Read Running Back To Him Online
Authors: Evelyn Rosado
I wake up groggy, struggling to rub the pastiness from my eyelids. I lay in bed, fearful to sit up because chances are my head will start spinning like a typhoon and I’ll be in the midst of a shitty morning. Mr. Tequila always gets the last laugh. I can hear him laughing now like Vincent Price’s sadistic guffaw at the end of Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I can still taste it on the back of my tongue. It’s a disgusting, nauseous feeling, but it’s nothing a little grease from bacon and eggs won’t remedy.
Last night was fun despite being flaked out on by Kellen, but that’s what I get for keeping my hopes up with him. I can look on the bright side though; at least the smack of reality across the face has brought me clarity and I can go back to suppressing the real feelings I have for him like I’ve done for the past few years.
I peel the covers back and slide out of bed, planting my feet on the carpet. So far so good; no throbbing head and no queasiness.
The first thing I do when I enter the kitchen is make a pot of java. It’s always my go-to on a Saturday morning—whether I have a hangover or not. Late Friday nights out, splashing my liver with toxins is a rarity, even when I hung out with Ashley or was with Lucas.
A Saturday morning with a steaming mug of black goodness is one of my life’s gems. My Mom is at work at the hospital until noon, so I get to enjoy the quiet time to myself.
As I’m caught up in the bliss of sips of my dark roasted brew and a few bites a chocolate vegan muffin, the doorbell rings.
“Jehovah’s Witness,” I drone. Usually I peek through the blinds on the front door and let them continue to ring or knock until they get the hint that I’m not interested.
I stand on my tippy-toes and peek through the blinds only to not see an Oxford shirt and khaki-wearing duo, but Kellen standing before me.
Now I know what a seizure feels like. An inner heat rising up my neck. Metal taste on my tongue. Shortness of breath. Difficulty trying to speak. Dizziness. Yup. I’ve got all the symptoms. He rings the bell again. Yup. I’m about to spaz out any minute now.
“Mags, I can see your head through the blinds,” he says.
“Shit!” I utter under my breath. I don’t have time to scamper upstairs and fix my hair or even brush my teeth. I look down at my legs…I’m wearing my pink jammies with Smeagol all over them. Cute, but only for
my
eyes to see. And not for Kellen, someone who I’m trying to impress.
I try to stop my heart from punching through my chest, but it’s no use.
I open the door and Kellen is standing there in a black t-shirt, black sweats, and a huge smile. It’s disarming. Why is it so hard to be mad at this boy?
“Good morning sunshine,” he says cheerfully. “Are you going to just stand there or let me in? It’s kind of chilly out here.” He rubs his hands over his arms.
For a split second, I ponder
not
letting him in. He should see how it feels to be rejected. I open anyways. He steps in like he belongs there. Like he used to do when we were kids. “Hmmm. I smell coffee. I need some right about now.” He strides to the kitchen, grabs a mug out of the cabinet and pours a cup of coffee.
“Wow, help yourself,” I say with a hint of brashness.
“Don’t mind if I do. I need some, I had a long night.” He sits down at the table.
“I bet you did.” I can’t hide the attitude in my voice.
“What does
that
mean?”
I clear my throat. “Uhh. I’m just saying I bet you did because you had a good reason to celebrate.” I look down at him taking a sip. It makes me frown. “Hey, that’s my favorite mug.”
“Then why aren’t you drinking from it?” He nods down to the non-descript black mug that I’m sipping from.
“Because variety is the spice of life and I just didn’t feel like it okay?” I plop down into the chair next to him.
He glowers. “Christ. What crawled up your blowhole and died? Why the attitude?”
Gee, Kellen, how about ‘because I helped you not have a nervous breakdown before the game and you stood me up like I was nothing.’ But I can’t say that. This is pretend remember?
“You weren’t the only one who had a long night,” I say. He makes a peculiar noise in his throat.
“Oh is that right?” he asks. “With who? What did you do?” His face piques with curiosity
“Not much.” I take another sip, looking at him over the rim of the mug. His eyes are narrowed.
“I heard you were drinking with Micah last night.” He sounds antagonistic. How in the hell did he know that? I brush it off.
