Daydreamer Page 8

  I can tell by the expression on Chelsea’s face that she is trying to hold her laugh in. This is unbelievable. She covers her mouth; cheeks are filled with air. Finally, she erupts into laughter and doubles down to the ground. After staring at Chelsea, it was very hard not to laugh. If this were any other situation, I would have gotten down to the floor with her.

  Loud banging interrupts Chelsea’s episode and she gets up, dusts herself off, and becomes serious again.

  I opened the door, but before I could speak, Chelsea interrupts me. “It was funny.” She says.

  “Which part,” I say kind of harsher than I wanted.

  “I wanted to lighten the mood; laughter is the best medicine. It was better than crying.” She replied.

  “You’re right,” I say, and then I look at David. I was relieved they sent him instead of somebody unfamiliar with my case. I walk him over to my room and he gets someone on the phone. I walk out, letting him do his job, and thank god I did when I did. Chris was hanging in my doorway, with a confused look on his face.

  I rush to him, before he came further inside. “Hey . . .” I say slowly, trying to block him, which was useless since he was taller than me. I grab him by the hand, escort him into the hall, and close my door. “What’s up?” I whisper, not meaning to.

  “I feel you’ve been dodging me.” He says, pursing his lips, and folding his arms. We were just friends, it is no big deal if we don’t talk every day; even though, I was indeed dodging him.

  I shrug my shoulders, “I’ve just been busy, lots of stuff going on.” I say. “But I’m fine if that’s why you stopped by,” I walk towards his apartment, gesturing for him to follow. “I’m still not done so I need to talk to you later,” I walked him to his door, and ran back to mine. When I looked back, he had already gone inside, and then I could breathe again. When I go inside, Chelsea is biting her nails on the couch, and five other guys—cops, come in behind me. They go straight to my bedroom, leaving me and Chelsea to stare at each other until we were told we could start taking the photos down.

  The whole time I was thinking about my situation and while I was thinking . . . I shook my head—several times. It was like I was having a very disappointing conversation with someone else, except I wasn’t. I gazed over at Chelsea and she quickly averted her gaze, trying to act as if she hadn’t noticed I was doing anything. We sit for a few more uncomfortable minutes, watching the guys come in and out with small plastic bags, and a camera; until David comes out and tells us we could clean.

  Chelsea and I take two big garbage bags into my room and start tearing the pictures off the wall. I had more fury in my grip, ripping and tearing at each picture, knocking about four down at a time. But Chelsea is calm; she’s tearing them down one by one. She feels that at least one of us in this relationship needs to be composed, which is why she tried making me laugh with the whole thorn incident, and why she’s breathing slowly, and moving even slower. Chelsea—in a way, keeps me sane through all of this. I don’t know where I would be without her.

  “You know who you should treat to lunch?” She asks, looking back at me for a moment, and then back at her side of the wall. I shake my head, and she continues. “Tiger09,” She whispers, as if she were talking to a fragile child.

  “Travis?” I ask, although I knew who Tiger09 was.

  She nods, “You owe him an apology, a proper one.” I suppose Chelsea was right, but right now isn’t exactly great timing. I already brought him into my drama once; it would be injudicious to do it again.

  “Maybe someday,” I said.

  I almost wanted to vent to Chelsea about what just happened with Chris outside, but chose otherwise. We tore the pictures down in comfortable silence, as it should have been. It took us until dusk to finish, and we both managed to get ourselves a few paper cuts.

  “What about Chris?” I asked her. I was taking her advice and asking her questions as if she had all the answers.

  “Go over to his place, when we’re done here,” She says, tilting her head towards my bed, gesturing to the white roses covering my bed. I said nothing more; I just kept sweeping roses off my bed and into the bag. I don’t know how weird this might sound, but I don’t know exactly how to feel. Or at least how to define how I feel. I feel not only one emotion, but all of them.

  We finished and tied the bags up and all I thought about was how I felt, and then I concluded: I feel . . . nothing and everything at once. No human-being can feel one emotion at a time, it isn’t possible.

