And the Heart Gives up It's Dead (I don't really understand what you are trying to convey with the title.)The ceiling was pink and dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars. He really hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, from the color of the walls and the fact she had a Disney Princess blanket tossed over the bed, he could have guessed something like that. But the ceiling, really? Chris rolled on to his side and slid the pastel blanket off of his body.
He still had his boxers on; that was good, one less piece of clothing to find. He sat up and the bed moved with him. When he stood, the girl grumbled and opened her eyes.
"Hey," she mumbled softly, blinking at him. She wasn’t quite as pretty as he remembered, not with her smeared make-up and ruffled hair, but she wasn’t ugly either. That was good, he hadn’t been too drunk then.
"Hey," he replied bending down to grab his jeans off of the floor.
"You leaving?” she yawned out, rolling on to her stomach to watch as he dressed
With her eyes on him intently he tried to pull his jeans on quickly but ended up catching his leg wrong and stumbling. He caught himself against her dresser to balance and finally pulled his pants up.
"Yeah,” he said coolly, trying to play off his current lack of coordination, “I've got papers to grade and stuff... I had fun though, you want to do it again sometime? I’ll give you a call."
“Yeah, sure. Totally." She yawned and rolled on to her back. The comforters were twisted down near her hips; she didn’t have the time to redress before they had fallen asleep.
(What does the comforters have to do with her being undressed? Why did she not have time if he had time to put boxers on?) Chris tried to be a gentleman, but it was a bit difficult all things considered. "The door will lock itself," she added casually.
He bit his lower lip, but said nothing.
"It's just-" Chris started and sighed.
"It's fine," the blonde interrupted with a lazy wave of her hand. Chris was frowning as he grabbed his shirt off of the ground. For some reason he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop the door from slamming behind him as he left.
It was overcast and drizzling outside; the stars were completely obscured by the dark storm clouds. Goosebumps formed on his arms and he rubbed at them in an attempt to warm himself. He really needed to get a new sweatshirt, but hadn’t gotten around to it since losing his favorite one two weeks ago.
Breathing in deeply, he tilted his head back and exhaled slowly; his breath condensing then dissipating into the cold night air.
He followed the faint yellowish light of the streetlamps back home, cursing as the amount of rain steadily increased until it was pouring. By the time he finally made it back to the house, his fingers were so numb from the cold he had difficulty getting the key in to the lock. After a few minutes of struggling he finally managed to open the door.
He kicked off his wet shoes near the door, trailing puddles
(trailing doesn't sound right for a puddle) behind as he moved through the foyer and into the dining room.
Helena was up, sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by papers. She had a cup in her left hand and a red pen in her right. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail except for her bangs, which were left free. Her glasses were the rectangular-framed purple colored ones that Chris loved to see her in. She took a sip from the mug. Coffee, he imagined, black.
(You haven't used names before, who are they?)“You look like a zombie,” she observed sweetly, “a wet freckle-covered zombie.”
(How does it come across sweetly?)“Ha ha,” Chris stated
(He states a laugh?) dryly as he placed his hands on the back of the chair she was sitting in, “You been up all night, Hel?”
“Mhm,” Helena replied eloquently
(How can you be eloquent with a mumble? If that's sarcasm it doesn't work in writing.). She took another sip from her mug and turned the paper over to write the grade on the back corner before setting it on her finished pile. “You have too, I see.”
“Yeah, I was. Dr. Valeris getting on your a** about submitting the final grades before Christmas, huh?”
(He lives with a teacher too.)“Yep.”
Chris was hovering behind her chair.
“It’s raining,” he said, and then hastily added, “outside”
“Oh really?” she replied flatly, “Much better than inside, I suppose.”
He licked his dry and cracking lower lip.
“Yeah, weird right? Actually I think it’s hailing now. Which is kind of like snow, right? You like snow. Do you want to go outside and take a look?”
“No thanks. I’m flying to Boston in a couple of days. I’ll see plenty of snow there.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay. I almost forgot. I get it,” he leaned in a little closer, peering over her shoulder to watch as she graded another undergrad’s essay. “So, Helena, do you find yourself getting more lenient or harsher the further into the stack you get?” he asked after a few moments of silence. Chris had found he tended to become less interested as the grading dragged on, so he’d often let small mistakes fly under the radar. As much as he complained about it, Chris rather liked grading.
“Oh, harsher, most definitely.” Helena’s pen quickly moved across the paper, marking off points left and right.
