Pictures of You (2 page)

             
“What are you doing here?” I said, blocking the door to my apartment. It was John, of all people. Aaaand the plot thickens. First the funeral and now this. What was John up to? And why couldn’t he have called first? I was all too aware of my uncombed hair, my purple fuzzy alligator-print pajamas. It was after noon and I had yet to shower and brush my teeth.

             
“September, you look awful,” he said, his face twisted in concern.

             
“Gee, thanks.” I tossed him a dirty look. Actually, he was probably right. All I’d done lately was listen to The Cure and play online Scrabble with other hermits until the wee hours of the morning. Whenever I’d manage to get some shuteye, it would be an uneasy sleep. I kept having unsettling dreams about cute puppies turning into vicious demons with razor sharp teeth. They’d come after me and eat me alive, one body part at a time. True story.

             
John looked sheepish. “I just…”

             
“Just what?” We both stood awkwardly for a moment. Tiger, my orange popsicle-colored cat, came over to greet John and proceeded to rub his body all over John’s legs. John shooed him away before brushing the hair from his jeans. “I’ve always hated that cat.”

             
“So I’ve heard.” I rolled my eyes while he wasn’t looking. What an idiot. But the truth was, I missed him, idiot or not. “John…I…”

             
“September,” he said, like me at a loss for words. And then he flung his arms around me, taking me by surprise. A moment later, I let my guard down and returned the embrace. I felt the even pulse of his heart against my chest as I inhaled his indescribable John smell. It was safe, familiar. He stepped back just enough to kiss me, long and passionate, like they do in the movies, like he once did when we were fresh and new.

             
I was out of breath when he pulled away. “What’s going on? I thought you wanted to—I thought we broke up.”

             
“I’m so, so,
so
sorry about Abby,” he said, tearing up. Great. Even my ex was crying over her—and I couldn’t—and he didn’t even like her that much. What kind of a friend was I?

             
I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, too.”

             
He took my hand. “I miss you, Tember. I really miss you.”

             
What was he saying? Did he want to get back together? It’d been two days since the funeral and I’d already forgotten how handsome he was. He wore my favorite t-shirt of his, the blue one that complimented his light russet skin. His amazing hair fell over his almost-black eyes. His familiar, comforting, warm eyes.

             
“Life is so short. So uncertain. I’m just glad you’re okay. I’d never be able to forgive myself if anything ever happened to you.”

             
What was I supposed to say to that? I’m glad I’m okay, too? Because, John, actually I’m not okay. You dumped me and Abby’s gone. I have no one left. That’s what I wanted to say. But instead I said, “Thanks.”

             
“I really miss you. I’m so sorry I…” He kissed me again. His lips were warmer than the thick summer air around us.

             
“But I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” I said, managing to pull away from his kiss. Of course a part of me didn’t want to. A part of me wanted to stay in his arms forever—screw the consequences.

             
“September.” He seemed stunned, hurt even. “I will
always
love you,” he said, reminding me of a cheesy song. “Always, always.”

             
I laughed. I do that sometimes—laugh at the most inappropriate times. At funerals, for instance. One of the many things John didn’t like about me.

             
What was he doing here? What did he want from me? Did he want me back? Did
I
want
him
back? “John. I love you, too. But I thought—”

             
“But I can’t be with you. Just because we
love
each other, doesn’t make us
right
for each other.” And then he stroked my hair in this totally condescending way.

             
Ouch. What he meant was: I wasn’t right for him. Because if it was up to me, we’d still be together. Okay, it wasn’t the perfect relationship, but are there any that are? I took a step back, crossed my arms over my chest. “Then what are you doing here?”

             
“I just wanted to check up on my girl.” He gently pried apart my folded arms, took my hands into his and kissed each palm.

             
Wow, even after nine months together, he could still be confusing as hell. I yanked my hands away. “I’m not your girl anymore, remember? You dumped me, John. You can’t
dump
your cake and eat it too.”

             
“You’re
right. I guess I’m not being fair.”

             
“You guess? You have no idea how big of a jerk you’re being right now. Especially right after my friend’s…” I didn’t want to say it. The word “funeral” was like battery acid on my tongue.

             
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m being a total jerk. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have played with your heart like that.”

             
Played with my heart? There he was being condescending again, like he was the only one with any power this relationship. Er, ex-relationship. I sighed, shook my head. “Forget about it.”

             
Okay, despite the fact that John could sometimes be a selfish creep, a part of me still wanted to exploit his moment of weakness and beg him to come back to me. I was lonely, plus John and I had history. I’ve had a massive crush on the boy since seventh grade.

             
I can still remember, quite vividly, the first time I saw him. It was after school in late November, the day before Thanksgiving break. The weather was perfect, it was an Indian summer. Abby and I rolled up the legs of our pants to feel the warmth of the sun on our skin. We sat on a patch of grass, attempting to memorize a world map for Geography homework. John kept distracting us. It was hard to concentrate on homework when there was a cute new kid only a few yards away, playing soccer with a bunch of other boys. I loved watching the way his gorgeous hair swung back and forth as he ran, the way he grinned this big old cocky grin whenever he scored a goal. His legs weren’t bad looking, either. It was love-at-first-sight.

