Authors: Evan Reeves
“Fairy tales are for Disney, Professor Lawson.”
Ben laughed.
“Are you familiar with the ending of many of your beloved fairy tales? Were you aware that most of those notable princesses actually suffered totally gruesome, terrible deaths?”
“Yeah!” Brandon already knew this. He was sort of a genius when it came to anything involving Grimm fairy tales, for reasons even unbeknownst to me, as I'd rarely ever seen Brandon pick up a book to read for leisure. “There's no happy ending for Little Red Riding Hood, for example.”
“What happens?” Sacha asked from across the room.
“She just gets eaten. The moral of the story: don't take advice from strangers.”
“Exactly,” Ben laughed. “But either way, there doesn't need to be any grim endings – no pun intended – in your piece. Write about anything, but please remember to be creative. You all have imaginations. Use them!”
He looked back at me, and I stared down at my empty desk that was covered only by my set of folded hands. When he dismissed us, I quickly told Sacha and Brandon that I'd meet up with them later, and hurried out the door and into the studio, where I was finally able to breathe some sigh of relief.
Snatching a piece of paper, I sat down at one of the empty tables, welcoming the smell of paint and crisp air, and started to draw.
I wondered briefly what Toby was doing overseas. How many pictures he'd already taken. What he'd seen, who he'd met. Shaking my head, I tried to erase the image of him strolling along the streets of Paris, flirting with the locals, hooking up with other students or foreigners from places that I'd never step foot in, with names I'd likely never learn to pronounce.
I wondered if Sacha was confused over my leaving class so abruptly, and not giving him a chance to even engage in casual conversation. To attempt some sort of platonic friendship-ritual even if he more than likely assumed that my little confession in class was without question directed at him, like a flaming arrow.
I wondered if he was thinking of me like I (wasn't) thinking about him.
I bore the pencil I was holding into the paper, scratching the lead into the off-white surface. I started with eyes, surrounding them with an oval, gradually adding the lines and shading and finer details: proper shadowing to accurately portray the way sunlight, or any light, danced across his hair. The way his eyes glimmered in that pretty, poetic sort of way that people who could write would write about. The gentle lines beneath his eyes, and his crooked grin.
It was practically impossible not to remember the kiss we'd shared just the other day. The smell of his cologne, the way his eyes were so heavy after pulling away, his lips bitten down, swollen and soft and tasting like the mint from his chewing gum and the cherry-vanilla from his Dr. Pepper. Simple and utterly delectable.
Looking up, the windows that spanned across the studio walls were both long and wide – nearly encompassing the area. From outside I could see the occasional student walking past, backpacks slung over their shoulders and eyes staring straight ahead. Some were in groups, laughing and shoving and racing to beat the clock. Still, despite the total transparency, I could envision it: Ben walking in, the smell of his cologne immediate and alluring, his hair wind-swept and smile soft. He would pull me up and against him, taking my face in his hands and kissing me with a forced kind of gentleness – the desire pulsing and pooling in my veins like a flooding fire. I would kiss him with a greater intensity, standing on my toes and straining until he lifted me up in his arms and placed me on one of the tables, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Catching my breath, my thoughts dancing, I could practically feel his lips grazing over the soft flesh of my neck, his teeth catching my bottom lip with another kiss, like ripe fruit. Sweet and smoky and entirely sensuous, his eyes like less of a man and more of an animal, entirely dilated as he pinned me down on the table, the weight of his body crushing down on me in a way that left me breathless.
And even though I could still see the way his eyes lit up with that same devilish, wicked kind of lust as his fingers moved up my thigh and the sound of his pants buttons came undone, vaguely registered in my carnally-clouded state, he would refrain from tearing into me as I knew he so badly wanted to. We would make love gently, quietly as we could. Every movement, every moan soft and subtle and careful even though the studio was covered in windows that would broadcast our heated affair to the world. Or at least, the passing students.
“Is that me?”
“Huh?”
Ben's voice immediately yanked me out of my sweet, sweet reverie. I looked up at him as he
stood in front of me, holding the paper in his hands with a sweet, boyish smile.
“I absolutely love your work,” he continued, and our eyes met. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I gulped, hoping that my face wasn't too flush. Thank God he was fully dressed, his sweatshirt fully zipped. His cologne was faint, but still enough to keep me reeling. “Just tired. I'm sorry I left without saying anything.”
He pulled one of the chairs over and took a seat across from me, reaching out and touching my cheek gently.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked. I nodded.
“Just thinking,” I admitted.
“About what?”
“You.”
He cracked a grin, his face suddenly playful and serious all at once as he leaned in, whispering cautiously:
“I would kiss you if it weren't for the window-to-wall ratio.”
His hand was still on my cheek, his fingers tracing slowly down to my chin.
“You know that Sacha really does like you,” he said quietly. I stifled a groan.
“I don't want to talk about Sacha,” I told him. Then, because curiosity caves me, I asked: “Why? Did he write something about me?”
“I'm afraid I can't divulge that information,” Ben smirked. “That would be highly unprofessional.”
I laughed a little, and from underneath the table Ben reached out and took my hand. I smiled, he smiled. And it might not have been what I'd been fantasizing about only moments before, but the simplicity of it was wonderful.
“You surprised me by reading that poem earlier. I didn't even know that you bothered to write it down.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I did. I wanted to remember it.”
Outside the windows shook from a gust of wind, the barren branches rapping against the glass in a momentary startle.
“You really are an enigma,” he said. “Gemma.”
