Chapter One
"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."
— Kurt Vonnegut, Player Piano
It was a dark and stormy night.
Okay, so that was a horribly clichéd beginning. But I tell it like it is, okay? Sheesh. I'm not a writer. It was night. It was dark. And it was stormy. What do you want me to do?
Right. So it was dark and stormy. Well, not so much stormy as raining a bit—more like a drizzle—but stormy sounds more ominous.
Oh, hell. Let me start over.
It was nighttime rush hour. Cars honking, the line barely creeping. You know, a regular traffic jam. I twiddled the knobs on the stereo but nothing good was on. Peachy. The rain was the misty kind: fine, almost powdery. I didn't even have to use the wipers too much.
Of all the places I could get stuck in, I just had to pick a bridge. My car was past halfway through the damned thing, but it was taking forever to get out.
I'm prone to exaggeration at the best of times.
On the flipside, it was pretty up there. The urban sort of pretty. If you looked to the side, you could admire the city's upside-down reflection on the river. Fancy lights and stuff. And the road, too—it was slippery, you know, because of the rain, so it mirrored the red brake lights of the cars before me.
So I counted my blessings and found out that what the hell, the universe still owed me. I hate traffic jams as much as the next guy. Girl. Whatever.
And then I saw him.
Way to the side, a lone shadow, looking down.
At first I thought, Funny place for a walk. And then, Nice jacket. And then—
My sluggish brain caught up to what I was seeing, and before I could slap myself I was out of the car, into the rain-drizzle-whatever, in front of the guy.
He stared at me. I stared at him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I yelled. I couldn't help it. He was going to freaking jump, for the love of waffles. And nobody even cared! Of all the people out there, in their cars, nobody even thought to stop this guy from killing himself? I thought I was being mild.
He shrugged, indifferent to my mildness. "I dropped my pen." He glanced down at the river, with its pretty urban reflection pelted by raindrops. "I was going to dive after it."
Like hell.
"Screw your pen." I dragged him to my car by the arm. Maybe I was making a mistake, maybe I was being too nosy. But I filed those doubts away for later. "I'm taking you home."
To my surprise, he didn't even put up a fight. Weird guy. Well, he did just try to kill himself. But he could've, I don't know, struggled a bit to make it seem more dramatic, right? Like in those movies: two people in the rain, silhouetted against the city lights.
Leave me alone.
I can't.
Life isn't as precious as you think.
Not to you.
I said leave me alone!
See, something like that. A heavy black-and-white film noir: ooh, how theatrical. But I guess reality kinda disappoints when compared to fiction. So, anyway.
We got into the car. I didn't even care that we were both wet. Okay, damp. Up close, I got the impression that the guy was pretty well off. I mean, he looked refined, and nice jacket, by the way, but it had more to do with how he carried himself: posture or whatever. So posh. I'd peg him as an opera-goer. If I hadn't heard him talk, I'd have thought he had a British accent.
Wait, was that racist? I don't even know anymore.
Maybe it was the blond hair or the baby-blue eyes. Or the vacuous look. Rich people are like that. They look at you like they don't have souls. (I'm generalizing here, as I don't know any rich people.) But my money's still on the posture.
The guy just sort of looked at me blankly, as if he was waiting for instructions. Which he was.
"Okay," I said. "Where do you live?"
He shrugged again. I swear that's his signature move or something. "I'd rather not go home."
"Sure. Okay." I took a deep breath. I needed to be patient. He must've been really messed up to try suicide—depression, maybe? Family troubles? Figures he didn't want to go home. I had no experience with troubled people, but I knew I had to be kind, at least. "So what am I gonna do with you?"
So much for kind.
"Not my problem." He was scratching at the upholstery, or what was left of it. Pfft, rich kids. Probably checking for bed bugs. "I didn't ask you to save me."
Ungrateful, too. He had a point, yeah, but I wasn't about to concede that.
"Right. So… I guess you could spend the night at my place?" I'm not often so trusting around strangers, but it was late and I wanted my bed and where else am I supposed to dump his sorry butt? Is there even a protocol for this kind of situation? "We'll sort this out first thing tomorrow."
He smiled. I think. A slight lift to his mouth, a little squinting of the eye. It's hard to tell, with a face like that—like a statue, I mean. He could as easily have been glaring at me with murderous intent. "It doesn't really matter to me."
"Of course not." The traffic began to move. Hallelujah. "I'm Angela, by the way."
He smoothed moist hair away from his face with impeccable fingertips. Incredible (and annoying) how he could exude such grandeur in a little gesture: I mean, I'm a girl, how come I can't do that? And—munching jellywafers, he was ignoring me!
"Hey," I said.
He didn't answer. He was staring at something infinitely more interesting outside the window. You know, the darkness, sour-smelling bikers, other cars passing by. Or maybe he was staring at his own reflection, who knew.
My money's on the reflection.
"Hey," I said again, louder this time.
Still no answer.
The nerve.
"Hey!" I poked him in the cheek. It was either that or stick my finger up his pretty nose.
I chose the lesser evil. I'm such a good person.
