A. Jackson - When We Met

When I returned to the space, I left Chloe’s coffee on a large box near the shelf she had stained dark brown, and then got busy sawing more wood on the other side of the room.

Chloe and her mother seemed very close and I tried to imagine what that kind of intense attention would feel like from my own mother. Especially since I was more like the expectant parent in my family, always reminding Mom of her AA meetings and therapy sessions, checking hiding spots in the cupboards and smelling her breath for any hint of alcohol.

I gave Chloe the silent treatment when she walked through the entrance, but couldn’t help noticing how quickly she clicked the lock in place and drew the shade down even farther.

“Avoiding someone?” I asked through clenched teeth.

Her back against the door, she shut her eyes momentarily as if getting her thoughts in order.

“I . . . lied to my mom,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, as if she was being followed. “Told her I was going home to study instead of coming here so she didn’t ask to tag along and see the space.”

I made harsh markings with my pencil as I measured another piece of plywood. “Why?”

She shook her head, melancholy lacing her eyes. “I . . . just want this to be my project for now. I’ll surprise her with it when we finish.”

I didn’t understand this girl at all. I was still seething from how unwelcome I felt in the coffee shop and I wanted to find out right this instant what her deal had been.

I stood up, releasing the measuring tape from my fingers, and stalked toward her. “Truth or dare?”

I had figured we were getting somewhere these past few days. I was beginning to enjoy working alongside her on this project. I thought we were forming a friendship, and instead she’d left me confused all over again.

The question was, why did I care so much?

As I drew nearer, her breath hitched. I stared her down as the puzzled look on her face changed to worry. She bit her lip, aware that I was annoyed about something.

“Truth,” she whispered, and then blew out a shaky breath. Not having changed from her designer work clothes yet, she’d left her top three buttons open, exposing her silky skin. I could see the outline of her lacy white bra through the sheer material.

Some part of my brain went haywire and I imagined her panting against that door while I reached out to unclasp those buttons with my grimy fingers. I’d get that shiny white material all filthy and then I’d rip it down the center, exposing her to me.

Damn, where had that thought come from? It was like my anger toward her had became murky and twisted and had developed into a complete turn-on. It spurred me to step even closer to her. Like I had something I needed to prove. Except I didn’t exactly know what.

“What was the shit you just pulled in the coffee shop?” I said. “Afraid to be seen with someone like me?”

“It’s not that.” Her shoulders sagged. “It’s . . . look, maybe you haven’t noticed, but my life is already scripted. My mom made huge sacrifices for me and she reminds me nearly every day. She wants me to finish what she started—making a name in the industry—and the plan doesn’t include any boys.”

“Christ, it’s not like we’re dating or anything,” I said, ruffling my fingers through my hair. “We’re working together on a project.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s in my business on a daily basis. It wasn’t always like this, not until I was deciding on colleges, and lately it’s been worse than ever. . . .”

It was true that it sounded that way when I’d overheard their conversations. Her mother seemed to expect a play-by-play. Still it was a stark contrast to the mess I had going on in my own family, so it was hard for me to wrap my head around.

“Jesus fuck, you’re an adult, Chloe,” I said. “You don’t even live at home, which is more than I can say, and you have your own life on campus.”

“Do you know how much ass-kissing I had to do for her to allow me to live off campus and not commute from home?” She met my gaze and her eyes blazed with resentment. “I work to help pay for my books and rent, but she and my grandmother pay the bulk of my tuition. We get a discount because she’s on the board of the design school, and yeah, she throws that in my face as well.”

She pushed off the door and brushed past me. “I just have one more year to be the good little daughter and then I’m leaving, moving to New York City, and I’ll be far away from her.”

But even she looked uncertain about her own statement. Like she was trying to be tougher and more confident than she really was. Something settled in the center of my chest. Something that felt like empathy, but I pushed it way down.

“I understand wanting to get away and live your own life, believe me,” I mumbled.

She rounded on me. “Yeah? So what the heck is your story?”