Chris nodded as if in agreement, and mumbled some inane comment to himself like ‘cool, cool’ or ‘yeah, me too.’ An awkward silence followed, which Chris broke by clearing his throat thoroughly and then finally speaking.
“I’m going to take a shower. And then grade some papers when I get out.”
“Mhm,” Helena replied, eyes still on the work in front of her. “Have fun, Chris. And bring a towel back to clean up your puddle.” He made a face that she chose to ignore.
Chris walked down the hallway past the bedrooms to the bathroom, trailing the palm of his hand against the wall. When he entered, he clicked the lock behind him and leaned against the door; he didn’t move for a long time. Smooth, he thought, real smooth.
“This is so stupid,” he growled out as he began to shed his wet clothing in a pile on the linoleum floor.
The water of the shower was too cold when he started, then too hot, and then after fiddling with the handle for a good five minutes it was a temperature Goldilocks would have approved of: just right.
When he glanced over at the shelf, he frowned. He hadn’t remembered to pick up shampoo and conditioner yet. Maybe he could go without washing his hair right now and get some at the store later? He ran his fingers through his wet hair; the water made it feel even greasier. Well, that wasn’t an option. He glanced back at the shelf to Helena’s nearly full bottles. Feeling like the biggest jerk in the world, he reached out for one.
He flicked open the plastic top on the shampoo and squirted some into his palm. He clicked the top back down and replaced the bottle on the ledge in the exact same position it had been, three-quarters turned away with the ingredients and directions facing him. He began to work the shampoo vigorously into his hair, in an attempt to wash out the two days worth of oils, dirt, and the thick persistent smell of cigarettes. He placed himself directly under the stream of water and the shampoo suds slid down his neck and shoulders. It smelled overwhelmingly like Helena and the thought made him profoundly dizzy.
Or maybe that was just not eating for the last sixteen hours.
After shampooing he repeated the same process with her conditioner. He hadn’t run out of soap yet, so he used his instead of Helena’s kind-of-too-girly bodywash and loofah combo (though he did pop open the top to take in the scent). He felt like an idiot immediately after and shoved it back as quickly as he could, almost knocking over the other bottles in the process.
Turning off the shower, he grabbed a towel and attempted to dry off thoroughly before stepping out on to the tiled floor. He left puddles of water on the ground anyway. In the mirror he could see the reflection of red marks across his back that the blonde had left behind. Then, towel around his waist and clothing still piled on the floor, he exited the bathroom as quickly as possible. When he reached his bedroom he tossed his towel on the bed and dressed himself in a long sleeved shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.
When he came back out, she was still seated across the table; the pen was still in her right hand and the mug still in her left. It was as if nothing had changed, save for the cup of coffee placed in front of Chris’s seat. He smiled, felt stupid about smiling, felt dumb about feeling stupid, and then finally sat down and began to grade. He took a sip of his coffee; it was just the way he liked it, sweet enough to rot his teeth.
“What are yours on?”
“An analysis of James Joyce’s
Ulysses. They are all pretty awful, except for one. Unfortunately, I’ve read it before.”
“Ouch. Plagiarism first semester? What are these kids coming to?”
“Not only that, it was an excerpt from my senior thesis.”
Chris sucked in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “Oh. Wow. What are you going to do?”
“Simple. I crossed out the idiot’s name and gave myself an A.”
He began to laugh so loudly he feared he might wake the neighbors, but she smiled softly at him and that made it seem worth it.
“I already emailed Valeris about it,” she said once he had quieted down, “too bad I won’t get to hand it back to the kid myself. What about you? What are you doing?”
“Expositions on Dylan Thomas’s poetry.”
“Oh, that should be fun. You have that weird obsession with Irish poets.”
“Welsh,” Chris corrected sharply, “Dylan Thomas is Welsh. Was, actually. He’s dead, but that’s not the point: he was Welsh. Get it right. And I’m not obsessed with Irish poets… I just really like a few Irish authors like Yeats and Shaw. And Swift. And Joyce. And Wilde... ” he trailed off quietly.
She looked up from her papers to smirk at him; some of her hair had fallen loose from her ponytail.
“Your obsession with Thomas is beyond me. He’s alright, but there are better poets out there.”
“Blasphemy,” he breathed, “no one is better than Thomas.” He reached over the table to brush her stray hair behind her ear and then slowly, quietly, and far too intimately recited, “A stranger has come to share my room in the house not right in the head. A girl mad as birds.”
