Authors: C. K. Kelly Martin
I keep a low profile around the
house after work later that night and on Sunday, but on Monday evening Abigail,
Deirdre, Marta and I climb into Deirdre’s car and head for an Italian
restaurant on Trafalgar Road. Since it’s nearby enough to reach on foot in
under fifteen minutes we vowed that we would walk if it was a nice night, but
it’s too late into November for there to be many pleasant nights left this year
and snowflakes stick to our hair and coats as we stroll from the parking lot to
the restaurant.
I’m happy to be
there with my three unofficial aunts, despite my fear of being found out. If I
wasn’t living under Abigail’s roof I wouldn’t have this problem; no one would
need to know my business. But it was having that kind of shelter that allowed
me to reach a point where I didn’t automatically want to push everyone I
encountered away. Now it seems one of the biggest signs of that
recovery—letting Liam into my life—could signify that I should move on.
Otherwise, would I be staying under false pretenses?
The trouble is,
I’ve grown fond of many of the aspects of my new life—working at O’Keefe’s,
having Marta and Deirdre next door, indulging myself with Liam. I haven’t even
had my job for two months yet and don’t want to leave. There are over five
months until summer classes begin. To uproot myself now wouldn’t make sense,
especially when Liam—who will be gone in less than four weeks—drops out of the
picture.
I don’t know
what to do.
There’s no way
I’d be able to afford to rent a place of my own in Oakville on what I make
working at O’Keefe’s fifteen hours a week. The longer and harder I think on the
problem the more confused I become.
“Tired, Leah?”
Deirdre asks from the seat across me as she wraps fettuccini around her fork.
I’ve failed to
keep up with the dinner conversation and I nod at the offered alibi. “Kind of.
I’ve been working on the graphic novel I was telling you about late into the
evenings.” This isn’t a lie; I’ve been diligent about
Johnny Yang
. I
checked Scott McCloud’s book
Making Comics
—a book we studied in my
Graphic Novel class but which I barely remember—out of the library last week
and have been trying to soak up his wisdom about the form, making extensive
notes on balancing words and pictures. Since I’m not artistic like Bastien
those considerations aren’t something that come as naturally to me, but I’m
determined to learn. I’m planning to check out stacks of graphic novels from
the library when I’m finished with the McCloud book.
“Is there any
chance you’d consider having a look at it once I’m done and letting me know
what you think?” I ask. Deirdre and Marta are avid fiction readers. Even if
they’re unfamiliar with graphic novels they’d be able to discern whether the
storyline and writing are strong enough to approach an artist and then seek
publication.
“Sure, I’ll read
through it for if you’d like,” Deirdre replies. “But if you’d like a
professional opinion, I noticed in the Oakville library newsletter that there’s
going to be a writer in residence at one of the branches for a few months
starting in January.”
I thank her for
passing that info on and will be sure to meet up with the writer in residence
in the new year. That gives me an extra push to have the text of
Johnny Yang
completed within the next couple of months.
The four of us
order a bottle of wine for the table, but I’ve offered to be the designated
driver on the way home and only drink half a glass before switching to water.
Abigail’s thinking of opening a third Bulla store in Montreal, as the ones in
Vancouver and Oakville have proven so successful. But opening another store
would mean yet more time away from home and she’s not sure whether she wants
more business travel in her life.
“Now, more leisure
travel would be a pleasure,” she declares. “I’d like to expand my horizons in
that way. Fly off to some far-flung places I’ve never been, like Vienna or
Brazil. But Bulla has been good to me and if it’s itching to expand, maybe I
should follow it.”
Deirdre, Marta
and Abigail discuss the merits of relaxation vs. the benefits of career
productivity. Mostly I listen. Like with anything else, it seems to be a matter
of balance. One of my grandmother’s favorite sayings is, “Moderation in all
things.” If she were here she would’ve quoted it already.
Marta says she
sometimes has the same problem as Abigail, albeit on a lesser scale, with
O’Keefe’s. She never feels able to leave it for more than a few days at a time
and therefore she and Deirdre haven’t been on a holiday longer than four days
in three years.