“Problem?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I mean no.” He quickly catches himself. “I mean…we’re supposed be in a relationship remember?”
“You’re guilty too. I saw your Instagram. Who were those girls?” He doesn’t respond. “Sounds like someone’s jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” He breathes heavy, folding his arms. “Micah’s just…he’s an asshole. The kid’s never seen a picture of himself that he didn’t like.” I lean back in my chair, reveling in the glow that he’s just a tad bit jealous. I tilt my chin up proudly.
“Last time I checked, this country gained our independence from Great Britain in 1776….so that makes this a free country.” I squint my eyes at him, scanning him further. He’s tapping the nail of his index finger on the table. Every tap is louder than the last. Wow, this is really getting to him. I really don’t know what to make of this, but I sure as hell am getting a kick out of it.
“I just don’t like that kid. You could’ve hung out with anybody besides him. That kid is so conceited.”
“He’s not really like that. He’s funny. Cute. Once you get to know him, he really is a good guy.”
“Oh, so you
know
him now?” He pushes his mug away from him, spilling the contents on the table.
Silence forms a wall brick wall between us. I fold my arms. “Are you just going to spill coffee and not clean it up?”
He shoots out of his chair, grabs a napkin and soaks up his mess. “The kid is cocky and thinks he’s God’s gift to girls and to the game of basketball. I don’t care that he’s All State. I don’t think he’s really that good. He doesn’t take the game seriously. It’s disrespectful.” This is the first time I’ve ever seen him jealous before. The way he purses his lips to the side of his mouth is kind of cute. Normally he has this devil may care attitude but to see him like this is refreshing. He actually has the ability to be vulnerable, just like last night before the game. But it still bothers me that he hasn’t apologized for standing me up.
“He may have an aloof attitude,” I say, “but basketball isn’t everything him.”
The look Kellen gives me is scornful. “Football
is
everything,” he says spurting hot air through his nose. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Fine,” I say breathily. “Why are you here? Especially this early. After last night, I thought you’d be pure vampire status and not be up until sundown.”
His shoulders slump a little and his expression softens. “I…I left you hanging last night. And I feel like shit because of it. I’m sorry.” He looks up at me but I refuse to connect with his gaze. His eyes just bring something out of me that makes me so afraid. When I look at him, logic and reasoning seem to fade and all that is left is pure raw, burning passion. And after him leaving me out to dry last night, I can’t let myself be put in such a vulnerable position again. Instead I focus on the nearly empty cup of coffee in my hands.
“It’s okay. Shit happens,” I say flatly. “I’m sure you had a good reason.” I shuffle in my seat anticipating his excuse as to why he ditched me. As much as I’m brushing it off that it was no big deal, it was the reason why I tossed and turned all night long. I’m waiting with baited breath.
“I lost my phone.”
I suck my teeth and attempt to not sound too emotionally invested. “Oh yeah, well that’s such a believable excuse.” I cough away the tickle in my throat. “Not that it matters or anything.” Christ, I’m just such a terrible liar. But his face is still apologetic so I don’t think he’s sniffed me out…yet.
He laughs. “I know how it sounds, but after you caught me in the midst of my total freak out moment I lost my phone.”
That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t explain him butt dialing me and those ditzy giggling cheerleaders that he probably hooked up with.
“I have no idea where it went. After the game, a couple of boosters from Ohio State practically kidnapped me and Roosevelt, threw us in an Escalade and schmoozed us the entire night.”
“What do you mean schmoozed? And what the hell is a booster?”
He sighs and glides his hands over his mussed hair. It must have been a crazy night because his hair looks like he’d been rolling around in a bed all night.
“A booster is a guy from a university—usually alumni, a big spender, a money man. They have a lot of influence.”
“Sounds like you got wined and dined.”
“I did. They took us around, brought a bunch of hot girls around us, got us drunk, told us how great we are and how we should come to play for their school. You know the total jerk me off type of thing and kiss me afterwards. It’s totally illegal, but it’s commonplace.”
“So did those girls
convince
you on Ohio State?” I hope he’d spare me the truth.
