25⎜The Answer

           “Have you and Scott ever kissed?”

           “Yes.”

           “How many times?”

           “Twelve.”

           “Have you and Scott ever dated?”

           “Yes.”

           “How many times?”

           “Once. It didn’t work out. We’re better at being friends.”

           “Do you happen to secretly be a nationally ranked basketball player or have any other hidden talents like that?”

           “I’m too lazy to play sports. But I used to play the kazoo. I was pretty bad.” I opened my mouth to fire yet another question at the girl, but the timer beeped, indicating that my opportunity was temporarily over. The girl smirked at me. “My turn.”

           “Shoot,” I offered, giving her free range over inquiries regarding my life, just as she had with me.

           She paused, tucking a loose tendril of curled hair behind her ear. “What about you, Eric, is there anything I should know?”

           “Well, I’m a recovering drug addict, for starters,” I said completely solemnly, the weight of my hidden past lifting off my shoulders with the words. It sounded like such a causal thing to slip into conversation, though it wasn’t. I was a drug addict, and I had just admitted it to someone who was now in my life. Like that psychology student had suggested, I was pretty sure that I had found my constant.

           “When did you stop doing drugs?”

           “In the spring, I guess. I spent the summer in rehab.”

           “Are you a virgin?” In a beat, the subject had surprisingly dropped, and we were no onto a new aspect of my life. Namely, my status regarding if I had had sex or not. 

           I went with it, answering with a quick, “Completely unrelated, but no, I’m not.”

           “How much time do you spend getting ready in the morning?”

           “More than you.”

           “Minutes?”

           “Hours.”

           “Are you gay?”

           “No.”

           “Bisexual?”

           “No. I like girls.”

           “Do you have a type?”

           “Specify?”

           “Girls?”

           “No. Well, actually, that’s not true. They have to have a brain and not be ugly.”

           “And yet you’ve only been with two girls… Why?”

           “Just because I don’t have a type doesn’t mean that I don’t have standards.”

           “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” she asked, just as the noise indicating the end of the questions sounded. Since she had uttered the question before the sound, I was obligated to answer it, as were the guidelines we had set up for whatever exactly it was that we were doing.

           “I don’t know,” I answered, and then took the opportunity to feed the question right back to her: “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

           “I don’t know,” she reiterated my lame response.

           “Why did you choose Stanford?”

           “Scott was going there. I knew Kay would go since Houston was already there. I didn’t feel like leaving California.”

           “Are you a lefty or a righty?”

           “A righty.”

           “Do you miss Pennsylvania?”

           “Sometimes.”

           “Do you think I’m attractive?”

           “Considering I have verbally expressed it in the past, yes, I do,” she sighed, but not out of tedium or annoyance, but rather something else entirely.

           “You’re really direct—why?” I moved on to my next query.

           “You mean I’m blunt?”

           “It’s my turn to ask, and let’s not use that word. Recovering drug addict over here, remember,” was my attempt to make light at my situation.

           She was lying on the floor, as she often did, and I was positioned on her bed, my head on her pillow, my back on the mattress, and my feet just barely brushing off the edge of it. But to answer this particular question, she chose to stand, her eyes now connecting with mine, just to intensify everything by tenfold. “People often forget how short life is, so they waste words. I decided long ago that I wasn’t going to live that way—so I’m straightforward.” She didn’t precisely spell it out for me, but I had a hunch that what she was saying was referring to the loss that she had suffered.

           Though it made perfect sense when applied to who she was as a person with all of her idiosyncrasies, it was still hard to fathom that she had gone through such a traumatic thing as losing both her older brother and mom. I was an only child, but even considering losing my mom was a dark thought I never wanted to contemplate. She had lost two people—at the same time. When I was about ten or eleven, one of my grandpas had passed away. That was hard for me, but I wasn’t that close with him, so I felt slightly detached from the situation. Even so, I still used that bereavement as a point of reference for whenever somebody else went through a loss. Now, though, it just seemed like a sucky comparison. Two people had died in her life. They had died together, in the same car, and she had found out about both simultaneously. She was a product of her experiences, and this particular scarring one had certainly paid a monumental part in shaping who she was now.