I wanted so badly to just lean over and rest my head against his shoulder. I wanted him to keep holding my hand, to kiss me, to tell me stories and show me more of whatever it was that he kept in his suitcase. Poetry, scribblings, novels, anything. I wanted to ask him about his book, about the movie that was in the process of being made, about his family.
I wanted so badly to just know everything. To have him with me for more than just the quick, passing hours that always left me feeling like it all ended much too soon. That it always ended much too soon.
His hand tightened around mine, and I couldn't help but think:
I like you. I like you too much. I'm in over my head, here. And if I had my way, maybe this could work out somehow.
I sighed, and Ben followed suit, his fingers tracing delicately around the inside of my palm, exploring every crevice.
“I'm worried about you,” he said. “You look exhausted. Do you have to work tonight?”
“Yes,” I answered. “But it's a good thing. Brandon had his hours cut, and I've only fifteen scheduled for this week. It's not enough.”
“No,” Ben agreed quietly. “It's not. I remember working throughout college, making ends meet. Or trying, at least. Like I said, I worry. I worry because I get it, Gems.”
I smiled. That was the first time he ever called me Gems.
“I'll be okay,” I told him. “We've dealt with this before and things always end up working out one way or another.”
“I just hate thinking about you struggling,” he said. “Brandon, too. He's a great guy. I like a little humor in the classroom.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He sure is.”
Glancing at my cellphone, I stood and tried not to show just how sad I was to feel Ben's hand slip away from mine. As I adjusted the straps of my backpack, I watched Ben as he looked back down at the drawing that rested on the table.
“Keep it,” I told him. “It's just a doodle, anyway.”
“It's much more than a doodle,” he said. When I reached the doorway, he called out again: “Gemma?”
“Yeah?”
Ben crossed his arms, smirking from ear-to-ear.
“If you're going to write about me in the assignment I gave out earlier. You know, the contemporary fairy tale. I just wanted to let you know: I favor wooded settings. I also look good in green.”
I laughed. Hard. Harder than I really even intended to, which resulted in an embarrassing snort that sent Ben into an equally tremendous fit of laughter.
“I hate you,” I told him. “Professor Lawson.”
“Until Friday, Gemma. I'll be thinking about you.”
I left him alone in the studio, closing the door behind me and wondering, as I walked down the hall, if he would follow. He didn't.
Still, I couldn't stop smiling.
“Sorry, Gems.”
I stared at the ground, gobsmacked. This couldn't be happening.
“I can't stand to lose another shift this week,” I tried to hide the desperation. “I can't. You know I need this job.”
Which was true. Even though it was shitty, and I hated dealing with the crap that came along with working in retail. The customers, the hours, the standing, the peeling stickers and other unmentionables off of the changing room stalls. Still, it was a job.
“It's not just you,” my boss pressed. And I knew that he wasn't lying. “I'm going to try and arrange the schedule in your favor next week. You know that we love you here.”
Love doesn't pay the bills
.
I left the store and tried my best not to cry as I shuffled through the mall and made my way down the rows of cars that were scattered across the parking lot. Safe inside my own, I allowed myself to collapse for a moment, the tears streaming silently down my face as I attempted to clear my head and think of a solution: find a new job, for starters. Find a new job that offered more stable hours, preferably better pay. Preferably something that didn't leave me vulnerable to the constant desire of shooting myself in the face.
Something. Anything.
Why don't they teach classes on the difficulty of being an adult in high school?
I took a deep breath, swallowed, and then followed up by doing the only other thing (aside from watching Brandon dance with his Nic Cage cutout, or just about anything involving Ben) that I knew would ease my troubles. I scraped my change together, ordered a pizza, and headed over to Sacha's house for my promised pizza date with Travis. We played a hundred games of Candy Land, and Travis won every time (even though he technically cheated) and Sacha was actually behaving, all things considered, normal.
When Brandon finally called as Travis was getting ready for bed, I was genuinely feeling a strange, bubbly kind of good.
“What's up?” I asked, laughing as Travis struck down his carefully-constructed Lego castle. Brandon waited a few moments before replying.
“Could you come home?” he asked, sounding frantic. “Like, right now. I'm having one of those moments where I feel like I'm going to pass out. I need you here.”
“Is everything alright?”
Of course, the first thought that popped into my mind: someone's died.
“Yeah,” Brandon took a deep breath. “Everything is. Everything really is fine. Just please come home.”
He hung up, and Sacha looked perplexed.
“Everything okay?” he asked, and I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “Except I guess Brandon needs me back at the apartment. I hate to cut this short, but I need to get going.”
I left the rest of the pizza with Travis, giving him my biggest hug and promising another date sooner than later.
When I arrived home, Brandon was seated in the living room, staring at an envelope that rested on the faux wood of our cheap, piece of crap coffee table.
“What's wrong?” I asked, closing the door behind me. He looked like a combination of ill and ecstatic. My eyes immediately shot to the envelope, my chest growing heavy.
“What's that?” I asked. “Oh God, Brandon. Please tell me we aren't in trouble.”
I walked over the couch, not bothering to sit down. Slowly, I reached over and took the envelope in my hands, opening it carefully and bracing myself for what was inside: an eviction notice. The notice that our electricity or cable or God know what else would finally be shut off.
With my eyes nearly closed, I reached in and pulled out the contents. A stack of something that rested in another envelope. A bank envelope.
It was money.
I nearly fainted, and when I opened my mouth to say something, I could only gasp.
“Who gave us this, Brandon? I asked quietly. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.