. And I deserved to feel more than this sudden hanging disappointment in myself whenever I opened my mouth to talk about something that mattered a great deal to me. It was a big part of my life.

Ben cleared his throat, and our eyes met again. He pressed his lips together, that same concern echoing as he reached over, cupped his hand over mine, and asked: “Is everything alright?”

“Oh. Yes,” I said quickly. “It's just, I guess I feel a little lame talking about my drawings while you're sitting here, all eloquent with your words and poetry and...”

I almost said
beautiful face. Perfect frame. Perfect everything.
But I stopped myself.

“...I'm a little embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” his tone heightened, alarmed. “You're an artist. What is there to be embarrassed about? Gemma...”

And right then, his fingers wrapped around my hand. We were holding hands. I couldn't
believe it. Was this alright? Should I be remotely alarmed that this relatively-new person was holding my hand? “I would love to see your work sometime.”

“Really?” I gulped. He leaned in, close enough so that I could smell the almond amaretto and something else, mint, smoke, on his breath.

“Really.” Ben insisted, sliding over so that his body was next to mine, our fingers still interlocked. And although I snuck a quick glance around the small room in an attempt to locate Brandon, my anxiety on high, he was nowhere to be found. Feeling Ben's fingers brush over my shoulder, he slowly slid the strap that had fallen back in place with a slow, soft sigh. “Among other things.”

My blood was boiling, my hands trembling. I felt the urge to run and yet, at the very same time, lean in and kiss him. With his eyes on my lips, it would have been so easy. So easy. And oh, the desire that flooded over my body like fire.

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. But I need air.” I said, scolding myself immediately. “I just need to step outside for a moment.”

“Oh no.” Ben moved away a few inches, his face quickly softening. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I stammered. Then, as only someone with my socially-inept prowess could create, out it came like word vomit. Uncontrollable word vomit: “It's just, I've never done this. And you're ridiculously hot. And I can't stop thinking about kissing you.”

Shit.
What was I thinking? Fantastic. Just fantastic. Before he could say another word, I jumped out of the booth and walked straight towards the entrance, shoving through the doors and welcoming the rush of cold air. I rested my back against the brick wall, my feet crunching beneath a thin layer of ice. My body, if not still heated by The Stranger's fluid touch, would have been shivering. But I was still burning, inside and out.

There was one thing I was unhesitatingly certain of: for whatever reason, I wanted Ben. In just the few fleeting hours that I'd been at that bar, I could attest with a bitter, nail-biting, totally-engulfing honestly that there was nobody I had ever wanted more than the man with those dark eyes and even darker smile. Whose words, with their sheer resonance, penetrated my skin and bones to somewhere deeper. A place I'd never even ventured into before. And the second part that left me glowingly certain:

He wanted me, too.

But was this okay? Was it reasonable for me to be standing here, in the biting cold, contemplating the feeling of a man who I'd only known for a span of time that in the grand scheme of things would merely be a blip on the radar screen that was my life. I would leave tonight, and it would be over, and I would never see him again. Then, as Ben had so beautifully demonstrated in his poem, he would become nothing but a fuzzy memory. And memories, as I knew so well, were fragile. We couldn't keep them forever.

I thought about Toby, and how many times he'd broken up with me over the stupidest things. Like the time he caught me texting Brandon while we were at the cinema (a foreign flick, with subtitles) and his jealousy had thrown him into a fit of rage sufficient enough to leave me stranded curb-side, waiting for the next taxi. Alone. I thought about how he was always picking at me about my clothes, and my music, and how Brandon was stupid for liking Radio Pop and Nicolas Cage. Which bothered me, because I loved both of those things. Especially Nic Cage. Especially Brandon.

I thought about the more tender moments, like how he would hold me from time to time, or how he remembered my favorite ice cream flavor. How he'd written a song for me on his guitar,
even though later down the road I discovered that he'd played it for many other girls.

In those few moments, I thought about love, and life, and perhaps the necessity of moving on. All while standing outside, in the freezing cold, with the sound of bar music practically beating through the brick walls.

So Brandon was right. Toby wasn't a monster, but he wasn't a man, either. He wasn't the man for me. He wasn't the One. And I suppose, all things considered, that a full semester and Christmas Break was long enough to waste my thoughts and concerns on someone who wasn't even around. Who didn't want me.

Who never really wanted me.

As I stood there, hands in pockets and my eyes on the ground, looking at the little pieces of broken beer bottle glass that seemed to reflect the moonlight in a way that maybe Ben could write about, I heard the door open. I heard my name, although it seemed far away, and too soft to really grasp against the sound of the whipping air. But when his fingertips brushed against my chin, and I tilted my head (because he was tall, so ridiculously tall) up to meet his eyes, suddenly nothing that I was so busy heavily contemplating mattered anymore.

“Gemma,” Ben said, wrapped in a coat and scarf. Looking at him, he was shivering a little, which made me smile in a tender, endearing sort of way. “I'm sorry, I was worried. I swear to God that I'm not some sort of stalker or serial killer or pervert. I just...I had to find you.”

“I'm glad you did,” I said. In our shared gaze, I could see his eyes were searching for something. Sadness, anxiety, concern. His hands were at his sides; his body relaxed and yet totally prepared to jump at any time, like an animal waiting to pounce. I could read him so easily despite how little I really knew. He wore his desire like a caged demon, resting inside of him and bubbling up in his widening eyes. And I couldn't stop myself anymore.

His height proved to be a minor dilemma, given that I could only reach up and succeed in touching his torso. My fingers grazed over the back of his coat, up his spine, and over the barely-naked skin of his neck that I had to stand on my toes to reach as he leaned down to accommodate my stature. We locked eyes, his nose against mine, our breath like smoke in the cold air, our skin prickling from the single-digit temperatures and maybe something more.

Without waiting, for fear of suddenly losing him, I pulled him into the hardest kiss I've ever given anyone. His body froze, his hands fluttering nervously around my waist as I pulled away, his eyes hooded, unwavering. Completely locked into my own. Wordlessly, he moved my hair to the side, pressing my entire body against the brick wall, his lips on my neck as he tried to kiss softly, tenderly, his breath shallow and hands gripping me against him. With our difference in height leaving him leaning into me, he lifted me up so that my legs were around his waist, our hips pressed together, and with the softest of gasps he kissed me again. This time it was harder, more frantic, more panicked as if he knew, in his deepest core, that it was the only kiss we'd ever share. My hands were in his hair, around his neck, combing against his back as his mouth found that spot right below my chin, at the curve of my throat, where even the slightest brush of skin against skin sent me spiraling.