Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [51]
Of course, I think, as I turn to greet him.
And there he is, Henry. Following me nearly as closely as my own shadow of loneliness.
“WE HAVE TO stop meeting like this,” he says, grinning.
I force my face into something of a smile, but I fear, with my smeared mascara and my matted hair, that I look more akin to a grotesque slasher film character than the best version of myself.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, then hands me some napkins as if they might be of any use in drying off. I dab at myself but realize it’s futile: It’s like I’ve just gotten out of the shower and am wiping away the water with nonabsorbent toilet paper.
“N-no, thank you,” I stutter. “I can’t stay.”
That’s right, you can’t! I tell myself. You have a boyfriend who, though he is currently more enamored with his mother than with you, still seems relatively enamored with you. And you already KNOW what happens next with Henry! Give yourself the chance to find your new path! Do. Not. Stay. Three beads of water trickle down my nose, then dive to the floor. I feel my blood race, and I’m not sure if these beads are remnants from the storm or are now from the rapidly increasing flow of sweat that I feel overtaking me.
“You’re going back out there?” Henry says. “Just to get away from me?” I stare at him a second too long before I realize that he hasn’t read my mind and is, in fact, joking, flirting, even. I can’t remember the last time Henry flirted with me.
“No, no, nothing like that,” I say. “I just, you know, have things to get done.”
At this exact moment, a clap of thunder booms so loudly that several people behind us scream and I jump six inches in the air, clutching my chest in fear. When I land, my shoes make an audible squirt.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout.
“Well, good luck to you,” Henry says. “Though it sure seems to me that you might be better off here than out there.” More flirting!
I look him straight in the eye and feel like I’m trapped in one of Katie’s episodes of Sesame Street. The one where Big Bird keeps running into a wall over and over again because he can’t seem to figure out that he needs to go over, not through it. Only, this time, I’m Big Bird, and the walls have closed in on all sides.
“Fine,” I say reluctantly, just before another ear-shattering crack echoes outside. “I guess my to-dos can wait.” No! I hear my brain screaming. Flee! Flee as fast as you can, thunder be dashed, lightning be damned! Let me repeat, I tell myself. Do. Not. Stay.
But when Henry sizes me up and says, “Don’t tell me, let me guess what you want.” And then follows up with “I got it, you’re a chai tea sort of gal.” It unnerves me to the point where I can’t even consider leaving. Because he’s right: He’s nailed me; without even knowing anything about me, it already feels like he does.
We settle on a table in the front. Henry folds his New York Times, running his fingers over the creases until the pages lay perfectly and seamlessly flat, the way that he would every weekend for the next seven years of our lives, and I try to ignore the sense of panicked familiarity that it brings. Then he runs his hands through his hair, like he always does when he’s nervous, and a tiny part of me slowly opens up, a part that feels like it had been hibernating and is ready to face the spring anew.
And still, I remind myself, this could not, in any way, be a good idea. Do! Not! Stay!
“So Jillian, this is what I know about you,” Henry says, sipping his double espresso. “You do advertising for Coke. You ride the bus. You have a boyfriend, who, best as I can tell, is now nowhere to be found. You appear to like jogging. And . . .” He cocks his head and pauses, mulling over what to say next. “You look adorable, even when you resemble a drowned rat.” He smiles triumphantly, and I chew on my inner cheek to avoid doing the same.
“All correct,” I say, then add on second thought, “though the boyfriend is very much still in the picture.”
“Duly noted,” he answers. “So what else is there to know about you?