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The water park was our last great adventure of the summer. Still on the brink of owning my own car, I convinced a friend from undergrad who was back in town to drive us. I rode shotgun, Nao Kao pressed in back with my bursting bag of provisions for the day and the miscellany of Michael’s messy life besides.
Michael had had a crush on me since we met in junior year, and he would have been only too happy if I had ever bounced his way during one of my rough patches with Jake. It was clear from the moment Nao Kao and I hopped into his red Grand Prix that he had agreed to play chauffeur only out of a desire to obtain firsthand intelligence on the status of my relationship with Jake.
“Finished,” I told him, “and none too soon. I was tired of being the only grown-up.”
Michael laughed and moved his hand to my knee. I let it rest there a moment before gently but firmly placing it back atop the gear shift. In my peripheral vision I caught the quick upward flick of Nao Kao’s eyebrows. Whatever ground our conversations covered, I assiduously avoided the topic of Jake, or any other guys I might be seeing for that matter. Not that there were any, serious or otherwise.
I tried to remember how many months it had been since Jake left, how many months since I had even spoken to him. I gave up and instead tried to remember the name of the guy who had asked me out two or three times before my disinterest finally dissuaded him sometime in the spring. Ray? Rich? Rob? His name definitely started with an R. I gave that up too, focusing instead on the green mile markers poking up along the highway.
Michael’s hand crept back along my leg and I left it: the path of least resistance.
Nao Kao asked me once the meaning of “this phrase, friends with benefits – what exactly does this mean?”
Even today, Laos is a conservative place. As I explained what it meant, Nao Kao had almost clucked his disdain, and I watched him visibly swallow down the question of how familiar I was, exactly, with this troubling practice.
“That Michael, he likes you,” Nao Kao said to me when I saw him next.
“Tell me something I don’t know. Why do you think he agreed to drive to the waterpark?”
“Did you –”
“What? Let him take me to bed in exchange for services rendered? As though I’d tell you if I had!”
He looked shocked – and hurt. Generally, I treated him like a family publication. When I talked to Nao Kao, nothing stronger than an occasionaldamncrossed my lips, and certainly no biting sarcasm. It wasn’t that his English wasn’t up to the task, but the cynicism and sarcasm that were my natural linguistic habitat just didn’t translate, culturally. As for certain other choice words: by his own admission Nao Kao had “hot ears,” and though I never minded making him blush, I also never sought to make him genuinely uncomfortable. With Nao Kao, I was the child my mother always begged me to be, the one who acted as nice as she looked.
“No, Liss, la. I just wondered if you ever tried totellhim you weren’t interested?”
“Of course not, Nao Kao! I wouldn’t want him to think I was presuming he was interested!”
I could see the wheels turning as Nao Kao sought to unravel whether this was the illogic of America speaking, or merely the illogic of one stubborn and unreasonable Melissa Miller. I did not answer his silent questions – and I certainly did not tell him how close I had come to writing a check I never wanted to cash. I would not, I was certain, be seeing Michael again.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
All through thesummer I rode my bike, pedaling miles each day, as though the spinning tires could carry me away from the confining reality of life under lockdown. Late in the summer, I crashed, tumbling over my handlebars, blackening my eyes, wrenching my shoulder. I had no one to blame but myself, for I crashed in a place where the inner voice urges caution. I like the feel of cruising downhill while banking around this particular tight corner and I rarely exercise the appropriate prudence and apply the brakes. I did not see the orange construction barrels until my fate was sealed.
Picking myself up, I did have the wherewithal to pull out my phone and use the camera to confirm I was not gushing blood, not that I had a plan if I was. I was at least two miles from home, with no way back but to dance, or ride, with the one that brought me, my bright turquoise road bike, the color of the Caribbean. Never mind that the seat was sideways.
My predicament was made worse by the fact that I had been on my way to the pool and was foolishly sporting naught but a neon green swimsuit and pink flipflops. Even my shorts were stashed in the bag slung across my shoulders. What few pedestrians I encountered scurried from my path, undoubtedly alarmed by the blood dripping from my knuckles and ankles. I left a trail of shiny, garnet drops as I rode, in the style of an injured animal. Only the hounds were missing.
When I texted my little tale of woe to Nao Kao later in the week, he told me I was lucky.
“A couple of years ago, I was riding tandem on my motorbike with my daughter when we became entangled in some wires hanging by the road. This caused the bike to overturn and she became trapped under it. Much flesh on her legs was burned away.”
“Oh my God, Nao Kao. Was she okay? What happened?”
“In the end, she was ok.”
Knowing him, this could mean anything from requiring a simple bandage to necessitating an amputation. Imperturbable. Asking further questions would be futile.
And then he cracked a joke, for Nao Kao was an expert in the adage that if you don’t laugh, you might cry.
“Too bad it was wires that got us and not a cow. At least we might have had dinner that way.”
“What kind of driver are you?” I asked. My question was not mean-spirited, at least I hoped not, but I was curious – and it seemed a better diversion than continuing to exchange stories of gruesome injuries.
“Cautious. And you?”
I considered offering the same reassurance, but I had fed Nao Kao enough half-truths over time. He will know if I lie, this man, I am certain, and after what I have put him through, I mustn’t do that, inconsequential as his question may be.