"What?" he snapped. Oh, and he had the grace to look annoyed. He even wore that conceited hauteur expression, as if he had stepped in a pile of dog turd.
A me-shaped dog turd.
"I said I'm Angela."
He gave this exaggerated eye-roll and a matching sigh. Really. Rich kids. Even I don't sigh like that. "I know," he said, turning back to the window. "I heard you the first time."
Why, the pompous little son of a silver-backed donkey-humping gorilla. I started to think I should have stuck my finger up his nose instead.
I had to remind myself that this guy had just tried to kill himself and I should be good and kind and caring, and so I bit my oft-bitten tongue and prayed for a fresh supply of patience. Preferably decaf.
"You know," I said through gritted teeth, "I don't know how your people do it, but usually, when someone tells you their name, you tell them yours."
He looked at me like—well, I don't know what that look was like. Oh, I'm terribly sorry, excuse me, I'm not a gaze connoisseur, I can't read stares. I'm not gonna say there was a glint of disgust or a flicker of affection in there, because disgust doesn't glint in anyone's eyes, and affection doesn't flicker, and also because it wasn't any of that. I think. All I know is that it wasn't so vacant anymore. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, or what that stare was for, but that's what he did: he stared. Just for a second. Or two.
I bet he had a funny name and he was afraid I'd laugh at it. I told him this. To assuage his theoretical fear, you know. Also to tease him.
"Gill," he said finally. He turned to the window again.
That was a funny name, but not so much that it warranted laughing. Paranoid much.
"See?" We were out of the bridge now, and out of the bottleneck. Again, hallelujah. Smooth sailing from here. "Was that so hard, huh, Gill?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand waving. "Don't—don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like…" Both hands waving now. "Like that. What you just did. Like you're molesting it with your tongue."
I couldn't help it; I laughed. A name-molester, that's me. I grope names for the heck of it, I feel up their jiggling letters, I squeeze their plump consonants. Holy pig in a bellybutton sandwich, what am I saying? Officer, this woman has been caught harassing names all over the city. One name claims she sprinkled something in its drink.
Oh, man. Do I need some shut-eye.
As I had predicted, the drive went smoothly from there. And by smoothly, I mean in semi-awkward silence.
Gill wasn't inclined to talk, after I stopped molesting his name. Which I understood, since, you know. Messed up and all that. Figured he needed the space. Clear his head out. I wanted to help him, I really did, but how? Talking? I wouldn't trust me to talk to someone so emotionally fragile. I'm a verbal jackhammer. I left him to his own devices: he wouldn't try anything funny with me there.
I tried fiddling with the radio a bit, but still nothing good: …starships were meant to fly-y-y-y. Nope. Coming up next—why your husband is cheating on you. No. Dr. Love on air, here to remedy the sicknesses of the heart. Nuh-uh. Typhoon victims still in need of…
Yep. Boring drive.
"Why are you wearing that?"
"Wha—?" Very eloquent, Angela. In my defense, though, I didn't expect him to talk, much less ask me why I'm wearing my clothes. Seriously, who does that?
Rich people. Rich people do.
"That," he said, giving a pointed glance at my shirt. "Why do you wear it?"
"Um." I chanced a cursory peek down my front. Okay, so maybe the shirt was gloriously stained and rumpled and ponged with oil-smell, but it was passable. Didn't bear being snidely glared at. In my humble opinion. "It's my uniform? I work at a fast-food?"
"It's ugly." A slender pinky worried the outer corner of his eye. "Clashes with your hair."
Yep. Boring drive.
We made it to the flat in once piece, in any case. Allow me to explain what 'in one piece' means in three simple words: air-dried, bedraggled, and sullen.
Well, Gill was sullen. Me, I was more annoyed. The 'clashes with your hair' comment still stung a little.
I flipped the light switch on and ta-da: my cramped apartment in all its peeling-wallpaper glory, smelling suspiciously of day-old pizzas. I tried to remember the last time I had anyone over. (Three years ago, if you're interested, and it was the plumber.) It looked as if I'd moved in ages ago and stopped unpacking halfway through. Behind me, Gill said nothing. We were both so quiet, I swear you could hear dust bunnies mating under the carpet.
"Shut up, Gill."
He actually laughed at that. Man, I'm good at this cheering-up thing. "I didn't say anything," he said.
As soon as we got through the door, I shucked my shoes off and tossed my bag on the couch. I probably shouldn't mention the dust cloud that poofed up when I did that, but since I've already mentioned it without meaning to, I won't bring it up again. Um. I'm a busy person, okay? I don't have time to clean.
Anyway.
Gill was standing in the living room, peering this way and that, looking every bit like a misplaced high-class gent. He took inventory of all the stuff I owned, or rather, the stuff I did not own. A sofa, two mismatched easy chairs, a wobbly coffee table that doubles as footstool. My beloved CRT TV with a bent antenna. Oh, and that cute little cow-shaped radio—remind me to change the batteries soon. And… yeah, that's pretty much it.
Some might call my place Spartan. I like to call it minimalist.
People like Gill would call it recently robbed.
