If I Stay (5 page)

Did that make me a terrible person? Especially since we didn't actually have sex. Not
really.
Or were my emotions just something belonging to the inevitable order of human experience? Where the better and brighter things make those moments that perhaps weren't so bright, just a little bit paler.

I sat down on my bed, sighing heavily. Although I hadn't received any alerts of a phone call, I thought I'd at least check. So I snatched my coat off the floor, dove into the pocket, and slid it open:

Nothing. Not even a text.

Maybe I wouldn't be hearing back from him, after all

I decided to take a shower anyway, suffering through the cold and intermittent bursts of scorching hot water. When finished, I fished around the closet for the only clean towel, wrapped myself up, and slipped into my bedroom. It felt good to at least be clean, but there was a mourning sort of feeling that came about with Ben's scent having left my skin. Like I was washing off what had happened last night with the soap and water. Remembering his shirt, I snuck out into the living room, grabbed my purse from the hallway, and upon getting back safely into my bedroom I shut the door and gingerly removed his shirt from my purse. Throwing myself down on my bed, I wrapped my arms around it, reaching over with my free hand to grab my phone in hopes that maybe, just maybe, there would be an alert.

That's when I saw it. A missed call from a foreign number, and a voicemail had been left. Freaking out, I quickly checked my mailbox, skipping through all pointless messages until I reached
the one
. I could barely breathe as I listened.

Gemma
. It was Ben. It was Ben!
Gemma, it's me. Please call me back. Or, I suppose you don't have to. But I would like to hear from you again, if...well. I don't know. I hope to hear back from you.

Click.

So he'd called. It wasn't over. And although I still naturally felt badly about skipping out on him, I seized my phone like it was the single most important thing in all of creation, and called him back. I couldn't dial the numbers fast enough.

It rang at least seven times before he finally picked up.

“Hello?” he said, as if he had no idea who it was on the other end. The curiosity hinged in his voice made me smile a little, my insides a torrent of butterflies.

“It's Gemma,” I answered. When he didn't reply after a moment, I followed with: “Listen. I'm sorry for leaving last night. I had a hard time falling asleep, and I guess I just got anxious...”

“It's fine,” he interrupted, his tone entirely neutral. As if he really didn't feel terrible about my leaving him. “I understand. I do, Gemma. And you did leave a note.”

“Yeah. I know,” I said. “But I still feel bad.”

“Well, don't feel bad.” I could practically see the twitch of his grin. “If anything, you should feel badly about the theft you engaged in when leaving my room. I seem to be missing a plain white shirt.”

So he knew. He knew that I'd swiped his shirt. Then again, how stupid could I really be? Of course he'd realize that I had taken it. He wasn't a moron.

“Are you mad?” Was all I could ask. And in response, of all things, he laughed.

“No, I'm not mad. Perplexed, maybe. But not mad. Anyway, it's fine, keep it. I think there's something sort of endearing about it, anyway. I guess. Or maybe that's my way of convincing myself that it wasn't, you know, kind of creepy.”

“I'm sorry if I'm creepy,” I told him, and his laughter tickled my ear.

“I'm not,” he said. “Anyway, it's fine. Keep it. I just hope you decide to wash it once and awhile.”

Never.
I couldn't stop grinning.
Well, alright. Probably. Eventually. When the smell of your cologne eventually fades away.

“I can't stay, unfortunately,” his voice broke through my brain fog. “But I was hoping to maybe see you again. That is, if you wanted. Maybe this time we could do things a little differently. I'd like to take you out. Somewhere nice. Somewhere where you wouldn't feel...I don't know.”

“Expected...to do anything?”

“I guess,” he answered. “I mean, bar settings are sort of...notorious. I almost feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”

“I think that sometimes things just unfold the way they were meant to unfold,” I told him. “I don't exactly regret it.”

And I didn't. I totally didn't. He took a solid minute before speaking again, and when he answered; his voice was low, quiet.

“Neither do I,” he said. “So does this mean I can see you again?”

“Of course.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Would tomorrow evening work?” I thought about class, and remembering having to get up early made me stifle a groan. “I'm tied up until late afternoon.”

“Perfect,” he said, his delight evident. “I'll call you tomorrow. In the afternoon, if that's fine with you?”