When he drew his hand back, she looked down at her papers and didn’t say anything for a very long time.
Three hours later they were both on the couch, Helena seated on the leftmost side, laptop perched on the arm of the furniture, and Chris sprawled across the length of the sofa, head in his friend’s lap. Helena was entering grades in to the system with her left hand and her right was rested on her thigh playing with Chris’s dark hair.
“How’re things going with The Czar?” Chris asked finally in an attempt to break the silence. There was only the slightest strain in his voice.
“How many times have I asked you not to call him by that ridiculous nickname, Christian?”
“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, “how are things going with Vladimir.”
“They’re not.” The expression on Helena’s face didn’t seem to change a bit, while Chris’ must have gone through at least seven different emotions .
“They’re what?” Chris pushed himself up on his elbows to look up at her better.
“They’re not. We broke up almost two months ago, Chris.”
“Oh,” he replied lamely. “Did you tell me?”
“Not that I recall.” In response to Chris’s shocked look she added defensively, “You hadn’t asked.”
“I’m supposed to ask that?” he cried out, “What on Earth am I supposed to say? ‘Oh hey there pal, broken up with your boyfriend yet? Oh. No? Good. Good. Keep on keeping on, I’m sure you guys are in it for the long haul.’”
“Not in as many words, no.”
“We’re friends, Hel; you’re supposed to tell me things like this! I would have taken you out; I would have found you a new guy even better than Vlad.”
“It happened during the last few weeks of instruction; I couldn’t afford to have you take me out.” Chris chuckled and relaxed in to the couch again; Helena’s hand returned to his hair.
“Okay, okay fair enough. We couldn’t have you show up hung-over to proctor exams now could we?”
“It would be a smidge awkward,” Helena agreed. Chris giggled under his breath, and then quietly repeated ‘smidge’ before giggling again. Helena responded by smacking Chris in the head.
“Christopher Robin,” she scolded firmly as if she was speaking to a young child, “No.”
“Fine,” he grumbled as he closed his eyes, “sorry, Mom.”
He didn’t recall falling asleep, but the next thing Chris knew he was blinking his eyes open and feeling unbelievably groggy.
“I think I fell asleep,” Chris groaned out lamely.
“Yes. You did,” was Helena’s reply. The blond-haired woman was still seated in the same spot.
(Are all the girls blond?) The computer was gone and she was now holding a book in her left hand. It appeared as if she hadn’t moved, but there was a blanket draped over Chris and a pillow in her lap where Chris’s head was resting.
“For how long?”
“A while. You’ve drooled all over your pillow.”
Chris sat up with a yawn, and tried to slyly wipe away the bit of saliva at the corner of his mouth.
“What time is it?”
“Around eight.”
“In the morning?”
“No.”
“Oh,” he blinked again in disbelief and then began to rub at his eyes. “I need to enter my grades. Dr. Marseli is going to have my head if I’m late.”
“Already done. I ordered dinner too; it should be here in about thirty minutes.”
“Our traditional Solstice meal?” Chris was doing his best not to sound too overjoyed, but the excitement leaked into his voice.
“Would you expect any less of me?”
“God, I love you Helena.”
“I know, Chris.”
Dinner arrived twenty minutes later- an extra large pepperoni, jalapeno, pineapple and minced garlic pizza- Chris jumped up and rushed to the door to pay for it, only to discover that Helena had already done that online when she had ordered. He settled for over-tipping the confused looking delivery man.
“Fine, fine, whatever. See if I care,” Chris mumbled under his breath as he dropped the pizza on the dining room table and started heading to the kitchen. All of the papers had been moved in to neat piles on the edge: Chris could only assume they were alphabetical, divided into classes and subdivided by section. That was how Helena always sorted papers.
Chris and Helena met in the doorway between the two rooms and he bumped his shoulder against hers; the blond simply rolled her eyes in response. She was carrying glasses and plates out to the table. He placed them down and popped open the box. Chris returned a few minutes later with Chris was back a few minutes later holding two mugs.
(sentence doesn't make sense) He placed one in front of Helena and sat down and took a sip from his mug.
“Thank you for not putting anything in my coffee. I know how tempted you are to dump in mounds of sugar cubes, but honestly Chris, I don’t know how you stand it being that sweet.”
Chris shrugged and laughed, “I can’t drink coffee without it, you know that. I’ll probably develop diabetes, but whatever.” He set his glass
He's drinking coffee and something from a glass?) on the table and watched as Helena took a bite of her first slice. His grin broadened and he started on his slices. The second she finished eating her food, Chris stood up suddenly enough to make Helena jump in her seat.
