A Little Bit

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Eli

The first thing I notice when I roll over in bed in the morning is that I’m still alive, which is always good because I really overdid it last night. That brings me to the second thing I notice—I feel like absolute shit. I’m never drinking again and definitely not mixing it with whatever pretty pill that cute redhead pulled out of her pocket like a magician.

I try to sleep it off, tossing and turning on the little dorm room bed that barely contains my body, but it just keeps churning. Nausea in my gut. Pounding in my head.

Suddenly the feelings converge and rush forward, making me jump out of the bed, narrowly missing a sleeping body on the floor. Who that is, I don’t even know. Scrambling to kneel in front of the toilet, I vomit all the bad decisions from last night.

When there is absolutely nothing left, I scoot against the tiled wall and lean my head back, trying to catch my breath.

I didn’t mean for it to get so bad last night. I just couldn’t deal. I never can on that day, but because I’m here of all places—the place I hate, the place that is coated in tradition and gentility to hide the festering underneath—it felt immense this year. Unbearable. So I coped the best way I could, which is actually not the best way at all.

I quickly brush my teeth to get rid of the disgusting film in my mouth and trudge back to my room so I can kick out whoever I invited back here last night.

I open my door, about to be rude as fuck and abruptly wake their ass, when I see who it is that snuck their way into my room.

Small snippets of last night start to come back to me. The ringing of the phone. A lamp breaking. Laughing at his hat. His hand in my pants.

Whoa, what?

Oh wait, no. Just grabbing something out of my pocket. Well, I could do worse, I guess.

He’s sleeping on his side, a shitty blanket underneath him that I’m sure provides no comfort from the rock-like carpet that every college dorm must buy from the same place, and a serene expression on his face. Something I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before, he always seems to look antsy and uncomfortable.

I watch him for a few more minutes, thinking as every second ticks by that I need to snap out of it and kick him out already. But as I observe the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, I have trouble remembering why that needs to happen.

When he groans and turns over, starting to stir from his deep sleep, I quietly scramble back into bed, turning toward the wall and trying to also look like I’m just waking up.

He’s the creeper. Not me. I don’t need him knowing that I just watched him sleep for an unnecessary amount of time.

I hear him sit up behind me, followed by that tiny screeching sound that everyone does when they’re stretching. I turn over so I can really emphasize that I’m waking up too. But Jesus Christ.

This guy already looks upsettingly handsome every time I see him. But having just woken up? He obliterates any other human on Earth. Living or dead. His blond hair is disheveled, his clothes are wrinkled, his face puffy. All of those things don’t sound like good qualities, but they work for him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not put together. I get to see him raw, and I’m not sure many other people can say they have, and that amplifies it even more.

He peeks up at me, squinting one eye against the light streaming in through the window.

“Hey,” he says shyly. It’s raspy and full of gravel from just waking up. I fist my sheets to keep myself from doing something stupid. Like jumping his bones and making him use that voice to moan my name.

“Hey,” I say back lamely before the room falls back into silence.

“Well,” he sighs.

I know that “well.” That’s the “well” you say right before you bounce out of an awkward situation. I’ve used that “well” plenty of times.

A mini panic attack sets in under my skin, making me grow sticky with a light sheen of sweat. Just a mini one, though. I’m not that fucking desperate to be having a full blown panic attack about him leaving.

He pulls his legs up, bending his knees so he can stand up and leave me.

“What’s your major?” I blurt, inwardly cursing how dumb that question sounds right now.

He frowns and shoots me a puzzled look. “Huh?”

“What’s your major?” I repeat like it’s the natural progression of events since we’ve met. “That’s the first question you’re supposed to ask anyone once you're in college. It’s a rule.”

He smiles while the light radiates all around his silhouette, the particles of dust in the air dancing around him.

“Um. I’m in my first year of law school,” he says, eyes now cast to the floor.

“You?” I question, genuinely surprised. “You seem too timid to be a lawyer. I can’t quite picture you getting all aggressive in the courtroom.”

He shrugs, picking at the fraying on the edge of the blanket he’s sitting on. “Mother says it’s a good path to follow before taking public office.”

My face screws up. “You call her ‘Mother’?”

“Yes. So? What’s wrong with that?”

I tip my lips down in a frown and shake my head. “Nothing. That’s just a sure fire way to tell when someone has a weird-ass relationship with their mom.”

He snorts.

I lean forward, trying to convey seriousness again. “Now, tell me what you really wanna major in.”

