Phantom Limbs (15 page)

I spotted the aloe on my desk. “Oh! Here.” I held it out to her.

I was rewarded with another fleeting smile. “Thank you.” She took it from me and squeezed some into her hands. It made a farting noise. I refrained from making a joke.

She started rubbing the aloe into her arms and shoulders. Her eyes flicked self-consciously in my direction as she rubbed some in the V-shaped area of her dress.

I cleared my throat. “I can, uh . . . help with your back.” Of course that had been in the back of my mind since I started looking for the aloe, but I wasn’t sure I’d have the cojones to offer.

She craned around and looked at her back in the mirror over my dresser. She rolled her eyes. “Christ on a bike.”

I stood. “Here,” I said, reaching my hand out for the aloe. I felt shaky just thinking about touching her. But I’d rubbed sunscreen on her back a hundred times. It was no big deal, right?

She sat on the bed.

I sat next to her and she shifted so her back was to me. “Can you untie this, do you think?” I asked, tugging on the fabric of her dress where it tied around her neck. “It’s in the way.”

She did, without a word. When the ties were undone, she pulled them over her shoulders and held the front of her dress to her chest. My heart hammered away. I hoped she couldn’t hear it. From inside my head it was deafening.

With trembling hands, I slid some strands of her hair over her shoulder to the front, noticing that she shivered a little. “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Okay. I’ll be gentle.”

And then she said, so softly I barely heard it, “I know that, Otis.”

I rubbed the aloe between my palms to warm it up a little, then hesitated, my hand hovering over her hot shoulder. I couldn’t help remembering our first kiss, which started with my touching her shoulder. Did she remember that?

I laid my fingers on her shoulders and, as lightly as I could, smoothed the aloe over her hot skin. She sighed, and I couldn’t tell if she was registering pleasure or pain. Just in case I was hurting her, I said, “Sorry.”

“No, it feels good,” she whispered.

My stomach flipped over. And my shorts seemed to be shrinking.

“Hey,” I said after a minute. “I’m sorry if I upset you. About the cemetery thing.”

She reached behind her and laid her fingers on top of my hand. I held still until she pulled away a moment later. I had no idea what was going on in her head, but for now, at least, it seemed that everything was okay.

I continued with the aloe, venturing over the tops of her shoulders a little bit. And then I forgot to pay attention to where the burn was and I just smoothed aloe everywhere. Her breathing was audible. I leaned around to peek at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted . . . I remembered those lips. The shape, the softness, the taste . . . It made me think about kissing her, and once that thought was in my head, it was hard to vanquish. I kept slathering that damn aloe on, my fingertips skimming her skin as gently as possible, hoping it would keep absorbing until I either ran out of it or I imploded, whichever came first.

I must have sat there reapplying the aloe half a dozen times while I went through these mental gymnastics. A field of electricity buzzed around me, and my breath kept catching in my throat.

Outside, a car hauled by with the music cranked up so loud I felt the bass thumping through the bed. And that broke the spell. Meg opened her eyes and turned her head. “I guess that’ll do it!” She laughed. “Thank you.” She stood up.

“No problem,” I croaked. My face felt hot, and I was starting to sweat. I licked my lips and hoped I didn’t look as wrecked and crazed as I felt. I was in a ridiculous state of full-body excitement.

She tied her dress back up behind her neck. I could see her nipples straining through the fabric, and it made the last few drops of blood in my head drain out and go to the one place I would have sworn couldn’t accommodate any more.

I shifted, trying to hide the Loch Ness monster in my pants. “Hey, my parents are bringing Thai food,” I said, by way of distraction. “I forgot to tell you.”

She gasped. “I love Thai food.” Her face glowed — she was fucking beautiful. Then her eyes widened as if she’d thought of something dire. “Do you have sriracha sauce?”

I couldn’t not smile. “I think so.”

“Let’s check.” She slipped out of the room ahead of me, giving me a merciful moment to adjust myself before following her to the kitchen.