“I have a surprise!” he called out.
“Let me guess, it’s whatever is in those Tupperware holders that you attempted to obfuscate
(Doesn't really make sense here, wouldn't "hide" work? It's not really a word that someone would use in dialogue that I know of, and certainly isn't in keeping with previous dialogue.) by wrapping in foil and adding the note ‘Seriously, nothing special here. Move along, Helena. Don’t peek; I’m warning you.’”
“Did you peek?” Chris called out, almost a little too desperately.
“No. I didn’t.” She took a sip of her coffee and grinned at him over her mug.
“Seriously though, Hel? Did you just use ‘obfuscate’ in a sentence? That’s ridiculous. Who in the world does that?”
“Grad students,” she replied without skipping a beat.
“You’re my favorite, you know that right?”
She shrugged, “Surprise?” she added in an attempt to get him back on track.
“Oh yes! The surprise!” He dashed into the kitchen and returned holding two cupcakes triumphantly. He placed one in front of Helena, then took his seat at the table and placed it in front of himself.
“White chocolate cupcakes, with pomegranate seeds,” he announced. Helena examined the pastry thoroughly and then delicately removed the paper from the edges of the cupcake before taking a small bite.
“You know,” she began casually, “it has always surprised me that someone who was kicked out of his chem lab for mixing the wrong materials, isn’t half bad at baking”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” he whined, “I mixed them together because I knew they were going to explode.”
“I’m just glad your eyebrows grew back.” He reached up to touch his forehead and smirked.
“Yeah, me too.” They fell in to companionable silence until they finished their cupcakes
“To another year,” Chris announced lifting up his glass.
“Six down,” Helena added lifting her own.
“Three to go,” Chris continued.
(why that many years?)“And then we look forward to a lifetime of underemployment and over education.” They clinked their glasses and began to drink.
Around ten that evening, they sat on the couch ready to exchange presents as per their Solstice night tradition. The TV was on in the background, but muted; it provided the two with enough light that neither had to plug in the old lamp they had found at a thrift store their junior year that occasionally shocked them when it was turned on.
“Here!” Chris called out excitedly shoving two poorly wrapped gifts in to Helena’s hands. “Open the weird shaped one first!” Helena smirked, despite herself and undid the terrible wrapping job to reveal a mug.
“Oh, another coffee cup. Thank you.”
“You have to turn it over!” he insisted. Helena rolled her eyes and did just that, revealing an image o f William Shakespeare and the white lettering in all caps that read, “PROSE BEFORE HOS.” She laughed then, clearly and loudly; it made Chris smile so broadly his face hurt.
“The other one isn’t as funny, but it’s good. It’s great I mean. You’ll like it, that is. Being a pretentious lit grad student and all. And on account of your nickname for me.” She did, like it that is. It was a first edition printing of A. A. Milne’s
Winnie the Pooh and she didn’t say anything explicitly, but just from the way she reverently examined the binding and brushed her fingertips against the yellowed pages told him how much she did.
“It’s not the best condition, but it’s what I could afford. I mean, hello, poor grad student.”
"Oh, Christopher Robin," she replied softly and smiled at him.
“This is a consolation present,” Helena began as she handed an envelope to Chris, “the coat I ordered you won’t be here for another two weeks. They sent me the wrong one, so I had to return it. It should be here tomorrow or the next day.”
“Oh, what type of coat?”
“Two, actually. A navy-blue peacoat and then the other one is just a hooded sweatshirt, because I know you lost your favorite one.”
“Aw, thanks.” Chris tore open the envelop fully expecting to find a photo of the purchased item, or an ‘I.O.U’ note, but he didn’t get either of them.
“Uh, Hel?”
“Yeah, Chris?”
This is a plane ticket.”
“That it is.”
“To Boston.”
Helena shrugged, “Yeah. Vlad was going to come, but obviously that would be a little awkward now. It was already paid for, and I couldn’t get a refund so I just had the name switched over. You’ve never been out of California before, so I thought you could come if you wanted. If you didn’t, no harm no foul the ticket wasn’t going to get used anyway.”
“Wow. This is so much better than the present I got you.”
“No, it isn’t. I love my prose over hos mug.”
“Yeah, I love it too. It’s a shame there aren’t any derogatory terms for women that rhyme with poetry.” Chris looked genuinely upset by the situation for a few minutes before dropping it.