“That works.”

I smiled. I imagine he was smiling, too.

“I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Gemma.”

“Tomorrow. Goodnight, Ben.”

I hung up, throwing my phone on the bed and dancing around my room to the imagined sounds of something Brandon would play – some upbeat, poppy, dancy-dance tune.

It wasn't until Brandon opened my door, staring at me as I stood on my bed, arms in the air, that I finally forced myself down from the high that could have touched the tops of skyscrapers.

“Where are your friends?” I asked.

“They left,” he told me. “Now, I know you're excited about Benjamin Cullen, but I was wondering if you wanted to take some time from your lovefest to play a round of Mario Cart with me. Nic Cage doesn't exactly make the best competitor.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Actually, I'd really like that.”

So that's what we did. We played Mario Cart, and I let Brandon win every time to avoid the inevitable melt-down that would ensue if I hadn't (all in the sake of good humor, but still) and when night came around, and it was time for bed, he gave me the biggest Brandon hug in the world, looked me in the eyes, and said:

“If he hurts you, I'll kill him.”

“I love you, Brandon.”

“Love you too, Gems.”

We then said our goodnights, and I slipped into bed, and even though I knew I had school in the morning, and would have benefited from a solid eight hours – I didn't sleep a wink.

There was only one thing on my mind.

FIVE

There were two things that I was immediately thankful for: one being that my first class didn't actually
start
until 9am. Which, really, isn't all that bad when considering that it granted me ample time to grab a shower, fix myself up, and float around the apartment for an hour before actually leaving.

Number two: being the first one up, I secured the hot water. Which, when I arose from bed that morning after about a solid ten minutes of actual sleep, was something that was more than welcomed. Rolling out from beneath the covers, Ben's shirt lost somewhere between my sheets and comforter, I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, took a shower, dried my hair, straightened it, and dressed. I was careful to select the right First Day Back outfit – jeans, a camisole, a simple gray sweater, and my favorite pair of black Toms. After finishing up my makeup, I took one last look at myself in the mirror before deciding:
Good enough.

I then went to wake Brandon up, which was another beast entirely.

Stepping into his room, I was careful to avoid the crumpled up pieces of paper and bags that once nestled snacks like Doritos and other equally cheesy and unhealthy things. I was also careful not to step on Nic Cage, who had somehow managed to relocate from the living room into Brandon's bedroom, and then lay himself on the floor.

I didn't even want to question it.

“Brandon,” I whispered, trying my best to sound gentle and I guess sort of motherly. “Brandon, you need to get up.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he hissed. “Is it the Apocalypse?”

“No, Brandon. You need to get ready if we want to make it to class on time.”

“School. Apocalypse. Same thing.”

He groaned into his pillow, clutching it with the look of a sad little boy who was told that he'd never again be able to eat junk food cereal and watch cartoons. It felt like high school all over again. Except instead of a sixteen year old, I was dealing with a twenty-two year old who was majoring in Business Management and had the charisma of someone far beyond his years. It was actually pretty frightening.

“You've got five minutes before I come back here and start pelting you with ice cubes,” I told him. That sufficed. He sat up, looking vaguely like a mix between Robert Smith and a mad scientist, rubbing his eyes still that were still puffy from sleep. “Five minutes.”

“I'm up, I'm up. God, I hate mornings. Mornings should be illegal.”

“You know, they make caffeinated soap,” I said, stepping out of the doorway. “You should try it.”

As Brandon went to quickly shower, I poured myself a bowl of cereal, sat myself down on the counter, and contemplated what I'd wear tonight when I went out with Ben. I wondered where he was planning on taking me – and if I even had the proper attire for such a place. Thinking on it, the nicest thing that I really owned was my sweet-sixteen party dress. Pink and lacy, and totally appalling in hindsight. It still hung in my closet amidst my array of the same freaking pair of jeans and a million different T-shirts, camisoles, and sweaters. All the same, just different colors.

Yeah. Apparel-wise, I was sort of unoriginal. In fact, the outfit that I'd worn to the bar was only courtesy of Brandon, who had urged me to buy a few different things during an outing at the mall. And by urge, I really mean that he pretty much stood there yelling at the top of his lungs, much like Chef Ramsey, until I was finally persuaded into getting the first few immediate nice-looking things, checking out, and trying to suppress the urge to curl up in a ball and die as we
walked back to the car, his laughter ringing for miles.