"There are worse places to live in." I flopped down on the couch and started pulling my socks off. "Bathroom's over there. Got soap and shampoo and some extra towels—nope, nothing else, no moisturizers and fancy stuff, deal with it, big guy. There's, um, something in the fridge. I think. And I have, uh, instant coffee—"
"Instant?" I could hear the repulsed scrunch in his nose. He made it pretty audible.
"I make do, m'kay?" I went into the bedroom to retrieve spare blankets. Also to dispose of my balled-up socks. And to rifle through the dresser for loose clothing that would hopefully fit Gill. A quick glance backward: He was still standing there, glaring at the ceiling. Bastard didn't even sit himself down. Afraid of catching sofa germs, Mr. Prosperous? Scared of a little dust?
Fine. A lot of dust.
I flung the blanket at him. Bright pink, with flowers and butterflies, you know, to cheer him up. (I'd grabbed it at random, I swear.) Miracle of miracles, he actually caught it. I tossed the clothes next. These he caught again, without much effort: I think he tried not to catch them, and he was disappointed that he did. "You take the couch," I said. "I'm not giving you my bed."
He made a delicate sound in his throat that probably translates to 'as if.' In posh-people-speak, that is. "I'd rather sleep on the floor," he said. Well, that confirms it.
"Yeah, lucky me."
I freshened up in ten minutes, washed off whatever needed to be washed off, and almost succeeded in forgetting that I had a suicidal male adult (who was probably rich) busy getting misplaced in my living room. I decided to check up on him, just in case. Call me a softie, but I wanted to make him as comfy as possible. Make him feel at home, you know? Also, I figured he'd want to take a turn with the shower.
I peeked into the living room and there he was, jacket-less, perched awkwardly on the couch's armrest, sniffing and prodding the blanket with undue suspicion.
Ugh. Rich kids.
I woke up a mere hour after I fell asleep. Which was weird, since I usually sleep like a drugged log. Twenty bucks says it's because of the stranger in my living room.
I relieved myself in the bathroom, drank myself a glass of water, and tiptoed over to the heap on the couch. The lights were off, so it was dark. Hurrah, throw the confetti, I have a grasp of the obvious, give me a medal. Anyway. He wasn't snoring. I couldn't tell if he was sleeping or pretending to sleep.
Or dead.
I wondered where I could borrow a shovel.
"You're being creepy."
Well, that ruled out the 'dead' possibility. Still, I made a mental note to ask around for rentable shovels.
I padded over to the light switch and flipped it on. He sat up, blinking in the light, rubbing a knuckle in his eye. The blanket slid to the floor. "Why are you still awake?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"Uncomfortable?"
"Lucky guess," he grumbled. "Look, just leave me alone, please. I just have a lot on my mind right now."
I tried not to sympathize, I really did, but I guess I'm softer than I think I am. I've slept on my couch before, and although it was lumpy, it wasn't much different from sleeping on my bed: I was used to discomfort. But Gill wasn't.
"Get up," I said, nudging his shin with my foot. "You take the bed. I'll sleep here."
He gave me that look again. You know, the one I couldn't decipher? Yeah, that one. Although it's less sharp now, a little less probing: bet it had something to do with the mussed hair and semicircles under his eyes. And the adorable criss-crossing blanket-imprint on his cheek.
"Go on." I nudged him again. "I want to sleep too, you know."
He opened his mouth, got as far as 'uh,' closed it. Weighing options in his mind, most likely. He gave me a firm nod, picked himself up from the couch, and trundled to the bedroom. I tried not to laugh at the powder-blue sweatpants that ended a good three inches above his ankle.
Well, it's you and me now, couch. I retrieved the pinkly garish blanket off the floor and gave it a good dusting-off.
"Angela."
Huh. Gill was still standing there, by the bedroom door. I hoped he had a change of heart and decided he wanted to be manly enough to take the couch anyway and give me back my bed. Fat chance, but a girl could dream.
"I…" He looked off to the side, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "I don't think I've thanked you for saving my life. So." He wore the expression of someone choking on a lump of meat, trying to spit it out. I almost ran over to him to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but I stayed put. I had to hear this one. "…Thank you."
Good heavens, he can express gratitude! Mark your calendars, people.
I smiled. It was a pretty sincere smile for a pretty sincere thanks. "You're welcome."
And with a final nod, he disappeared into the bedroom. I'd never tell him this, but it felt good to help someone, even if that someone was Gill.
Too bad it wouldn't feel so good in the morning: the couch was utterly, utterly lumpy.
1. Yeah, I know. The plot's as clichéd as the opening sentence. Girl saves boy, they fall in love, yadda yadda yadda. Slap my wrist and call it a day.
2. This is a bit experimental for me. Trying to lean away from ultra-poetic angst-ridden heavy-plotless stuff for a while.
3. I like dogs.
4. I rarely—fine, never—write anything plot-driven, so I feel kinda lost. Feedback will be much appreciated. Seriously. Spot anything bad in the story? Tell me! Please. I'll, um, give you a free internet hug?
5. Thanks so much for reading!