“All the girls and booze doesn’t impress me. In fact, it kind of turned me off that they used all that to get me to commit to the school.” He folds his arms. “I had fun, don’t get me wrong,” he says chuckling, “but it’s going to take a lot more than that to get me to sign my name on that letter.” I really have no interest in what he means by saying he had fun.
“But anyways,” he says, “I woke up face down on the floor at some house. Chucky I think his name was. Come to find out, Roosevelt had my phone in his back pocket the entire time. Didn’t realize it until this morning until and he gave it to me at practice. I saw all those missed calls and texts from you. And I felt like crap. I could have used someone else’s phone to call you and let you know where I was, but I don’t know your number off hand. I told you to wait for me and I know you and Justine were there waiting on me after the game and on the strip. And I’m nowhere to be found. I feel like crap.”
“Don’t worry, nobody remembers people’s numbers nowadays. Totally acceptable.”
“Good,” he says. He puts his hands flat on the table and his face turns sheepish. “I just didn’t want you to think I was flaking out on you. I’m such a terrible fake boyfriend.” He places his hand on top of mine and it jars me. Just a simple gesture like the touch of his skin is enough to send shockwaves through me. He snickers. “Does me flaking on you signal an end to our budding romance?”
His charming smile is electric. That’s it. I’ve realized it’s impossible to be upset at Kellen if he smiles at me like this. I swear he could stop a civil war by just flashing a simple grin.
But I don’t give in so easily. I pull my hand away. “You know, with this girl it doesn’t take a twinkle in the eye and a ‘baby, I’m sorry’ to make it up to me.”
He shoots up out of his chair. “Well allow me then.” His smile flickers wider. “Get dressed, I’m taking you out for breakfast. On me.” He plants his hand on my shoulder, leans low, and tilts his head down at me. “Eggs over easy still your favorite right?”
I nod, not revealing how giddy it makes me feel that after all those years he remembered.
Yeah that thing about me burying my crush for Kellen down somewhere deep in my soul…not going to happen anytime soon.
After a plate of eggs and oatmeal, and orange juice for me and grits and a ham omelet for Kellen, we decide to enjoy a stroll to walk off all the grease we consumed.
We walk a couple of blocks until we come up to Tina’s Vintage Books and Stuff, one of my favorite places to find a cute vintage dress for five bucks, cheap, used jewelry, and most importantly—used vinyl.
I clutch Kellen’s arm like my life depended on it. “Oh my Jesus, we
have
to go in here,” I say jumping up and down. I don’t wait for him to say yay nor nay and pull him into the store.
“Ahhhh,” I say with hooded eyes. “The smell of dust and mold is one of life’s truest delights.”
Kellen’s tiny cough turns into a fit of hacking. I pound him on the back. “Okay soldier?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he says scowling.
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“Taste? Don’t you mean smell?”
“No, I mean taste. Like beer or coffee. It’s like a preference that you become accustomed to.”
My attention falls on a tray of metal jewelry. I try on leather bracelets, slinky necklaces and repurposed spoons as bracelets. All under two dollars. Who says you have to spend thousands of dollars on diamonds that some African village was probably raided for?
“What makes you like these things?” He asks evaluating a metal ring with tiny aqua blue skulls around it.
I try on a leather fisherman hat, with the words ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ on the front. “You can’t feel the history in here? It’s just filled with so much character that you can feel…well at least I do…I can feel the spirit in some of this stuff.” My head dips and my voice lowers. “I know that sounds kinda dorky.”
He tilts my chin up with the tips of his fingers. “It’s not dorky. It’s unique.” We lock eyes and his lips curl to a slight grin. So do mine.
“Do you two need help with anything this morning?” the lady from behind the front desk says, interrupting the images of Kellen and I holding hands and eating cotton candy and picnics on the beach and other lovey-dovey stuff that are dancing in my head.
My head yanks away from Kellen towards the thin redheaded lady.
“No,” I say sharply, “we’re fine.” We
were
fine…until she ruined a perfectly satisfactory romantic moment; even if it is fake. I clear my throat and grab Kellen’s hand pulling him to the back of the room, where the real treats are.
“So I’m guessing this is where you get all your goodies from?” he asks as we approach the endless racks of vinyl records.
“Some of them. I have my secret hideouts where I get my treats. But I’m not telling. It’s top secret.”