           Deciding to drastically switch tones, I asked a more trivial thing that hopefully wouldn’t have as dismal an answer as the previous. “Ari, why do you lie down on the ground—like, randomly and wherever you are?”

           “I like it, it’s an interesting perspective, and your time is up, Mr. Eric Wilson,” she said in a string of matter-of-fact phrasing. The timer went off. I nodded, watching as she took a few steps over to the bed where I currently was, before sliding onto it, next to me. It was a queen, so despite how much space my slightly massive muscles took up, her delicate frame still fit fine. While I was lying perfectly still with my steady breathing, Ari had resorted to moving her hand, and disrupting my monotony.

           Like she had done so many times in the past, and once to me (aka yesterday on her high school’s football field), she began to trace. This time she had taken up the curve between the bottom of my earlobe and my shoulder. Her finger ran along the course of my neck, lightly but with a purpose. What exactly that purpose was happened to be lost on me, and since the timer had gone off, I was now unable to ask anything. It was her turn.

           “Do you think I’m hot?” was the first inquiry to exit her mouth. It was a variation on one that I had asked her, the adjective different, though the overall meaning was the same.

           “No,” I answered, causing her finger to momentarily pause on its set track, but then continue when I opened my mouth once again, “I think you’re so much more.”

           “BS answer. Do you think I’m hot?”

           “I think you’re beautiful.”

           “Do you think I’m hot?”

           “I think you’re gorgeous.”

           “Eric Wilson. Do. You. Think. I’m. Hot?”

           “Well, to be honest your finger is pretty cold right now, so...no.” Sometimes, I was just too clever even for me. I would’ve laughed at my lame joke, but she probably already thought I was a tool, so why add weirdo to the mix, too?

           “Is my physical appearance what majority of society today would consider to be ‘hot’ in the terms of attractiveness?” she reframed her question so that there was really only answer.

           “Yeah, I guess,” I mumbled. She grinned. “Why does it matter?”

           “Just curious,” she replied. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

           I didn’t even need to think about that one. “Yes.”

           “Do you want to kiss me right now?”

           “Yes.”

           “Kiss me right now?”

           “Yes.”

           Within seconds, Ari’s finger had dropped from my neck and was now a mess along with her other fingers, running through my hair. I had somehow ended up on top of her, being careful to not press my full weight on her dainty body. One of my hands was on her cheek, the other supporting my body up so that I didn’t crush her. And then there were our mouths. Somehow, they had come together and were now temporarily molded, just like they had been a few hours ago on the boat. And just like the first time we had kissed, this time was no different. It was indescribable and amazing. Indescribably amazing.

           Ari ran one of her fingers down the edge of my rib cage, pulling at the fabric of my still-damp shirt from when she had pushed me off the boat, and into the water. I was still a little agitated with her for that (the fibers in my poor shirt would never recover), but right now, it wasn’t even a glimmer of a constellation in my mind. Her lips were on mine, and my lips were on hers. Everything felt right and good and nice and magical and perfect. 

           Of course, maybe I thought too soon, for the next thing I heard was an alarming and mocking, “Ira! What have I told you? If you’re going to make out with someone, at least be on top! I’m ashamed of you!”

           My lips stopped moving. Ari’s continued. I looked up, only to see Scott standing in the doorway of her bedroom, with the smuggest smirk I had ever seen gracing his face. He seemed to be enjoying it, and when I didn’t kiss Ari back due to the whole being-shocked-and-somewhat-mortified-by-our-new-audience-member thing, she resorted to moving down, in order to kiss my neck. Instead of tracing with the elegance of a finger, she was now tracing with her mouth, and I was faced with the internal battle of either causing her to stop or not. I didn’t want her to stop. But Scott was here. 