“I feel like Death,” Brandon mumbled, his hair purposely mussed up when he stepped out of the bathroom. “It would be nice if we had consistent water temperatures.”

“It would be nice if our fridge had consistent cooling temperatures.”

“It would be nice if our apartment wasn't such a piece of crap.”

I laughed, putting my bowl in the sink and lacing up my shoes as he got dressed. I found my coat, pulled it on, and contemplated whether or not I wanted to bother wearing a scarf. From the looks of the heavy clouds, it certainly could start snowing again. So I bundled myself up, helped Brandon into his coat (since he was about as speedy as a slug) and the two of us scurried down the steps and into the car.

“You know what I was thinking about,” Brandon said, rubbing his hands together. I started the car, flipping on the heat. He held his hands in front of the vents, although nothing was expelled but cold air. “Obituaries.”

“Obituaries.”

“Yeah,” he said, yawning. “You know, writing them.”

“But you're a Business major. That doesn't really seem to make sense.”

“Yes, I know,” and for a moment he looked frustrated. “But I was thinking, you know, most obituaries are so dry. My writing is pretty decent, and let's face it, I'm hilarious. I feel like I'd write a good obituary.”

“Why not write about something other than dead people, though?”

We started down the road, and he shrugged, leaning back against the seat and staring up at the sky through the sunroof.

“Because obituaries are important, Gems. They're like the last piece of anything that person will ever have. They deserve something more than vague compliments and generic remarks. If I ever died – and surely, when I do, it will be an extraordinary death – I would want my obituary to be equally as extraordinary.”

“Well, I don't plan on ever dying,” I told him. “I'm just going to live forever.”

Brandon pressed his lips together, his black hair somehow darker as we drove beneath the bridge and for a moment the two of us were encased in a fleeting blanket of shadows. We pulled around the corner with just enough time to stop for coffee, and I quickly added:

“Are you scared?”

“Of what?”

“Dying.”

“No,” he answered. “But who knows, maybe I will when it finally comes. Or maybe I won't. Maybe it doesn't matter.”

We parked, I shut the car off, and Brandon kicked around the floor for his wallet that he'd dropped while attempting to balance it on his head.

“No more talk of death,” I told him. “It's too early.”

“Fine,” he smirked. “I guess that was a grave mistake.”

The line was surprisingly short for an early morning, and Brandon and I managed to pop in and out within ten minutes - eight of which were spent with Brandon deciding whether or not he wanted a Blueberry or Cranberry Orange scone. When back in the car, Brandon held on to my latte for me, as we didn't actually have cup holders. My car was sort of a death trap on wheels.

“So I'm going out with Ben tonight,” I told him as we neared the campus. Brandon laughed a little, turning down the radio volume which was mostly just static. “Though to where I have no idea.”

“He's probably taking you back to his sex dungeon. I'm never going to see you again. I'll give you 48 hours before I demand a legal investigation. I'm talking helicopters.”

“Jesus, Brandon.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, taking a sip of his latte. “But seriously, that GUY.”

“I know,” I said. “His poem. He's really something else.”

“Seriously?” Brandon chuckled. “We're talking about someone whose level of attractiveness is off the charts, and you're thinking about his capability to scribble words on paper.”

“Come on. You know it's not that easy,” I paused, stopping at a red light. “He made up this piece about me, all out of thin air without a second to think about it or anything.”

“A poem about you?”

“Yeah.”

Green light. Brandon didn't say anything as we drifted up the street, the sight of the campus buildings agonizingly familiar. We pulled into the parking lot, and I was already dreading the trek into the Fine Arts building. At least it would be warm.

We gathered our things, our books that were already stowed away in backpacks that had been sitting and waiting in the backseat for this very day. Dreadful and exhilarating. Our very last semester of college.

“You don't think it was like, a sort of pick up line?” he asked, cutting through my minor space-out, my eyes staring straight through the window as a group of students crossed the lot, fatigued and feet dragging. “I mean, what if that's his thing? What if he does it with all the girls he brings back from poetry readings?”