He laughs and picks up a Duke Ellington record and flips it over, reading the liner notes on the back. His face hardens and his eyes twitch lightly. His expression looks weird.
“You okay?” I ask. He doesn’t respond, but focuses more intently on the words on the cover.
I call his name and he jumps, startled.
“I’m fine,” he says, his voice jittery. “It’s just…they look so old. These records. I bet they thought that records would be in style forever. Now people don’t even use CDs anymore.”
“Ugh,” I say sitting on a stool in front of the easy listening section. “CDs and mp3s are so…stale and sterile. You put on one of these,” I point to the stack flat, black, and circular discs towering in front of me, “and you can hear the warmth in the music. All the details…the strum of the thumb the bass, the twang of the guitar…it’s incredible.” I close my eyes and almost get shivers from the feeling I get when I put a record on the turntable. “If you listen closely it’s like you’re in the studio with the artist when they made the record. There’s no other feeling like it.”
“Wow,” he says his eyes gleaming. “I’ve never heard anyone talk about music like that. That’s so awesome. I like music, but it seems like you have a real appreciation for it. That’s really cool.”
“It’s more than just music for me. It’s…an experience. It’s like being invited into a secret hiding place that only the artist knows about. These songs are like doors, doors into the artist’s life. A good song, you can hear the pain in their voice. They take you a long for the ride. You can hear the pain dripping from the speakers.”
“I’ve never looked at it like that before. I just like the beat. And the singing or the raps.”
“I hate to sound like one of
those
people, but today’s music is lifeless, so empty.”
“Yeah, you do sound like one of
those
people,” he says mockingly.
I stick my tongue out at him. “Sometimes, I daydream and wish I was born in the sixties or seventies. Those are some of the best eras of music. Musicians treated their craft like it was life or death. They’d rather starve than release a piece of crap. Nowadays it seems like no one cares about the music, they just want to chase a buck.”
I stand up and go over the jazz section, my hands falling on the dozen or so Billie Holiday records. I pull out an album called
Lady in Satin.
Billie can explain it better than I can.
I coil my arm around his and lead him to the listening station in the corner. I place the record on the turntable and pat my hand on the stool for him to place his butt. “Time for you to sit.”
He grins, following my orders. “Yes ma’am, Miss Graham.” He sits down and I place the headphones over his ears. I press the start button and place my fingers on the arm of the turntable and delicately rest the stylus within the grooves.
“Doesn’t that crackle and pop sound so cool?” I smile and he nods. The song I play for him is called “You’ve Changed”. It’s gotten me through the toughest times in my life and will continue to get me through the hundreds more to come. A couple of years ago I played this record every night when my head fell on the pillow, the crackle of the record floating me off to sleep. Billie spoke to me when no one else was there to lend me an ear, comforted me when no one was their to put there arm around me, and wiped away my tears when the pain ached unbearably.
I look at his face and it’s gone hollow. I don’t know what’s going through his mind, but it’s the same look I know I had when I first heard the song. He looks up at me for a moment and I see a deep aching set in his eyes, a longing, a sadness. And before I can attempt to process it, he looks away, down towards the record rotating on the turntable.
It’s a look I’ve seen from most people my age, an expression of uncertainty about themselves or about the future. I don’t know what’s touching his spirit, but Billie’s singing “You’re not the angel I once knew” always hits home for me.
He pushes the stop button on the turntable.
“So what’d you think? Intense huh?” I ask enthusiastically.
He gets up off the stool, his face tight and pensive. “It was alright,” he says deadpan. Quietly, he shuffles over to the rack of vintage men’s sport coats and then walks outside.
Wow, that definitely wasn’t the response I imagined I’d receive from him.
I follow him outside and he’s standing on the street, dark sunglasses wrapped around his eyes.
When I step outside on the sidewalk, he doesn’t turn around. “You want to grab an ice cream or something?” he says, his eyes focused across the streets…or somewhere beyond the street.
“Yeah, sure. There’s a shop at the end of the block here.” We walk in silence when we approach two young people sitting at a table with clipboards and pens set out on top.