           “What’s up, Wilson?” Scott asked in an all too nonchalant manner.

           “Uh,” was all I managed to get out, majority of my attention being fixated on the mouth of a hot girl that was currently miming a leach on the surface of my neck.

           “Gotcha,” he nodded, walking into the room like Ari and I weren’t completely tangled up in each other. “So, what did you two do today…besides each other?”

           “The boat,” I grunted, sucking in a breath as Ari continued. I envied her ability to ignore Scott in the situation.

           “Oh, the boat? Fun,” he grinned widely, finding more amusement than he should have over what was happening. “I’m assuming you got pushed in. What are you wearing? Vineyard Vines?”

           “Yup,” I gulped.

           “I’m sorry, dude. That’s rough,” he sympathized with my predicament. At least someone understood. “I was wearing a Lacoste polo when she pushed me off the newest boat. It was brutal. I almost cried.”

           “You did,” Ari interjected, leaving my neck void of all contact for much too long of a moment.

           “Okay, so maybe I did cry. It was pretty terrible,” Scott reminisced. Taking the opportunity of not having Ari’s mouth directly attached to me, I willed myself to get off of her, sitting down on the edge of the bed and panting heavily.

           “I saw Brett,” Ari articulated, speaking directly to Scott, but allowing me the permission of witnessing the conversation.

           “I hate that guy,” Scott muttered. “Where?”

           “CHA.”

           “Was he as much of a douche as he was the last time I saw him?”

           “You mean the last time you beat him up?”

           “He broke your boat. It was the least I could do.”

           “Yeah, still a douche.”

           “Such a shame. He wore nice clothes.”

           “I really like that all the guys I talk to on a regular basis are as comfortable with their extreme levels of heterosexuality as they are.”

           “Even Eli?”

           “Even Eli.”

           “That means a lot, Ira.” Scott then turned to look at me and smirked. I wasn’t sure what was about to come out of his mouth, but I had a hunch that whatever it was couldn’t possibly be as pleasant as Ari’s. “So, Wilson, how’d you manage to tap that? She’s pretty picky when it comes to guys. Clearly not picky enough if she dated that douche, Brett, but still picky.”

           “Hey, Scott, I have a really great idea,” Ari began, unable to stifle the undeniable sarcasm that was oozing from her perpetually rainy tone. 

           “Oh, yeah? What?” Scott took her bait. 

           “You should leave so that Eric and I can go back to doing what we were doing before,” she expressed the remainder of her idea, though it just made my cheeks flame up. It felt like I had been caught doing something bad—something I shouldn’t have been doing. And then it hit me.

           I was doing something bad. In a way. I was kissing Ari when Scott walked in. The guilt I felt wasn’t from the embarrassment of being caught by Scott because he was like a parental figure, nor did he fill the role of the older brother in this situation. He practically was Ari’s older brother, but that was thing—practically. He wasn’t her older brother. He could’ve reacted overly protectively, but he didn’t. Instead, he just wanted us (mostly me) to squirm. He was trying to make us (again, mainly me) uncomfortable by acting totally cool with the situation, when in reality, he wasn’t.

           Scott and Ari had been together. And in a romantic sense. It was unclear to me as to when they had been involved, or for how long, but there would always be a thread of romantic remnants that tied the two together. They were also still best friends, despite having once (or more than once) been connected in a different way. Scott was seeing Ari and I, uh, osculate, and he probably felt a sliver of a morsel of jealousy, even if not intentional. When I saw Mackenzie with her various other boyfriends over the years, I definitely knew in my heart that there would always be some piece of me that would always miss her—always love her.