During dinner, which was almost unbearably spicy because Meg insisted on squeezing sriracha sauce all over everything I ate, I told my parents that the team was going to hang out at Dara’s later. My mom had barely stopped chattering the whole time, to the point of being kind of annoying, so it was hard to get a word in edgewise.

When I excused myself to grab a quick shower while they were all still picking at the food, Meg glanced at me with what looked like alarm. I hesitated. Maybe she didn’t want to be left alone with my parents? There was a time when our parents were practically interchangeable. I was shocked again by how different things were.

But my dad gave me a wave and asked Meg if she’d like a demonstration of his new espresso machine, so I made my escape.

I showered as fast as humanly possible, still trying to think of ways to get out of going to Dara’s, but it seemed like Meg wanted to go, for reasons I could not fathom. She tapped on my door before I was finished getting dressed. I opened the door in nothing but shorts.

“Taste,” she said, stepping in and holding out a mug.

I peered in at the foamy top, covered in spices, and sipped. “Oh my God,” I said, making a face. “How can you stand it so sweet?”

“That’s how you make it taste good,” she said, taking it back. She sipped it and made
mmmmm
sounds. “Anyway, it’s my dessert.”

She sat on my bed, watching as I pulled on a T-shirt. She complained about not being able to change her clothes.

“I never meant to wear this all day,” she grumbled. “I wish I could drive already. I’d go to the hotel and change.”

“As if you could find the way to your hotel,” I teased, pulling on a lightweight hoodie over my T-shirt.

“I could!” she objected. “I have the navigation lady.” She spoke in a voice that was at once elegant and robotic: “
In one-quarter mile, merge onto Highway Forty-Three.”

She sounded exactly like the Google navigation voice. “That lady’s gonna save your life,” I predicted.

“Yeah, no kidding.” She caught my eye in the mirror. “Hey, do you have an extra toothbrush, by any chance?”

“No, sorry.” I leaned against the dresser. “You could — well, that’s gross.”

“What? Borrow yours? Would that gross you out?”

“No, I thought it would gross
you
out.”

“It wouldn’t gross me out.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “It’s not like I haven’t used your toothbrush before.”

“True,” I said with a laugh. She once drank some chocolate milk that my mom had left in the fridge way too long. I still could see her flapping her hands, her tongue hanging out of her mouth, making noises like a cat hacking up a hairball.

“So you don’t mind?”

“Nope.”

She followed me into the bathroom, and I rinsed my toothbrush under hot water for her, glad I’d just gotten a new one. My last one had been pretty mangled, due to my exemplary habit of chewing on it while I walked around during brushing.

In my room, I listened to the sounds of her brushing across the hall, which was weirdly thrilling. Someday we could be married and this would just be a normal, comforting, daily sound, Meg brushing her teeth in the bathroom. Also, I liked her teeth. They were pretty. I liked her lips. I liked her whole mouth. I liked that my toothbrush was in it.

A mean voice in my head pointed out that this was probably the closest I’d ever get to swapping spit with Meg again.

SHAFER WAS LATE, AS USUAL, WHICH GAVE me the opportunity to give him shit about his late starts in our relays.

There were more cars at Dara’s place than I’d anticipated. I wondered if her parties were always this packed. It was hard to imagine her actually inviting so many people into her home.

We parked on the street and found the front door open.

“Wow.” Meg glanced around the foyer and into the enormous living room, taking in all the art and shiny surfaces.

Shafer felt up the breast of an African sculpture in a lit-up nook by the door. “Yeah, Dara’s richer than God.”

We headed downstairs to the finished basement, following the music — The Clash, I was pretty sure, so maybe we were in the eighties. Half the team sat in a circle on the floor with a mess of beers and a couple of vodka bottles. The room was lit in strings of Christmas lights, and there was a mini fridge along the wall near a leather sofa. Dara, who was seated in the circle and wearing a “Simon Says Go Fuck Yourself” T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, raised a shot glass at me, her expression flat, and tossed back the contents like water. Some party: she looked about as festive as a funeral.