“Anyway, like I was saying Hel, your present is so much cooler. I’d love to come.”
Helena smiled, but said nothing.
It was barely ten fifteen when they had finished unwrapping their presents, and Chris was beginning to look a little antsy.
“Are you going out again tonight?” Helena asked as she reached for the book placed on the table near her.
He only paused for a second to consider, “Yes. And you’re coming with me.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Apparently I am leaving in two days for a three week trip I knew nothing about. I have to get in my week’s worth of partying tonight, and you have to come with me.”
“And why do I have to come? To drag your sorry drunken a** back home?”
“No, Helena. To get you out there, back on the market. Laid, Hel, tonight we are going out to get you laid.”
Helena rolled her eyes and laughed, but didn’t protest.
“We leave in an hour. Get ready.”
Chris spent the first half of his hour napping on the couch again. He only woke up when Helena called out his name.
“Chris? I look ridiculous, don’t I?”
He scrambled up in time to peak over the back of the couch and see Helena enter in to the living room. He opened his mouth to say something and nothing came out.
“It’s the dress right? It’s dumb. I mean, I love purple but it’s just really not my color—” Chris began to shake his head quickly.
“No, no. You look great. I’m sorry I’m out of it, I fell asleep again. That’s all.” Yes, that was all. It definitely had nothing to do with the way that dress hugged the slight flare of her hips or showed off her long slender legs. It wasn’t that at all.
“So, uh, are you going like that?” Her hair loosely fell around her shoulders in soft curls; the strands that always fell forward when she was working were clipped in place,(which of course meant Chris would have no excuse to brush them back behind her ear).
“What’s wrong with how I look?” Chris asked, sounding genuinely offended.
“Sweetie, you’re still in your pajamas.” It was funny she only ever called him sweetie when he was doing something stupid.
“Oh, yeah. Fine. You win this round.” He climbed over the back of the couch and jumped on to the floor, sliding a little when he landed. He went to get ready.
Ten minutes later they had made it to the party. Chris scanned the room: it was a typical college house party. There was some blond guy playing guitar for a group of adoring girls, there was a large group of underage girls from then 19th century poetry class he TA’d for (avoid at all cost unless looking to lose scholarship), a few very drunk looking girls dressed in low-cut tops and small skirts despite the fifty degree weather
(50 degrees? That's hot, for us English anyway...) (avoid at all cost unless looking to go to the free clinic), and a lot of people he vaguely recognized from around campus. Helena walked towards the guitar player, and stopped in front of him. Chris followed after.
“Your chord progression is all wrong,” Helena commented. The guy stopped, looked up at her and frowned. When he said nothing in response, she continued.
“You're playing that Jason Mraz song right? It was B, F, C there Not B, C, F.”
“Is that so?” the blond asked,
(Another blond?) moving the guitar so that its body was resting on the ground and the neck was in his hands.
“Yes. It’s not a very difficult song.”
“You want to show me how it’s done, then?”
Helena shrugged and looked over at Chris like he was going to give her permission or not. He looked confused for a second, and then waived it on.
He moved out of the chair and Helena sat down taking the guitar from him. She positioned herself and plucked at each string, adjusting the pegs until they were tuned to her liking. The crowd that had been surrounding the blond haired guy had doubled by now.
“Ready?” she asked with a smile as she strummed.
Chris had moved across the room when Helena had started tuning. There was a keg in the middle of the small kitchen, and an undergrad- who Chris had given a C minus -was manning it.
“Hey, could I get two?” he asked, leaning up against the kitchen counter and tapping his fingers across the tile. The entire place was littered with red cups and empty bottles. The sink was filled with ice and bottles of hard alcohol.
“Uh, hey… Mr. Gallagher,” the boy started awkwardly.
“It’s just Chris,” he corrected, “I’ve been telling you that since the first section.”
“This, this isn’t what it looks like-” he began.
“You’re not going to give me a beer?” he leaned his left elbow on the counter and propped up his chin on the open palm of his hand, “Look. I don’t care you’re underage. I’ve been crashing college parties since I was in middle school. Now, give me some beer and I’ll try to forget you called Thomas a ‘major douche’.”
“Uh, right away, Mr. Gallagher.”
The boy handed him two red cups, and Chris maneuvered through the crowded room. He stopped once to take a few sips from each cup to prevent spilling.
He arrived when she was partway through the song. A few seconds later an already-drunk man leaned over and whispered, “She came with you, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Chris replied trying his best to discreetly move away.