I didn't want to consider that. It went without saying, I'm sure, that Ben
knew
he was talented. But I didn't want to think about the possibility of Ben being some sort of guy that wove his talents into the skin and clothes and hearts of girls that he met across rooms in smoky settings. I didn't want to consider that maybe, possibly, there was no coincidence coming into play here – it was all premeditated.

Despite this, I did want to believe that Ben was a good-natured man. After all, we didn't technically have sex. In fact, he seemed more about the idea of pleasuring me – not himself. If he was so debauched, wouldn't have tried to go all the way? Wouldn't he have just gone for the kill?

I swallowed, feeling slightly sick.

“I don't know,” was the answer I finally settled on. Handing me my latte, his backpack slung over one shoulder, Brandon didn't press any more.

“Fucking freezing,” he muttered as we trudged through the lot, making a point to step on the patches of ice that crunched deliciously beneath his shoes. “I hate the winter.”

“I love the winter,” I said, watching the trees that were bare, dry. Almost sad looking. “I feel like out of all the seasons, the winter is most honest. It never tries to hide anything. The summers, you know, they mask everything in warmth and sunshine. In the spring, we see the flowers and our yards are filled with floral smells – lilacs, lilies of the valley. Everyone freaks out when fall rolls around, and the leaves are turning. Nobody pays any mind to the fact that the trees are dying, the grass is turning brown,” I thought about Sacha, and how he loved to photograph the changing leaves. “But the winter doesn't have anything to hide.”

“I would disagree,” Brandon said as we approached the two glass doors. “It does. The winter snow kills everything, and yet the massacre of grass and trees is covered up by beautiful white sheets. Kids run around and make snow angels and play while everything beneath them is frozen and lifeless. Winter is the most deceptive season of all.”

He held the door open, and I couldn't help but love him right then. For as much of a smart ass
as Brandon was, he had a way with words.

“You're just so filled with warmth and trust, Gems,” he said. “You don't allow yourself to see it.”

I thought about Toby. I thought about those three years, and all the things I'd let slip. I thought about Ben, and his depraved grin. Wicked, soft, and yet so sincerely kind. I thought back to the poem, and how he had called me an enigma. I felt the same way about him.

“Maybe,” I agreed quietly. And the two of us went inside.

I first met Sacha in Intro to Philosophy. He was the Philosophy major that spent his spare time reading all kinds of written philosophical brilliance, or just books in general. His favorite writer being the Marquis de Sade, because Sacha liked to contemplate how twisted the man was – or if he was really twisted at all.

“Maybe he's just human,” he'd said, holding the camera that rested across his face in a way that only graced me with one green eye. Eyes the color of mint, pale and watery. He snapped my photograph, his smile stretched and full. His tawny brown hair falling down to his earlobes, soft and tousled.

“The dude wrote about innocent, virgin teenagers getting forced into 120 days of inexplicable mental, physical, and sexual torture,” I'd told him. “That's a little beyond human. It's sick.”

“I'm not disagreeing; I'm just saying that de Sade was writing about something real. Fucked up things are real, too. They exist whether we'd like them to our not. He had the gall to write about them when nobody else was.”

I turned to him, the rest of the class preoccupied with relevant Philosophical discussions, our professor busy messing around on her laptop. Nobody seemed to notice that we were off in the corner, lost in our own little world.

I looked at the camera in his hands, suddenly aware of what he'd just done.

“Why did you take my picture?” I asked him.

“Because you didn't stop me.”

His tone wasn't flirtatious. It was sly. I smiled. I knew then that he'd be one of my best friends for a long time.

“You're pretty fucking pretentious,” I settled on. “Aren't we a little young to understand what's really real? Maybe we don't have a place to discuss how debauched humanity can be when our greatest concern right now is what grade we'll be getting on this in-class assignment.”

He looked at me for a long time without an answer, until we were called back to our seats for discussion.

After that, I spent all my free time that wasn't consumed with Toby, or work, or Brandon, holed up the halls with Sacha. Watching him take photographs, watching him hang them. Listening to him talk about how everyone felt that they had some real artistic ability to photograph things, and that it was bullshit. He felt that he had real talent. And it was true. It was true in the same way that Ben had real talent.