Regarding me for a moment, he gives me a small almost imperceptible nod, like he’s deciding he can trust me. “Plants.”

“Plants?”

“Plants,” he agrees with finality. “I’m not sure what the major would be called, but I want to study plants.”

“Uhh.” I honestly have no idea what to say to that. It surprises me. “Why?”

He leans back on his hands, resituating his body on the ground. Getting comfortable. Some of the panic leaves my chest.

“They’re beautiful. Full of life. Vibrant. Misunderstood a lot of the time.” He pauses. “Do you know what Spanish moss is?”

“That spidery shit in the trees?”

He gifts me an amused smile. My brain sucks it down and keeps listening. “Yes. That. Everyone thinks it’s a parasite. Something destructive that kills its host. But it doesn’t. It attaches to a tree but sustains itself from the air around it. But do people care?” He pauses again, looking at me for some type of answer, but I stay silent. “No. They don’t. They think what they want. And see what they want. Then make judgements based on that instead of actual knowledge. It’s just being itself and looked upon as hurtful.”

I get a sense that we aren’t talking about Spanish moss anymore.

“I’ve honestly never thought of it that much. I didn’t know people thought that.”

He shrugs. “Well, some people do at least.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, causing his eyes to snap up to mine, just long enough for me to see the pain swimming in them before he looks at the floor again.

He continues, “Mother always has it removed from the magnolia trees in her courtyard. I hated that as a kid. It was so pretty. So I started researching and learned that she was incredibly misguided. Then I looked up a different plant. And another. And every day I learned about all these things that people ignore and take for granted.”

He shrugs again, clearing his throat. “But, um, that’s not in the cards for me.”

“You should definitely do that instead of the lawyer shit. It’s your life.”

He shakes his head at me. “That’s not how it works.”

“Yes. It is,” I grunt firmly back at him.

Squinting, he takes a few moments to assess my face, dissecting whatever he sees there. My guard wars with itself, raising and lowering, unsure if it should let this person in.

“Okay,” he starts. “You don’t seem to really like it here. If it’s our lives and we’re supposed to do what we want with it, then why are you here?” It could be an attack from anyone else. But not him. His face looks up at me from the floor, soft and curious.

Despite that, my brow slams down.

My mom’s face floods the forefront of my mind. The sadness that was carved there for months. Years. Present in every expression. Every motion she made. I said I’d do anything to make it go away, and I kept to that.

“None of your business,” I say sharply.

He rips his eyes from mine, solemnly slumping his shoulders.

Shame floods my insides for snapping at him. But regardless of whatever emotional tie connected us for a moment, he doesn’t get those parts of my life. I won’t let him in like that. I promised.

Swiveling his head around the room, he says, “Your art is haunting.”

I take a moment to look with him, letting my eyes drift over each of the drawings pinned to the wall. Recalling every stroke of my charcoal.

I “hmm” at him, because I’m not sure what to say. I only have them displayed so I can see them. I really don’t bring people back here that often, and if I do, it’s under the cloak of night, both of us satisfying a need and certainly not staying to see daybreak.

“Why don’t you draw their eyes?” he asks, that same curious look back on his face.

I look back at the drawings. Their faces always devolving into chaotic blends of smears and swirls. “They’re too intimate,” I begin, keeping my eyes trained on the drawings and away from his vulnerable gaze. “Windows to the soul, or whatever people say. Drawing the intricacies of the eyes means you know a person. I don’t really know anyone.”

He points at the one currently clipped to my easel in the corner of the room. “You drew part of the eyes for that one. Who is it?”

I had started to draw the eyes, completing the lower lash line before it became too much, and I followed the same path as the other ones. So, you can only see her bust, mouth, and nose.

“My sister.”

He must sense that I don’t want to say anything else, that I’ve already shared too much, because he asks no follow up questions, and the room falls into silence again while he continues staring at it.

I’m lost in the trance his presence has trapped me in, when his voice snaps me back into consciousness. “I should go,” he mutters while standing and attempting to smooth the wrinkles out of his khakis.

“Sorry for calling,” I begin, trying to make my voice convey nonchalance. “I obviously wasn’t in my right mind. Didn’t mean to do that.”

My statement hangs while he throws on his disguise of a hat and heads to the door.

Then he turns back to me. We stare at each other. For too long. Nothing and everything passing between our irises before he says, “I don’t mind.” And leaves.

Such a small sentence, but it feels loaded. A permission. For him and for me.