“Wow man,” the drunkard continued, “your girlfriend is hella hot.”
“Yeah, she is,” Chris agreed. It took him a good fifty eight seconds before he added, “she’s not my girlfriend,” but at that point the guy wasn’t listening anymore.
When Helena finished, the crowd clapped loudly and began to slowly disperse. Chris pushed his way through to hand Helena her beer. She smiled at him and set it down on the table immediately.
“Thanks man,” the guitar-owner said as he took the beer out of Chris’s other hand.
Helena still had the guitar in her lap, and she was smiling at the blond guy.
“I’m Eric by the way,” he stated, “and as you can see I’m clearly not a guitar player. I’m getting my master’s in music composition, but I play flute and violin. Doesn’t really have the same effect on the ladies, you know?”
Helena laughed, “I had a minor in theater for my undergrad. I’m interested in musicals mostly, but I’ve been playing guitar since I was four…”
Chris couldn’t take another minute of this, he shoved past the guy, and his shoulder connected somewhere near the much taller man’s sternum.
He moved straight towards the kitchen sink and grabbed a half-empty bottle of vodka. Unscrewing the top, he began to pour its contents in to a red cup; he didn’t stop until the bottle was empty.
(a small bottle? A regular sized bottle, even half full, wouldn't fit into a cup) Immediately, he was gulping it down, ignoring the burning sensation in his throat.
“Uh… Mr. Gallagher, you okay?” the undergrad asked quietly; Chris ignored him and stormed outside.
People were smoking out by the steps and he bummed a cigarette off of another English grad student, whose name he couldn’t remember. He sat on the bottom step, smoking his cigarette down to the filter and talking with the grad student (whose name turned out to be Jason) about Yeats.
He was on his third cigarette when the door opened and a pretty little blonde
(Another blond. why do you spell it differently each time too?) walked out. He thought he recognized her from somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where.
“You,” she hissed.
“Me,” he replied sending a quick glance over at Jason for support; he was already pretending to not know him.
“Don’t you dare act like you don’t recognize me, Christian!” Now that she mentioned it, there was something familiar in her sharp features, but nothing sparked a memory. He stood up, slightly woozy from the vodka. She was at the top step and he was at the bottom, making him eye level with her chest. Well, those looked familiar.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t recognize you with all the clothes and stuff.”
“You said you’d call,” she growled, “and I was stupid enough to believe you.”
(she didn't seem that bothered when he said it. plus it'd only been a matter of hours)Chris had to lean against the wall so he wouldn’t fall.
“Want me to pretend I lost your number? That I was going to call you soon? I was just working up the nerve? Or you want me to tell you that of course I’m not going to call some girl I barely remember having sex with. Just because you equate any type of physical affection as genuine emotion, probably because your daddy didn’t hug you enough, doesn’t mean every one else is as messed up as you.”
(Some of this sounds familiar... like it's from a song or a film.)She flung her drink in his face and stormed back inside.
“Well,” Jason stated after a long minute of silence, “that was wholly unnecessary.”
“Whatever,” he spat out as he stumbled back inside.
He could see them clearly from across the room. There she was talking and laughing and flirting with the b*****d. She kept leaning forward every time she laughed and resting her hand on his.
The grip on his cup tightened; the plastic cracked.
“Woah, easy tiger,” a voice breathed in to his ear. A hand slid to take the cup away from his hand and set it on a table. He turned around slowly and met with the mocking brown eyes.
“Stephanie,” he stated a frown on his lips.
“Christian,” she purred in response. Her long blond
(another blond) hair was shorter than he remembered, barely reaching her shoulders, “Now, tell me,” she began, “what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”
“Is that supposed to be ironic, or are you actually dumb enough to still think I’m
a good boy?”
“You know I’m a fan of irony,” she stated as she pressed the palm of her hand against his chest.
“Stephanie,” he stated this time with a hint of warning under his words.
“Let’s skip all the bullshit. There’s an open room upstairs are you coming or not?” He stared at her for a long time, felt her hand slide down his sternum to his lower stomach, and nodded slowly. She pressed her lips against his, slid her thin fingers to the nape of his neck and kissed him fiercely; she tasted like cigarettes and gin.
He didn’t look back; he knew she’d still be flirting with him.
The ceiling was white, with that weird popcorn stuff that was popular during the 70s
(chip board?). Better than pink, he told himself. The bed was full-sized with a generic blue sheet set. His jeans were on, but his belt was across the room along with his shirt, but she was already dressed
(she was naked before? or do you mean undressed?) and standing. He reached up to touch her elbow.