  “Let’s take out the trash,” Chelsea said, smiling at me. I didn’t smile back, but I gave her a look, a grateful look that told her that I loved her and everything she’s ever done for me. We throw the bags over our backs, lock the door behind us, and take the elevator to the trash shoot. When we’re there, we pant for a while, regain our breaths, and we go back upstairs. We don’t go back to our normal lives, just . . . upstairs; though that would have been nice to tell myself.

  Chelsea goes back inside, and I stare at Chris’s door. Biting my lip, messing with my fingernails and trying to think of an excuse to why I couldn’t knock on his door. When I finally raise my hand to knock, the door opens, and I almost slip and punch Chris in the face. I wince, trying not to laugh, and he just smiled.

  “To whom do I owe this pleasure?” He asked as I slowly lower my fist.

  “I’m sorry, if it seemed like I was dodging you. I was . . . I’m going through something,” I say, trying not to say too much. It’s hard to choose your words carefully when all you want to do is tell anyone who would listen. He nods and invites me in.

  We sit down on his couch, facing each other. Both of us have on difficult faces.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask him. He seemed as if he were trying to crack a code, probably my code. I smile at the thought of it.

  “You’re smiling, but are you happy?” He asks, my smile vanishes, and I stare at him. He stares back at me, not budging, so I cave in.

  “Depends on your definition of happy,” I resort. He stayed silent, and I continued. “I tolerate. That’s as good as it’s getting for me right now, so am I happy?” I wanted to follow that up with an answer, but there was no answer, not right now. He doesn’t answer my question, which was meant for the both of us to answer. I shrug my shoulders and thankfully he opens his mouth to say something.

  “I could make you happy,” He said, inching closer to me. I roll my eyes, but not physically. On the inside, I’m sighing.

  “I can’t,” I confessed. I can’t get into a relationship; I’m not going to do that to him.

  “What’s holding you back?” He presses.

  “The fact that we barely know each other,” I cover up. That wasn’t it at all. Sure, I’ve only known him for a short time, but I feel close to him. I feel like I could tell him anything and it’d stay under lock and key. This sounds crazy but I trust him, but I don’t trust that he won’t get hurt in all this mess.

  “I’ve been trying to get to know you but you . . .” He wanted to say that I’ve been dodging him. He stopped mid-conversation and kissed me. It wasn’t my first kiss, but It felt as so. It was a rush. A sensation that someone felt once in a lifetime, if they were lucky. But here I was, being lucky and I pull away. I shake my head, my eyes still closed. My hands blindly linger on my lips, where his had been just a few seconds earlier. I shake my head again. And again. Again. Until finally I stand up.

  “I have to go.” I say, rushing toward the front door. I have trouble opening it; my hands were shaking and wouldn’t steady. I hold one hand with the other, slowly turning the doorknob and then I run away. I seem to find myself in these situations a lot lately: running away.

  Chapter 17

  Great. Great going Katarina—Kate, whatever the hell my name is. I tried convincing myself over and over that that was best; I needed to push him away, to keep him in the dark for his protection. That was what I needed to do, that was what my brain said. But my heart said something different. My heart beat
ferociously, which is the opposite of how I thought it was functioning.

  I didn’t look at Chelsea when I walked into the apartment. I avoided eye contact, and for the first time in a while, I went into my room for comfort. Considering what literally just happened in my room, I thought this would be the last place I’d go. Once I get to my bed, I had the urge to turn around and run for it. Where? Probably back to Chris’s, or maybe the Police Station, to my parents’ . . .right now, I wanted to be anywhere but here. I poke my head out of my bedroom door and yell, “Chels,”

  “Huh?” She says from the kitchen. I heard clanking and clinging, so I follow the sounds. When I get to the kitchen, I see Chelsea whipping something up in the kitchen.

  “BLT?” I ask her, stepping closer.

  “BLT,” She repeats. “This is the meal that we had when we first started with the police, I’m not sure if that’s when everything started, but let’s just say so. Let’s say we ate this in the beginning, and we will eat and toast to the ending.” She rants.