           The thing about Scott and Ari’s relationship—of which I knew little about—was that if they were together, it would have been an all or nothing deal. They had been friends forever. Scott had been there when she (and he) found out that her brother and mom had died. He had probably been there for a bunch of epic and pivotal points in her life. If they were to date, it wouldn’t have been casually. Love was a word they would’ve held to only the utmost seriousness, and their relationship wouldn’t have been a joke. It was real. They were real. At one point or another, they had both loved each other in not-so platonic way. At one point, he loved her, and she loved him. I couldn’t take that away from either of them, and I didn’t want to.

           Knowing that they had a history with each other that didn’t just involve playing on the same little league team or watching football games together put me on edge a little, but it shouldn’t have. I had met Ari less than three months ago. Scott had known her his entire life. If anyone, I was the one intruding. Besides, I was probably just jumping to conclusions. We had kissed. Twice. On the same day. She had traced various parts of my body. Like, twice. We weren’t getting married. Hell, we weren’t even getting into a relationship. I shouldn’t have cared or processed everything as much as I was, but I couldn’t help it. I was Eric (Wilson optional, but not preferred) and I couldn’t help but overthink. So that was exactly what I did.

           “What were you two doing before?” Scott questioned with suggestive eyebrows. “Having sex?”

           “We’re both wearing clothes. You came in and saw what we were doing. Yeah, we were totally having sex,” answered Ari. It came out dry, though still drenched in rain. When it came to Ari and the biting form of wit (or lack of) known as “sarcasm,” she was very to the point. She didn’t try to be funny. She was just being honest.

           “Well, use protection,” he advised, waving a warning finger at us.

           “Or what? We’ll get pregnant and die?” I attempted the lamest Mean Girls reference on the planet. We had watched it last night. It was still freshly imprinted in my mind, as it would be for the next seventy years.

           “See! Wilson gets it!” Scott exclaimed.

           All Ari said was a quiet, “Mean Girls,” paired with a small smile.

           “So, since I don’t want to take away any more time from you two trying to procreate, I guess I’ll leave,” Scott said, finally moving back over to the door. He put his hand on he doorknob, as if he was about to rid us of his presence, but then turned back around, only to bid us with one final, “Oh, and Ira, remember: on top. Always. Don’t be a bottom.” With that, he flitted out of the room, closing the door behind him.

           Ari immediately got up from her bed, and went over to where Scott once stood. She touched the handle of the door, and locked it. Then, she walked back to the bed, forcing our eyes to connect. It wasn’t that I didn’t like making eye contact with her, but more that I found it challenging. Her eyes were so gorgeous and intense and deep and just hard to look into sometimes. Nonetheless, we made eye contact, and she seemed to be trying to send me a silent message. She wasn’t going to speak, so I did. Well, I opened my mouth to do so, though was interrupted by the vulgar noises coming from the other side of the wall: 

           “Ugh! Eric! Harder! Ugh! I love having sex with you! Ugh! Ugh!” The sounds that undoubtedly belonged to Scott were followed by a series of moans and grunts. It was childish, and reminded me of my formative years. I didn’t want to think about that time. I was here, with Ari, and that was all I wanted to concentrate on. Ari.

           She looked over to me, offered up a small smirk, and then ambled over to where I was still seated, on her bed. “I would apologize for his behavior, but I’m not the one who should be apologizing, so I won’t,” she said. Cautiously, she planted herself in my lap, and loosely draping an arm over my shoulder while the other began to trace the side of my leg.

           “You loved each other?” I asked, though it wasn’t really a question, and was pumped to the max with rhetoric.

           “We did, and we still do,” she replied, purposely not showing me her dark irises. “We always will, Eric.”

           I didn’t bother questioning her further. I had the answer. Through her cryptically honest words, I still had a hunch that there was more to it than that. She was still in love with Scott, and she probably always would be. Though, who was to say that she was incapable of loving anyone ever again? Whatever. All we had done was kiss. Twice. I shouldn’t have even been contemplating the complexities within the concept of love. But I was. And I couldn’t help it.