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I turn and hurry down his stairs.
When I get home,
I find a smudge of blood on my left cheek.
NINE
Gwenna
This is stupid. Really stupid. I’m standing on his porch in this long-sleeved Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and a pair of skin-tight jeggings with my favorite casual, retro Jag Timberwolf boots, shivering from cold and nerves and feeling like a moron. It’s late, and he’s probably asleep.
Either way, I’m hoping this will satisfy Helga, who, yesterday, when I arrived for my weekly appointment, knew something was off with me after maybe thirty seconds. I told her the whole sad and sordid tale of my assault on my new neighbor, followed by my trip to emo land while helping glue his head shut, and she said the first thing I should do is come back over and try to smooth things out.
The first thing she did is made me do a mindful breathing exercise. After which we talked about my “evolving self-image,” and then she said I ought to drop back by here.
Because I’m sure he wants to see me.
That’s negative self-talk, I tell myself, clutching the Tupperware container to my chest.
I can’t help thinking, as I reach my index finger out to ring his doorbell once more, how differently I feel today than two days ago.
Helga says she thinks I’m making progress—whatever that means—and I don’t know. Maybe I am. But maybe I’m not. I didn’t tell her about the rust-colored spot I found on my cheek. About how I think he did touch me after I flashed my freakish-looking snarile. And I’m not telling her that I listened to Radiohead’s angsty, angry OK Computer album while I made this chocolate-on-chocolate cake: my least favorite kind of cake, as it happens. Because if I’m going to bake an apology cake for him, why should it be my favorite kind of cake?
He touched my face. I know he did, because I didn’t have blood on my fingers, and when I did, I made sure not to touch my face. He could have HIV for all I know.
But he doesn’t.
He can’t.
I sigh.
He’s nice. I like him. Which is not okay for many reasons. Chief among them: he probably hates me. All I’ve done is fuck up in his presence, and on top of that, I’m weird looking. A guy who looks like him would never feel attracted to a woman with a smile like mine.
I ring his bell the final time, and the sort of cold that precedes passing out or hyperventilating winds its way through my body.
Why does he affect me this way? Helga theorizes it’s because he’s the first guy I’ve had close contact with since the accident. I don’t want to think that’s it—because that’s so pathetic. It’s been almost four years, after all. And anyway, I’ve had close contact with other guys. Say, the check-out guy at my neighborhood grocery store. He’s college-aged and cute. Or the priest at my church. I feel at ease around them, don’t I?
I let my breath out, long and slow, and try to put a wall between me and my disappointment.
You wanted to see him. You’ve got a crush.
After I deliver my confectionery apology for being so insensitive the other day, I really need to stay away from him. I should treat this whole thing as a signal to myself that it’s time to dip a toe back in the dating waters. Not with Barrett, Gorgeous Army Ranger. But with someone.
Someone old or desperate. Someone I could feel at ease with. Someone around whom, at the very least, I’m not flailing around like Facial Paralysis Muppet.
I prop the Tupperware against a hip and stare at his doorbell.
The last two nights, I dreamed of white, of lying on the ground immobilized. Both times I saw him walking over me: a giant, while I was ant-sized.
I turn away, back toward the steps, rolling my eyes at myself. Self-loathing is a buoyant force inside me, making me feel darkly energetic—like I just might run back through the woods and slam my front door behind myself.
Just about the time I turn around to do that, I hear a whiny creak, and then a soft whoosh.
“Gwenna?”
I turn slowly toward the door to find him standing in it.
His wavy-curly hair is all over the place—as if he’s been tugging on it. His shadow is more beard-y, and his chiseled face looks starker underneath this wild crown of dark hair. Where two days ago, his eyes showed just a hint of tiredness, which I thought was pain from taking a kick to the head, now there are obvious circles under his eyes. He blinks, bringing his solemn face to life, but he still looks slightly dazed. Like he just popped a Xanax—or woke up.