“Excuse us,” the young girls, seemingly our age, say to us. I greet them with a smile. Kellen doesn’t, he stands rigid, stone-faced. “Hi, we’re from the Flint Humane Society and we’d like to know if you can take a few moments out of your day to take a short survey? It’s totally free and we won’t share any of your contact information. And after you complete the survey, we have stickers, buttons, and you’d be entered in a drawing for a cash prize.”
My face lights up. “Oh cool sure. I’m game,” I say. The freckled face girl hands me a clipboard with a sheet that has twelve questions. Kellen turns around. “Kellen,” I say handing him a clipboard. He doesn’t respond. “You don’t want to take the survey?”
“No thanks. I’m not interested.” There’s a strange quaver in his voice.
“Why not? It’s for a good cause.”
“I…I don’t like giving my information out like that.” He rubs his hand through his hair.
My eyebrows pull in. Something’s been off about him since we left the vintage store. “And it’s stupid,” he says.
“Stop being a sourpuss,” I grab his arm and lug his two hundred-plus pound frame back to the table. I grab another clipboard and shove it into his chest. “You’re really not going to help save our furry friends? What a brute!” The two girls at the table giggle.
Kellen looks around and presses his lips together in a slight grimace. He snatches the clipboard out of my hands and I shoot a frown back at him. What’s gotten into him?
I quickly fill out the form and pick out a button that says ‘I Heart Our Furry Friends’
“The drawing will be two weeks from today and if you’re a winner we’ll contact you at the number you provide on the survey,” says the girl with the dreadlocks.
“Fantastic. Thanks for the button!” I say. I turn around and Kellen holds the clipboard down his side and is thumb is scrolling down the screen of his phone.
“All done? I ask him. My eyes jut down to the survey and he hasn’t answered any of the questions. “You didn’t fill it out,” I say skeptically.
“I told you it was stupid,” he snipes. Something’s off about him. I see slight tremors course through his body.
“It’s just a survey,” I say. “They’re from the Humane Society. They’re not out to scam anybody.”
He shoots me a look that cuts glass. “Look,” he says sharply. “I
told
you I didn’t want to take the stupid survey. Why do you keep bothering me?” His voice rises and so does the color in his cheeks. He flings the clipboard into the street. “Just leave me alone,” he shouts, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. “All of you…leave me alone.” He backs away from me. “I said I didn’t want to do it.” He stands there, rigid, crimson-face, and defensive, like a cobra, ready to strike or spit venom at an intruder.
I inch closer to him; hesitantly. He stares past me off into the distance.
“Kellen, it’s okay,” I say timidly. “I’m here.” I grab his hand. It’s frigid and lifeless.
It all becomes clear to me at that moment. The album cover in the thrift shop, the years of him never wanting to read in class, let alone never seeing him hold a book in his hand. Holding back tears as I see his lip quiver, I say, “Kellen, can you—” I don’t want to finish saying the unthinkable.
He grates his hand down his face, wiping away tears that seem ready to fall. He clears his throat. “Of course I can,” his voice is jagged. The chuckle that escapes his mouth wavers. “You crazy or something? That’s ridiculous.”
I grab his hand and it’s unsteady. “Kellen,” my voice a near whisper. “It’s okay.” I trace my thumb over his hand soothing him.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” We stand silent for several moments. Several long, intense, thick moments. But I never release his hand from mine.
“I…I just have trouble with words sometimes,” he says forcing the words off his lips. “It’s no big deal.” A harsh gasp flies from his mouth.
“Kellen, can you…” I still can’t bring myself to finish the question. I clench his hand tighter and gaze at him with soft eyes to let him know I’m here for him and not going to judge.
“Really…it’s no big deal.” He laughs nervously.
Wetness coats below my eyes. “Kellen…I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
He scratches his chin and laughs again. I don’t let go of his hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Trust me. I can still burst through a couple of angry linebackers so I guess I’m doing fine, right?”
The silence between us buzzes even above the engines of buses and trucks that zoom by us.
He leans in and lowers his voice. “Listen, can we just keep this between you and me?” His eyes are pleading. I nod slightly. I don’t judge, I don’t berate him, and I don’t question him into a corner. I just hold his hand. It’s what a friend is supposed to do.