“I’m not sure I want to tell someone like you, someone who walks around like she’s got a stick up her ass. I mean, I get that you have mommy issues, but believe me, princess, it’s light-years away from what I’m going through,” I practically growled.

As she stood there, her eyes glassy and hurt, I had the desire to pull her against me and show her exactly how worked up she was making me.

I rubbed my fingers over my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need your judgment on top of everyone else’s.”

She slowly shook her head in defeat, her lips seemingly unable to form any words.

I walked toward the stacked wood. “Why the hell do you care anyway?”

“Believe it or not, I’d like to get to know you,” she said so quietly I almost didn’t hear her. “I don’t . . . I haven’t . . . been around a guy in a while and you kind of . . . unnerve me.”

I looked back at her and gulped down my surprise. “How?”

“I can’t really explain it. It’s just ever since . . . you know.” She wrung her hands again like she was wound so darn tight. And the look in her eyes—like a wounded animal. My chest tightened in response.

What I wouldn’t give right now to have a do-over of that one day she was referring to now. And this time, our eyes would meet and we’d find acceptance and understanding in each other’s gaze, instead of so much damned misinterpretation.

Chloe

I took a brave step forward. Blake lifted his gaze to mine and I got lost in his soft caramel eyes—the same eyes I’d gotten used to seeing over these past few days and, if I admitted it, looked forward to seeing as well. “Let me start again. Truth or dare?”

Earlier he’d had this momentary look of vulnerability in his eyes—like I’d hurt his feelings in the coffee shop—and I’d never seen that from him before. I’d only ever been on the receiving end of sarcasm and frustration and brief glimpses of gentleness these last couple of weeks together.

“Truth,” he mumbled, and looked down at the specs he’d drawn on the wood. Lately he only ever said truth, possibly because my dares had been pretty lame. By now, he’d probably grasped how courageous I really was, which was not a whole lot. My dare last week for him was to sing the tune he’d been humming out loud. He’d only rolled his eyes before belting it out.

I hesitated, looking at him a long minute before asking my question. “Why did you . . . leave school?”

He got this resigned look in his eyes like he knew it had been coming. I prayed he didn’t think I’d overstepped bounds. Because what he thought was beginning to matter even more to me.

“I had to drop out . . .” He heaved a long sigh. As if he’d finally decided to let it all hang loose. “And move back home to take care of some . . . responsibilities.”

That hadn’t been the answer I was expecting.

“I know a little about responsibilities,” I said, keeping my voice smooth and low. “What kind?”

He lined up the wood under the saw, ignoring my question. I waited him out. When he simply drew the safety goggles over his eyes and began cutting, I decided to try a different approach.

As soon as he placed the piece of wood to the side and gathered another in his fingers, I said, “Do you . . . have any brothers or sisters?”

His hand paused on top of the lumber in order to look at me. “One brother who’s in high school.”

“Does it have to do with him?” I asked, tentatively. “Do your mom and dad need some kind of help?”

“I only have a mom, and yes, she needed help,” he said, looking back down at his task.

“I only have a mom, too,” I muttered. “Never met my father.”

“Well, I guess we have something else in common.” He got this faraway look in his eyes before the corners crinkled in irritation. “I’ve only met my dad once. He’s a musician and travels all the time. I used to have a pipe dream that I’d join his show after graduation—as a roadie—but screw that. Besides, I need to stay close to my family.”

“Wow. I often wonder who my father is,” I said, thinking about how closemouthed my mother had been about him. I’d always fantasized that he was some famous celebrity she’d dressed for a shoot one day. More than likely, he was some photographer or model she’d worked with regularly.

Sadness and surprise filtered through his eyes. “You don’t know? Gosh, that would be tough to live with.”

I nodded. “I haven’t pressed her about it in a while. But hearing you talk about it makes me think that I should try again.”

“I think you have that right, Chloe,” he said. “To know where you came from. And to decide whether to be your own person.”