(Was she taller?)“Hey, do you want to get lunch sometime?” He sat up as she pulled away from him and walked across the room. She started to laugh and it hurt his ears.
(Laughing hurt his ears? Why would a guy that's about to get laid ask about lunch?)“Now, really, Christian, do you think I want to do this for the rest of my life?”
He gave her a blank look in response.
“Oh, come on. Are you seriously that dense? Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m not going to be swept to the side while you fawn over someone else.”
“What are you talking about?” He stood up and took a step towards her.
She started laughing again, “Oh, Christian sweetheart, you really are that dumb, aren’t you?”
“Have you ever wondered why you’re always chasing after blondes? Why none of your relationships have lasted for more than two months? Why you’ll drop anything to rush to her side?”
(This was disorientating, it was still her speaking but it looks like someone else has started.)He didn’t say anything; but his face said it all.
(Explain how he looked) She was still laughing, like it was the best joke she had ever heard.
“It’s just so damn funny. You’re absolutely in love with the girl and she doesn’t give a damn about you.”
“She does-” he protested weakly.
“If she cared, she would have made a move years ago, Christian. Trust me on this.”
His voice wavered when he spoke. “This... this was a mistake.” She shrugged and left without another word. He sat on the floor, his back against the bed, buried his head in his hands, and didn’t move for a long time.
(When did he get up? He's suddenly gone from being seated and not moving for a long time to moving. There needs to be some transition.) He didn’t seem to mind if he was bumping in to people, because he kept shoving his way through the crowds as he stormed across the room until he reached the place where Helena was seated, still talking with the blond-haired douche. Chris grabbed on to Helena’s arm and pulled at her roughly, “Come on. We’re leaving.” Helena tore her arm away and glared at him.
“Chris,” she stated firmly, “you’re drunk.”
“Hel,” he whispered quietly, and during that moment the handsome blond was forgotten and Helena was staring at her best friend, “please.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Stephanie,” he croaked out, “she’s here.” Helena’s eyes instantly softened and she took hold of his arm.
“Oh,” she said softly followed by another ‘oh’ and then a forlorn, “Christopher Robin…”
The blond cleared his throat.
“You’re leaving?”
(this looks like she asked it). She nodded, grabbed her coat, and begin to do the buttons up.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I need to take him home.”
“So, uh. You have my number, you’ll give me a call?” She smiled then, and it seemed fairly empty.
“Yeah,” she replied, “yeah, yeah of course. I’ll see you around Aaron.”
Later, Chris would swear he had heard the guy mumble “It’s Eric.” after them.
When they made it back to the house, Chris was stumbling but Helena was almost entirely sober. He moved to his room to strip out of his clothes and into his pajamas. When he came back to Helena’s room the door was ajar and inside he could see her slipping out of her dress. She wasn’t facing him so he watched as she took off the clothing from the party and slipped in to her pajamas.
There was a scar on her left shoulder blade he wanted to reach out and touch. He had seen it before, of course when they had gone swimming together. She had gotten it during a particularly rough game of soccer when she was still in junior high. He could just move forward, his drunk mind rationalized, push the door the rest of the way open, grab her and kiss her. Everything would fall in to place then.
He turned away quickly and moved back to his room. Halfway down the hallway he turned back. He had to tell her. She needed to know. It was going to be tonight. He knocked on the door.
“Hey, Hel,” he started softly. His voice was low and rough, “What are you doing?”
His eyes were a little red, almost like he’d been crying. His shirt was too big for him, the sleeves went well past the tips of his fingers and he balled up the fabric in his fists. He looked so unbelievably young with his freckles and messy hair it almost broke her heart.
“Reading,” she said with a smile. She was already wearing her rectangular framed glasses and under the covers.
“Oh,” he replied lamely as he leaned his hand against the doorframe for balance.
“Come on,” she urged patting a spot of the bed next to her, “take a seat by me. I’ll read it to you.”
He nodded and wordlessly moved to lie down next to her.
“Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.”
Tomorrow, he thought as he snuggled up against her into the purple blankets of her bed, I’ll tell her tomorrow.
The next few days passed by uneventfully, Chris spent most of the nights at home watching TV with Helena. On the morning of the flight they headed to the BART station of downtown Berkeley and took it to the Oakland Airport.
They arrived on time to find the flight had been delayed two hours after going through security they found their gate and settled in to wait until boarding began in about three hours.