“I can watch the
store for you if you want to go somewhere soon,” I offer immediately.
Marta’s cheeks
are rosy from the wine and she tilts her head in surprise. “You wouldn’t want
to come in every day, would you? That’s too much for one person and I know you
were only looking to put in a few days a week.”
“Well, yeah, but
if you went away it would only be for a week or two, wouldn’t it?”
Deirdre and
Marta’s eyes meet. “That’s something to take into consideration,” Deirdre says
cautiously.
I’m no closer to
figuring out what I should do about Abigail and my living arrangements, but
helping Marta and Deirdre out seems simple and right. I set down my fork and
confess, “This isn’t definite yet but I’ve been thinking about taking some
summer courses at U of T in May. If that happens I’ll be busier in summer, but
anytime beforehand I’d be happy to cover for you.”
Abigail sips her
red wine. “That might be your best opportunity,” she says, addressing her
neighbors. “I’d pick up some travel brochures if I were you.”
Abigail turns
her head to smile at me and I know deep down that I won’t change a thing
between now and the day of Liam’s departure. I won’t stop seeing him. I won’t
confess to Abigail. I won’t move out. I intend to have things my way, whether
it’s right or wrong. All I need to do is keep Liam a secret for the next four
weeks. After that there won’t be anything left between us to keep under wraps.
At the end of
the night I drive the four of us home and then text Yunhee. The phone plan Liam
paid up front for the next six months includes unlimited free texting after
five o’clock and Yunhee and I have been texting each other at least twice a
day.
Abigail raps at
my bedroom door while I’m reading Yunhee’s reply and when I tell her to come in
she stands just inside my doorway and says, “I didn’t want to make too much of
it tonight at dinner and put you on the spot but I’m glad to hear you’re
considering getting back to your studies.”
I nod and
confess, “If it goes well this summer I hope to return in the fall full-time.”
I’ll have to meet with an academic advisor at the university first. I won’t be
permitted to continue full-time unless they lift my academic probation status,
and I’m not sure how likely that is, even if I ace my summer courses. “I don’t
want to get ahead of myself—I know that’s still far off—but I think it could
work, that I’ll be ready by then.”
A thoughtful
smile creeps across Abigail’s face. Armstrong’s speeding along inside his wheel
like an astronaut in training and she glances over at him and remarks, “He’s a
bundle of energy, isn’t he?”
“He’s a maniac,”
I declare, my voice bubbling with fondness for him. “If there was a way to hook
him up to a generator we’d probably have all the free electricity we could ever
need.”
Abigail
chuckles. “Maybe that’s his special talent.”
“Maybe.” I bob
my head. “Abigail?”
“Yes, honey?”
I don’t know
that she’s ever called me honey before but it makes what I want to say both
harder and easier. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for
me.” I twist my fingers together and breathe deeply. “I don’t think I’d be
where I am now if it weren’t for you letting me stay here.
In fact, I know I
wouldn’t
. And I know I’ve thanked you before, but I don’t think I’ve ever
thanked you enough.”
“You’re very
welcome,” she says graciously. “And you just keep doing what you’re doing
because it’s working for you. Bastien would be happy to see you coming back to
yourself.”
While the first
thing she said makes my stomach drop, I know the latter thing to be true. I
return Abigail’s smile and listen to her tell me goodnight. Seeing Bastien’s
sensitivity and generosity in Abigail make me feel like he’s not entirely gone.
Her voice is sweet and light, sugar and sunshine, and my smile and gratitude
grow, despite my lingering fears about my secret being uncovered.
***
On Tuesday morning I go to the
dentist to begin the process of having a crown made. In the evening I quote the
price of the appointment to my parents so they can forward the dentist a check.
They’re happier when they know Abigail’s in town with me and sound cheerful
over the phone. Mom tells me she’s already started her Christmas shopping and
that they’re planning to put the lights up on the weekend. My grandmother has
been gossiping that my cousin Evan (the one with the twins) and his girlfriend
Daisy are having relationship trouble. My mother says she has no idea whether
that’s true but hopes not, for Carter and Clayton’s sake. I hope not too, but
it does occur to me that some other drama would help keep the spotlight off me
over Christmas.