  “But it’s not—” I try,

  “Yes, it is, just amuse me. If we believe it’s over, it’d be easier to move on.” She continued. I sit at our small, circular table and prepare to eat. I smile up at my savior, Chelsea the Great, as she presents my sandwich in front of me. She smiles back; it looked like she felt forced, like she was only doing this for my sanity. I ignore that glint of doubt and keep smiling. Maybe we both were faking it.

  We eat peacefully, not awkwardly, but another person would have pushed this conference over the edge; which made me think of Travis and taking him to dinner. Maybe I could just video chat him, it’d be normal for us.

  When we finish the sandwiches, Chelsea volunteers to wash out those few dishes after I told her my plans. This was it. I walked to the living room where Chelsea’s laptop lye, slowly, like if I walked too hard or too fast the apartment would fall apart. When I finally sit, I glance back up at Chelsea and then back down at the laptop screen.

  I slowly type in the web address, and then I take a deep breath. I don’t know why I was so nervous. Maybe because of how we left things, or . . . I don’t know.

  He wasn’t online. I don’t have his number. After I find that the little online light by his username was dull, I exhaled the breath I realized I’d been holding.

  I stare up at Chelsea in awe, at how strong she is. How I brought her into my mess and she’s standing tall, after she almost died. I have the same fear that could happen to Chris, all because I want a star-crossed romance. I can’t risk his life for something so mediocre.

  “Chels? If you could turn back time to before I called that day. . . would you do it? Would you have stayed home, if it meant that you’d still have one?”

  She doesn’t answer; she keeps washing and drying the dishes. “No,” She simply says a few minutes later, or maybe it felt like a few minutes. “I would be right here. Being kept in the dark isn’t your decision to make for me, it’s my own. I showed up that day, and I would do it again.” I didn’t reply to her, I just stared at the laptop screen.

  I wanted to say, okay, or anything really, but nothing came out. Did her answer make me change my mind about Chris? Absolutely not.

  Out of nowhere I thought about my mom and how she’s doing; and if my dad has taken her out of that vile nursing home. So, I decide to call.

  “Dad?” I ask when a man with a raspy voice answers the phone.

  “Yesss,” He slurs. You have got to be kidding me.

  “Are you drunk?” I almost scream, but it morphed into a whisper. Now, I was squeezing the phone as if I wanted to crush it.

  “No, of course not, just tired.” He says. A moment of silence passes until I continue the conversation.

  “Now that you’re “better”, are you taking mom out of the Home? She needs to be home right now, dad.” I hear him start to whisper to someone in the background, and then there is another moment of silence.

  “Yes, I already called; we have to clean out her room tomorrow.” The way he said it sounded like he wasn’t talking to me. He sounded . . . distant.

  “Okay, I’ll be there tomorrow, I’ll help.” I insist. Then I hear the end tone. He hung up. I’d like to think he didn’t mean to, but I think differently when it comes to him.

  I decided to call it a night. As usual, I slept on the couch.

  ‘Slept’ is a heavy term, I did very little of that. I stared out the window as if it were routine. I listened to all the noises that came from neighbors and creaking that came from this old building in the night.

  It’s starting to get light outside, but technically, it’s still the middle of the night, it’s just . . . early. Most of the neighbors should be sleeping, but I keep hearing footsteps outside my door. They’re the same recurring footsteps. Six paces forth and then they turn around and do six paces back. I look up from the window, to the bottom of my door to see if they were walking outside of my door. They were, I saw a shadow, just walking in the light, back and forth. I slowly sit up from the couch, and stare at it for a while. I don’t know what to do. I could look out of the peephole and see who it is, or I could turn on the lights to scare them away. But when I start to get up to act on one of those actions, it stops in front of my door.

  A piece of paper creeps from under the door and slides for a bit before stopping. I get up and run to the door, and I fling it open. No one is there. Nothing remains but the note.

  I walk slowly toward the note and pick it up. My heart races and I’m kind of mad but I don’t know what for, or at whom. I open it bit by bit and begin to read.

