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“So you don’t kiss, hold hands, touch each other up?”
Foley interjected a no into the pause between each of those accusations, but Nat wasn’t won.
“Foley.”
“We don’t … kiss.”
“But you manhandle him?”
She closed her eyes. She did. It was a good expression for what she did. She could not stop herself from finding excuses to touch Drum. At first he flinched away, like it pained him, then he stopped tensing and accepted her hands on his arms or his chest. And better, every so often he’d forget himself, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, untwist the strap of her gym top, brush the back of her hand with his fingers as they walked side by side.
Until after that night at the movies where she’d looked around at all the snuggling couples and lost it with him for being so physically perfect and perfectly reticent, he’d taken to touching her more deliberately with these tortured, tenderised caresses and iron tight holds.
She had no idea what she was doing. “I can’t help it. I’m so taken with him.”
Nat was up and walking around. “What do you even know about him?”
“He’s not married. He’s never been to jail.”
“You trust a homeless man to tell you the truth?”
“I trust him.”
Nat’s expression cornered the market on d words: disgust, distress, disbelief. “Foley.” Determination. Disappointment.
“I know, I know. I see your point. I’m in trouble here. I can completely forget he lives in a cave.”
“How can you forget that?” Nat pulled at her hair, which was already a mess of sticking-up pieces, which when combined with the two safety pins acting as shirt buttons, her squint, and the one earring, gave her a mad look.
“Because he’s perfectly normal the rest of the time.”
“What do you do?” Nat came back to her seat. “Where do you go?”
“We run; he’s so fit. He’s teaching me to meditate. We talk. He listens. Oh God, Nat, he’s a great listener.”
Nat put her head in her hands, her, “This is so wrong in so many ways,” was muffled but Foley understood it perfectly and resented it completely.
“How can you say that? Why can’t I have a friend who’s homeless? It’s not a disease. I can’t catch it. I’m not reduced somehow, less a person, because I have a friend who isn’t the same as everyone else.”
Nat lifted her head. “Did you hear what you just said? It’s not like he’s a redhead, or has an extra finger or a harelip. He’s not different. He’s mentally ill.”
“Everyone has mental problems. You can barely dress yourself. Gabriella is a psychopath. Hugh is scared of insects. You can’t tell me it’s entirely rational for him to stand on a chair if he sees a cockroach. And you told me you thought Walter Lam had a screw loose.”
“I don’t care about clothes and this is not about Hugh or Walter or your psychopath boss. All of them are functioning human beings, with access to running water and a bank account. Drum lives in a cave. That’s a lot less rational than being scared of Louie the fly.”
“Is it? I can have a conversation with Drum. All that comes out of Gabriella’s mouth is corporate speak.”
“You don’t even know his full name, do you?”
Stung, Foley looked at her hands. It was true; all this time, all their talk, and he still wouldn’t tell her the things she most wanted to know. He was just a nickname. And she was the one who’d become reticent to ask.
“If you were really his friend you’d be getting him help. You know I’m right.”
Foley no
dded, back teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. Oh God, oh God. “This is worse than if I was porking Hugh again. I’ll get Drum help.” She pushed away from the table.
“Where are you going?”