Kiera spotted me and waved me over. “Come on. We’re playing Kiss or Shoot. Martin’s invention, naturally.”

Kiera was one of the few people who called Shafer by his first name. It was the only thing that made me remember he had one.

She saw Meg and her face fell.

“Uh, this is Meg,” I said, keeping it simple. I hung back, but Meg nudged me to go sit down and followed along with me. The circle expanded to accommodate us.

“Meg! Meg!” Heinz and Shafer chanted.

“Are you Otis’s girlfriend?” Kiera asked Meg, looking so stricken it was almost comical.

“No, no,” Meg said, waving her off as if it were a ridiculous question. “We’re friends from years ago. We used to be neighbors.”

“Meg Brandt?” Marla Rubinoff said from across the circle. “Oh my God!” She crawled over and hugged Meg.

As the junior high reunion continued, I asked Kiera, “Um, what’s Kiss or Shoot?”

Kiera smiled mischievously. She clearly was somewhere north of .00 on the blood alcohol scale. “It’s Spin the Bottle, but if you don’t want to kiss the person, you have to do a shot.”

“And it’s gender-blind,” Heinz said, making a face. “Glad I’m not driving. . . .”

Gender-blind? I couldn’t imagine Dara, the most homophobic possibly-gay chick in town, would have given the nod to that. I scanned the room for Abby and spotted her across the circle, blowing lightly into a beer bottle.

Marla returned to her spot, and Meg settled in next to me. I didn’t want to kiss anyone but her, and not in front of these idiots, but I certainly wasn’t going to do shots of vodka. Would Meg? Or would she kiss these guys? And what if she landed on me but opted for the vodka? Possibilities bombarded me, each worse than the one before.

It was decreed that Meg should go first. She crawled forward and spun an empty vodka bottle. Time slowed as it circled for what seemed like a hundred times. I leaned toward her. “What are you doing?” I whispered. “What about Jeff?”

Meg ignored me, watching the bottle intently. Someone set a couple of beers in front of us. The vodka bottle slowed. Shafer and Heinz got up and ran around the circle, strategizing to plop themselves down where the nose landed.

“No cheating,” Dara barked. “Sit your asses down.”

After several eternities, the bottle stopped, pointing right between Marla and Nate Russell. Nate was probably the shyest guy on the team, so he didn’t fight when Dara called it Marla.

“Wait, what kind of kiss?” Meg twisted her thumb. “Is there like a minimum time or something?”

“Not really,” Marla told her, “but if it’s too short, you get booed.”

Meg shrugged. “I’m game. You?”

“Sure,” Marla said. “It’ll be my welcome-back kiss.”

They crawled toward each other and gave each other a kiss that lasted about a nanosecond. They laughed when they got booed.

How did I get myself into this? And why the hell did Meg want to play such a stupid game? The idea of her kissing Shafer or Heinz was just plain sick. But would I rather watch her do shots? I guessed I would.

“Let Otis go next, since he just got here,” Kiera said. Her diction was not exactly crisp.

“No fair rigging the bottle, Kiera,” Marla called out. Kiera flipped her the bird without even looking her way.

“Uh, I’m not playing.” I held my hands up in a
not me, no thanks
gesture.

There was a general uproar in response to that, most vociferously by Kiera, but they all shut up when Dara shouted.

“Hey! Mueller doesn’t have to play if he doesn’t want to.”

Kiera turned her big, pleading brown eyes to me. “Why don’t you want to play?”

I glanced at Meg, who was regarding Kiera with a look that smacked of disdain, unless it was my imagination.

“I’m just not feeling it.”

More booing. Wow, what fun parties were! Tragic that I’d been missing out on this. I stood up and went and sat on the couch. A strand of lights was draped across it, and I fingered the bulbs, which were warm. On the other side of the basement was a bunch of exercise equipment. Maybe I could go over and get in a workout and everyone would forget I was even there.

“Come
on
!” Kiera said. “That’s not even fair. Everyone has to play.”