             
It only took him five years to notice me. He asked me out when we bumped into each other at the city library. I was a senior and he was a freshman in college. We went to a lame romantic comedy and then walked around Times Square. He bought me a pretzel and a strawberry ice cream cone and kissed me in front of Planet Hollywood.

             
We had some good times together. And some bad. John was never exactly my dream guy, but he was close enough. And I missed him. I really missed him. But I knew if I let him back into my heart, he’d be careless with it all over again.

             
“Thanks for checking up on me, I guess. But…” I opened the door.

             
He got the hint. “Okay, but call me if you need anything.” He touched my hair again, flashed his flawless white teeth. I would miss that cocky smile of his.

             
“Will do,” I said, wondering if this was the last time I’d see him. I nudged him out the door, feeling confused, hurt, angry—and sort of relieved.

***

              Eleven days after the accident I decided I needed more socks.

             
I threw my head outside my apartment window, amazed by the mild spring-like weather. Happy white clouds decorated a bright blue sky. A gentle breeze tamed the usual smoldering New York heat. It was a perfect day for shopping.

             
I called work, informing my boss Janice I was finally over the flu but now coming down with something else. A terrible, terrible cough. I plugged my nose and made a creative hacking noise to make it more convincing. I wasn’t going to tell Janice about my Scrabble addiction.

             
I took a shower and got dressed for the first time in nearly two weeks.

             
It took going to seven different stores before I found the right socks. I bought thirty-eight pairs. Short socks, tall socks, knee-length socks. Polka-dotted, striped, argyle. Socks with little gray kittens, socks with electric guitars.

             
Some people max out a credit card or drink themselves into a stupor when they find themselves all alone. Apparently I buy socks.

             
After the hardcore sock shopping, I ordered some fries and a milkshake at McDonalds. Sitting all alone in a sticky booth, I felt self-conscious. Well, more than usual. I’d never done this before: ate at a fine dining establishment on my own. So I distracted myself, pulling my thirty-eight pairs of socks out of their bags and displaying them neatly on the table. Already I was having some buyer’s remorse. I’d have to take at least half of them back, particularly the kitten ones. When people started giving me funny looks, I put them away. That was just what I needed: people to think I was some eccentric sock-collecting recluse. Crazy cat lady, move over.

             
So I people watched, hoping to find someone with a more pathetic life than my own. I spotted a frazzled pregnant woman who looked like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in five years. She made several failed attempts to quiet down her three little kids, who fought viciously over Happy Meal toys. I saw two awkward teenagers, both lamppost skinny and wearing braces, sharing a large order of fries and playing footsie under the table. And then I noticed an elderly man struggling to remove the paper wrap from his burger with hands that shook like a washing machine on spin cycle. It must’ve been two minutes before he got to take his first bite.

             
Okay, he won.

             
After lunch I realized I needed new bath towels and a clock for the kitchen. So I spent the rest of the afternoon in various local department stores, looking for the perfect cherry red towel set.

             
At home I flung Abby’s door open, anxious to show her my new finds, but her room was empty.

***

              “This one’s perfect,” John said, peering into the driver’s window of a Volkswagen Beetle. “Low mileage,
like
-
new
interior.”

             
He looked annoyingly handsome in his muscle-hugging white shirt and new jeans. I had a strange urge to reach out and touch his chest, but, wisely, I resisted. It would take some time for reality to seep in—John was no longer mine. Randomly touching his chest would be totally appropriate.

             
“But this one’s silver. I don’t want a silver one. I had a yellow one. I want exactly what I had before,” I said, fingering the paint. “Plus, look at that. It has a nasty stain in the back seat.”

             
When I’d called John earlier and asked him to help me replace my old car (my insurance check finally came in the mail), my goal was to get the same car. Same year, same color, same everything. I even planned to accessorize it the same way: zebra print steering wheel cover, colorful beads to hang from the rearview mirror and the same band stickers to slap on the back bumper. Maybe if it looked exactly the same as my old one, it would be easier to forget what happened.  Plus some of my best memories were made in that car. My parents surprising me with it as a high school graduation present. The first time Abby and I heard her band’s song on the radio. John’s and my second kiss. The road trip with Abby.

             
“September, come on. You can’t be too picky,” he said, looking at the time on his phone. We were on our fifth used car lot and were both getting tired and hungry. The places before offered free popcorn, but there was only so much popcorn a person could take.

             
“I know I’m being impossible, but I feel cheated. That car was my baby.”

             
“I’m sorry.” John squeezed my shoulder. “Did they catch the man who hit you?”

             
“No and they never will. The day after the accident a police detective came over to ask me a few questions. I wasn’t any help. When he asked for a detailed description, all I could give him was: male, Caucasian, driving an old brown van. That was it. Really narrows it down, doesn’t it? I hate myself when I think of how I forgot to look for the make and model or even the license plate number. I should’ve studied the guy’s face. He could be sixteen or sixty. Brown eyes, green, hazel, or purple for all I know. Abby’s dead and this bastard and his stupid van are still out there.”

             
“You can’t be too hard on yourself. No one thinks to look at the license plate when their life flashes before their eyes.”