  The definition of happy: Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.

  My definition of happy: When Katarina smiles and shows signs of joy.

  So, are you happy? Yes. Do you make me happy? Yes.

  -Chris

  I almost threw the note out of giddiness. I started thinking about when we were unpacking his apartment and the whole night, I couldn’t stop laughing and smiling. And the intense moment when he asked me ‘was I happy?’ . . . my answer doesn’t change, I tolerate. But I am capable of being happy temporarily, because no one is happy all the time. With me, I’m just happy less of my time, rarely lately. I turn the note over and write to Chelsea: “At Chris’s” and then tape the note to the door.

  I practically run over to Chris’s apartment and knock furiously. Once he answers, he opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t let him. I seal his lips into a kiss. It was warm and felt like sugar, sweet and forbidden, if you have too much of it.

  When I pull away, he smiles and steps out of the doorway, inviting me in. He leads me into his bedroom, and we lay down, side by side, as if that was where we were meant to be. My back is snuggled into his chest and his arms are slung over my torso, and we fall asleep.

  Though, I could only sleep a few hours . . . that had to be the best sleep I’ve had in months.

  Chapter 18

  This time, I didn’t sneak out of Chris’s room. I stared at the natural light coming in from his window. I got up slowly, untangling myself from him. I stood up and looked out at the view he had, which was much different than mine. His view, you could see the city and with mine I saw construction and tall skyscrapers.

  “Hey,” He sighed, joining me beside the window. He must be a light sleeper. He grazed my chin with his index finger and kissed me on the forehead. This whole scene seemed too normal to be true. And as if I asked for it to happen, my phone rings, and it’s my mom.

  I gestured that I had to step out, excusing myself. I step into his living room. “Hello?”

  “Where are you? Your papa is here, and we are about to start.” I totally forgot I was supposed to be helping her pack.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes; I’m running a little late.” I look back at Chris as he comes out of his room, and into the kitchen.

  “Okay,” She replies. We say our goodbyes and I wander into the kitchen.

  “I have to run to my mom’s nursing home, sorry that I
always have to leave abruptly.” I apologize to Chris.

  “Can’t I join?” He asks, stepping closer to me. I start to blush for the most unknown reason in the world.

  “You sure about that?” I ask him. He nods and goes to put on clothes. We could use some muscle to carry those boxes, though, she won’t have anything too heavy.

  I wait by his door for about two minutes before he comes tumbling out of his room and ready to go. We had to go to my apartment first so I could brew some coffee, put on clothes, and fill Chelsea in. Chris sat on the couch and I notice this is the first time he’s been in my apartment—all the way in. I have Chelsea fix my coffee the way I wanted while I got dressed. Classic Katarina, I put on grey sweatpants and a black tank top.

  When I come out of my bedroom, Chelsea is glaring at Chris like she was trying to figure him out. She had my coffee in her hand, so without addressing that look she gave him, I grabbed it and told Chris it was time to go.

  When we get there, I sign in, and Chris awkwardly lingers a few feet away from me. I look back at him to see if he was okay, although it was his idea to come. When we get to my mom’s room, the door is wide open, and nothing is in the boxes yet. Great.

  “Mama,” I say, inching in so she could turn around to see Chris. “This is my friend, Chris, I brought him along to help.” She turns around to look at us, and she stops in her tracks. She stands there for a minute, and then slowly approaches me. She extends her hand to him and they shake hands, after that brief movement, he kissed her hand and flashes a smile. He was trying to charm her, but it worked on me instead.

  “Nice to meet you, Chris,” She says. He nods and they release hands. We disperse into her room and start to pack her possessions into boxes. I go over to her dresser, to start with her family pictures. There is one from when Marie went to homecoming with Brent, there’s one of me when I went to prom, another one of me when I was about sixteen at the beach, and a family portrait of all of us, including my dad. Pictures have a way of making a family look so happy and perfect; we might have been close to perfect when this picture was taken, but not anymore.