An hour after I
get off the phone Liam texts me to make sure we’re still getting together
tomorrow as planned, and early Wednesday afternoon I walk down to his apartment
in full winter wear with his tea and cookies in my gloved hands, having
reversed my previous decision. The ground’s slushy underfoot and the wind whips
my face pink so that when I arrive at his door Liam cups my cheeks in his palms
and says I should’ve let him pick me up. “I could’ve stuck a taxi sign to the
top of the car,” he says with a smile. “No one would’ve been the wiser.”
I give Liam the
Bourbon creams and tea. His eyes sparkle as he thanks me but neither of our
minds are on food; it’s been a full week since we’ve had sex and we’re both
hungry for it, barely reaching the living room before we begin undressing each
other. Since Liam doesn’t shave until closer to the play he’s at his
scratchiest in the afternoon, his face leaving friction marks wherever it comes
into contact with my skin. As we lie on the couch together afterwards, he looks
me up and down, remarking that it looks like he’s been rough on me.
I remember him
saying, the first night we were together, that he was teaching himself piano,
and I tell him he can make it up to me by playing something.
“Ah, that would
only do more damage,” Liam insists.
I stroke the
inside of his wrist with my little finger. “Come on, you’re an actor—don’t tell
me you have performance anxiety.”
“Performance
anxiety can be a sign of intelligence,” he says. “Seriously, I’ve only been
messing around with it. I’ve never had a proper lesson in my life. I’ve just
been looking at some online tutorials.”
I make the
mistake of saying, “If you play something for me—even something really
short—I’ll play something for you.”
“I didn’t know
you could play,” Liam says, looking interested.
“I can’t really.
I used to when I was young.” Two years’ worth of piano lessons when I was nine
and ten, because my grandfather loves to play and convinced my parents that
every child should learn an instrument. “I haven’t touched a piano in almost a
decade.”
“You’ll still
look like Mozart in comparison to me. Go on.” Liam points in the direction of
the piano.
“You first,” I
tell him.
Liam shakes his
head but gets up with his pants and shirt in his arms because he insists if
he’s going to embarrass himself he’s not going to do it naked. Once he’s got
his clothes back on he sits at the piano, pecking at the keys in true awkward beginner
style. I think it’s a Coldplay song, although I’m not sure which one, and Liam
gives me a look that asks whether I want him to continue embarrassing himself.
“Okay, my turn,”
I offer.
Liam exhales
relief and watches me pull my clothes on. We switch places and I cast my mind
back ten years and begin to play “Au Clair de la Lune,” a song I learned in
grade one piano. My fingers stumble and my timing’s off but I know I look a
little more at home in front of the piano than Liam did.
“That wasn’t bad
considering you haven’t played in ten years,” he says afterwards. “Why’d you
stop playing?”
I shrug. “I was
ten. It seemed boring. I wouldn’t have minded just being able to play, but the
practicing…”
Liam’s eyeing me
up again, the same way he did when my body was intertwined with his on the
couch. When Bastien died I couldn’t imagine wanting anyone again, but it seems
that Liam only has to look at me in a certain way and I begin to melt in the
middle.
I don’t know if
it’s because of the piano performances or a build-up of frenzied desire from
substituting sushi for sex the last time we saw each other, but soon we’re
moving into the bedroom and doing something we’ve never done together before.
Liam strokes the length of his cock while he watches me rub myself. My mind and
skin burn for him as his hand moves up and down his shaft. He’s the most
glorious thing I’ve ever seen and his eyes never leave me. They’re burning like
the rest of him and I’m so close—just looking at him—to pushing myself over the
edge, but somehow I instinctively know I’ll never get there like this. There’s
a seed of self-consciousness inside me that I can’t release. We’re too new
together and we won’t ever have the chance to be anything else.
I tell Liam, in
a voice on fire like the rest of me, that I need him inside me.
He slips on a
condom and runs two of his fingers over the hottest part of me, the folds
between my legs. “You’re
so
wet
,” he says wondrously.