(punctuation needed in here.)“I have something to show you,” Chris said as he opened his laptop. He logged on to the free wifi and opened up his internet browser. “I found this on the “youtubes,” as they say.”
“They don’t say that Chris. No one says that. Only you say that.”
“Irrelevant, like I was saying, I saw this and thought of you.” Helena placed her book down and looked on to the screen.
“Is that… is that Neil Patrick Harris?” she asked incredulously.
“The one and only.”
“Playing Toby? But, he’s so old and, and, and, I’m already in love so it doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, here,” he handed one earbud of his headphones to her, and placed the other in his ear. She followed suit and he played her the clip.
“You know what I want?” Helena asked a few seconds after the song had ended.
“NPH to play every character in every musical ever?”
“Well, yes, of course. But more specifically I want him to play Anthony so I can hear him sing Johanna.”
“You love that song so much. It’s a little ridiculous.”
“It’s almost like they’re singing about me and my yellow hair.”
“I wouldn’t say your hair is yellow,” Chris began moving her stray hair behind her ear.
“Oh,” she began quietly, looking over at him through the corner of her eyes.
“See,” he began before quietly singing: “there’s tawny, and there’s golden saffron, there’s flaxen and there’s blond…”
“I remember when you first sang it.”
“Oh,” Chris began, “I doubt that. ”
“I mean the first time I heard you sing it.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “I was waiting to audition and you got up there like you had so many better things to do, and everyone kind of thought you were a douche. The director asked you who you were auditioning for and why. Do you remember what you said?”
Chris shook his head slightly and turned his body so he was looking at her. He moved his hand so his fingertips were brushing her knee.
“’The gay sailor or whatever, because Drama One-Twenty-Four gives you extra credit for auditioning.’” Chris laughed quietly at the memory and couldn’t help but smile.
Helena continued, “I remember thinking, ‘God, what a total jerk.’”
“Don’t you still think that?” Chris interrupted.
“A little,” she smiled, “but then you sang and all I could think was ‘Oh wow. This guy is good. He’s actually good.’ It’s a shame you haven’t done anything since you graduated.’”
“I just haven’t seen the point anymore, you know?”
There was a long silence between the two of them, and then his hand moved to rest against her knee.
“I’m glad I got the part though,” his voice was uncharacteristically solemn, “because I honestly can’t imagine what my life would be like without you.”
“I-“ she began, “I,” before being interrupted by a load
loud mechanical announcement.
“Flight B-13 with non-stop passage to Boston is boarding. All passengers seated in rows eighteen through twenty-five are asked to begin boarding.”
“Well,” Helena announced standing up quickly, “that’s us.”
Chris nodded and picked up his bag; he followed after her.
On the plane, once they had reached a steady cruising altitude and the fasten seatbelt light had been turned off, he leaned his head against her shoulder.
“You should read me more,” he said, and then clarified with, “of Winnie-the-Pooh.” She laughed quietly, but with the woman next to them snoring loudly enough to drown out her voice to the other passenger’s, she fished the book out of her bag and obliged him.
(Deleting "him" would be better.)“It rained and it rained and it rained. Piglet told himself that he never in all his life and he was goodness knows how old- three, was it, or four?- never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days.” Chris closed his eyes and smiled.
Helena’s youngest sister, Samantha, picked them up from the airport. She was a cute teenager with reddish-blond
blond! hair, braces, and dressed in a giant winter jacket.
(A teenager that drives?)“Hellie!” she cried out throwing her arms out and catching her surprised sister in a hug. Chris stood a few feet back with their bags, watching with an amused little smile on his face.
“And this must be him,” Sammy continued. “Let me help you with the bags. Helena! You get to be my copilot, so take shotgun.”
Helena nodded and let herself in the car.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, you know.”
“No, I’m Chris. Vlad and Helena broke up last month, didn’t she tell you?”
“No, I know. I’m saying I’ve heard a lot about
you,” she popped the trunk open with her keys and grabbed on to Helena’s suitcase. She tossed it in.
“It’s always ‘Chris said this, Chris did that’ If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were her boyfriend.”
“Oh, no, no,” Chris replied quickly picking up his suitcase and sliding it in to the trunk, “we’re just friends,” he added.
“But is that all you want to be?” The sound of the trunk slamming closed echoed in the cold evening air.
(You wouldn't come out and just say that! Helena would hear with the trunk open too.)Chris didn’t say anything in response
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