The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

     "Okay." He nods his head, gesturing for me to follow him inside.

     I reach out and press my arm into the door so he can keep walking. I feel all slow motion as I inch further and further into his apartment. Jack, on the other hand, is on fast-forward as he drops the bag on his kitchen table and starts pulling things out of it. There are a few packs of Ramen Noodles, a half-gallon of milk, a box of tea, a cartoon of eggs, and a bunch of bananas.

     I reach my hand out and gently place the flower on the other end of the table but make sure to stay away from anything in particular, closer to the table than the couch, but closer to the door than him.

     "So, um, if I'm being honest, I didn't rehearse anything. I probably should've but, um," I pause and reach for my hair again, really regretting not putting it up. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for—"

     Jack slams the grey cabinet door above the sink after throwing his box of tea inside it before going back over to the items on the table. The packets of ramen crunch around as he gathers them in his arms and turns to toss them in another cabinet that has a few other snacks and cereal boxes in it. I flinch when the cabinet door slams closed again after he flicks his hand against it.

     "I'm sorry for—"

     He whirls around and tosses the bananas on the counter before grabbing the milk and the eggs.

     "You know what? I'm not sorry," I spit before taking both a physical and conscious step back. "No, I mean, I am sorry for the way I treated you. I am truly, totally, and completely sorry."

     After just staring at the contents in his fridge for a few seconds, Jack turns and places the eggs and milk on the counter before ducking his head back inside and moving stuff around.

     "But what I can't apologize for," I continue. "Is the fact that I'm used to being alone because I'm so used to getting treated like sh*t. Every time I threw my heart out, it got stomped all over it, but I also think it's because we're told not to care. It's easier not care—it was easy to leave my heart all the way over there." I fling my arm out. "Zip my chest back up and"—My fingers form a peace sign— "peace out but then, well, you came along and you, well, you,"—my eyes land back on the sunflower— "you picked my heart back up, which . . . sounds really dramatic." I run another hand through my hair. "Long story short, I really like you and so that's why I pushed you away, so I'm sorry." 

     Jack gently places the eggs inside the fridge along with the milk. He closes the fridge door before turning around and walking away, walking right past me, bypassing the living room, and heading straight into his bedroom.

     I deserved that.

     No question.

     I make sure I have all my things, like I usually do when I leave his apartment. This time it's easy. Cross body bag, phone, shoes, and I may not have a lot of dignity right now, but I at least have a healthy body, brain, heart, arms, and legs—legs that need to walk me towards the door, legs that slowly inch me closer and closer to the door, with a ducked head and hands I suddenly can't remember how to use.

     "Wait."

     I look up just in time to see Jack standing in the doorway to his bedroom. He holds up a skinny silver chain with a small cursive L hanging from it. The same chain I thought I lost. The same chain I sometimes stack over my raindrop pendent, but only sometimes when I'm able to mentally prepare myself for someone to, somehow, for some reason, say, "Let me guess, your name starts with an L." I usually lie. But somehow, for some reason, that day with Jack I was still the closest to the truth than I'd ever been.

     "You could have just thrown it out." I huff out a laugh because my eyes start to sting. It feels funny because it's been awhile since they've done that. I can't remember the last time they've done that, and the tears that fall feel silly, staining my cheeks, but they also burn something real into my skin.

     Jack appears in the midst of the blurry haze and gently clasps the necklace back around my neck. My left hand falls on top of the L on my chest, while my right hand swipes at my cheeks.

     "I'm sorry." I wince because I know my waterproof mascara is on its last legs. "I don't even know why I'm crying." I laugh again.

     "Well, stop." Jack's fingers wrap around mine. His thumb presses a little too much into my ring. "Or don't," he sputters, adjusting our hands so we're palm to palm. But then he even takes it a step further, taking a step forward and flattening his other hand over the one that's already on top of mine. "Just stay."

     I blink back at him a few times, blinking him into focus like a camera shutter.

     I've always prided myself on focusing on the present, being present, but really that's just my actions. I'm constantly present because I'm constantly moving, but I've never actually allowed myself to settle in. My mind always drifts forward or back, yanks me down and drowns me in memories, or pushes me forward into later and tomorrow like a tidal wave.

     My right hand falls on top of both of his. I hold on to them like an anchor as a smile curves my lips. "Okay."

****

"Let's watch your favorite movie. What's your favorite movie?" I crane my head back around to look at Jack, but he ducks his head into my neck.

     "What's your favorite movie?" he mumbles against my skin.

     I turn back around. "You don't want to watch my favorite movie."

     Jack presses his hands further into my shirt covered stomach, tugging me further back into his chest and onto the couch, which I don't even know how is possible since we're both sprawled out across the three black leather cushions. "What's your favorite movie?" he asks again, all light and airy—too much—like I should've known he would go for the ear, but I'm still squirming as his noses starts sniffing and huffing, like a dog, into the skin behind my ear and the back of my piercings before moving down my neck.

     "Okay!" I finally squeal when I can't seem to get myself out of his grasp, even though I'm also barely trying because ever since we laid down, I've been so comfortable, I vowed to never get up as long as I lived. "Vampires! Four movies and sparkly vampires."

     "Really?" Jack cranes his head forward this time to look me in the eyes, and the way his mouth is twisted like a pretzel makes me laugh.

     "Yup." I gently pat his cheek.

     "My favorite it is," he grumbles as he settles back in beside me, readjusting the grey fuzzy blanket haphazardly draped over our legs and curling me back up in his warmth.

     His favorite movie is a bit older and bit more homey, with an accidental cross-time radio that allows a son to save his father's life, but then the time space continuum catches up to them and they have other things they have to fix.

     But after a while, my eyelids feel too heavy against the white light. I try to gently, but end up not so gently, turning myself around and burying my head in Jack's chest.

     "You're going to miss it," Jack whispers as his fingers scratch up and down my back.

     "I'll watch it again," I mumble as I finally let my eyes close.

     I always thought my home was something physical. My childhood home and my family. But after being away at school, my childhood home felt more like that—my childhood, and my dorm never feels like home because it's temporary. I know it's temporary, so I never even let myself settle in there. That's why I decided that I'd find a new home, my own home, my own new place to feel completely and totally at home.

     But I never thought my home would be something else—someone else—a heart thumping inside another chest underneath another ribcage. A heart that is thumping underneath my fingertips. A warm, bloody beating heart that is the last thing I feel, aside from the tightening of Jack's arms around my sides and tip of his chin on the top of my head, before I drift off to sleep.