That glorious summer. Every day dawning hot and the sun burning on the horizon and she'd burst awake with one thought on her brain, 'Craig,'. All she wanted to do was see him. All she wanted to do was hear his voice as it played like a record, scratchy and insolent sometimes, light hearted and high pitched at other times. She was coming to know his tones so well, the joking, the sliding into serious. The almost stutter that she couldn't get enough of, the way he would repeat words sometimes and say, 'uh, um, well,' the little verbal fillers as he thought about what he wanted to say.
She knew she was neglecting Marco, and she felt the passing pangs about that. She'd call him when it was already too late to do anything because she was wasting all her time on Craig, and she knew she was wasting it. She could see the seconds as the little hand on her watch glided by them, turning them into minutes and hours and days, that little second hand eating up all of her summer without even a kiss to show for it. They'd tickle each other sometimes, violent tickle fights and she'd scream through the pain and cling to the feeling of him touching her, even in that playful friend way that he didn't desire to be anything more. But she did. Boy did she.
But sometimes her frustration with him would come out in her mean voice and her narrow eyed stare. Sometimes she'd wonder what it was he saw in Ashley that he didn't see in her. She'd feel her hair laying heavy against her shoulders and back, the sun heavy on her pale red head's skin, and she'd realize that Ashley was together, Ashley had her ducks in a row while she, Ellie, had no such thing. She had a recovering alcoholic mother and she had her weekly group and she had her rubber bands. How could that compare to Ashley?
But every morning the hope burned bright that today could be the day, the day he would see her as something more than his really really good friend. Maybe he'd see her translucent skin and fire red hair, her delicate bone structure and narrow hips, her lips done up in dark shades of crimson for him. Maybe he'd catch the scent of her pheromones and turn his delicious lips to hers and kiss her, finally. For real. The sun burned in the east with this hope as she bought a large black coffee and sipped it, the caffeine seeming to fuel this dream further. Today would be the day that he'd be as excited to see her as she was to see him.
But her body knew that the hope was futile, her steps getting heavier as she approached his house and sometimes he wasn't even awake when she showed up, but Joey always was. He'd laugh at her quietly, secretly, because he could read her desire for Craig in every clue she was putting out there. Her body language, her tone of voice, the look in her eyes. Joey knew, despite Craig being oblivious.
But Craig was smart, and observant. She knew this. She knew former abused children were nothing if not observant. He was playing dumb, sometimes she was convinced of this.
When she came over and he wasn't awake Joey never left her hanging. 'I'll wake him up,' he'd say sometimes, and she'd wait in the living room with her coffee, sipping, sipping. But the best times were when Joey would give her permission to wake him up. Maybe he was rushing out the door with Angela or heading out to meet Caitlin or late for work. And then she'd go up the stairs, the dark hallway enveloping her into its secret heart. Three little bedrooms tucked under the eaves of the house. She'd creep toward his, push on the door and watch him sleep. The deep breathing, the lightly closed eyes, his hand laying across his chest. He always slept in flannel pajama pants and usually a soft old T-shirt but sometimes he didn't wear a shirt to bed. Then she could see his smooth pale chest and stomach, the breathing almost imperceptible.
And she'd try to be quiet and wonder how long she'd let him sleep, wonder if he was dreaming, maybe of Ashley. Then she'd say his name, that was all it took usually. Her normal speaking voice, 'Craig,' and he'd stir, moan, roll over and curl away from her, pull the covers tighter around himself. She'd say his name again and touch his shoulder, 'Craig,' And he'd sit up and blink at her, then look beyond her to the numbers on the digital clock.
Still, she'd fight with him some days. Sometimes it was him, liking her attention but wanting to be left alone, and he'd snap at her. Sometimes it was her, the razor tongue unleashed. Despite wanting to devour him she'd belittle him and make him feel stupid because that was how she felt, and she just had to turn it back on him sometimes.