EIGHT
Anna
VIOLIN, PRACTICED （I PLAYED IN CIRCLES AGAIN）。 APARTMENT, cleaned （even my bathtub）。 Groceries, purchased. White wine, chilling in the freezer. Me, freshly showered and wearing a black wrap dress. Condoms, in my nightstand drawer.
Now I wait.
I’m too jittery to sit still, so I pace back and forth across my living room. Rock watches me quietly, and after several passes, I stop to pet him, hoping it’ll calm me down.
“We’re having a visitor tonight,” I tell him.
He looks surprised by the news.
“We really are,” I say. “Julian sent me a weird message today. What did it say?” I pull my phone out of my dress’s pocket and find his message, so I can read it out loud: “Can’t stop thinking about you. Last night was amazing. Same time, same place, next week?”
Rock’s eyes bulge, and his smiling mouth looks more like a horrified grimace.
“That was my reaction, too. I told him that he probably messaged the wrong person, and he apologized right away, saying that it’s not what it looks like—which I doubt. I’m not stupid. He said he misses me and asked if I want to meet up for lunch one of these days. I said I was busy and would catch up later. And then I called Quan and invited him over. It seemed like the perfect thing to do at the time, but now …” I sigh. “I’m so nervous.”
Rock’s smile turns apologetic, and I pat him on the head again before I hug my arms to my chest and get back to pacing. Fourteen strides there, fourteen strides back. Repeat.
When I notice I’m tapping my top teeth against my bottom teeth, I stretch out my jaw and then massage it. My dentist says if I don’t stop, I’m going to wear down all the bone in my jaw and lose my teeth. There’s a horrible irony there. During my childhood, I began tapping my teeth as an alternative to tapping my fingers, which is distracting and annoys people. Tapping my teeth, on the other hand, is silent and invisible. It can’t harm anyone. Except for me, apparently.
I’m mid-step, halfway across the room, when the intercom buzzes. My heart squeezes painfully as adrenaline shoots through my body, and I race to the front door and hit the talk button on the intercom.
“Hello?” I say, wincing at how trembly and embarrassingly pathetic my voice sounds.
There’s a short pause before he says, “Are you okay, Anna? We don’t have to do this. We can rain-check or just watch TV again.”
I worry my bottom lip as I internally debate this. I’m extremely tempted to take the out he’s offered. But I need to do this.
It’s time.
I hit the button that allows him to enter the building. “Come on up.”
In the seconds that follow, disjointed thoughts flit through my head. I need to flirt. I need to have fun. I need to show Julian. I need to not care what people think. I need to overcome my insecurities. I want to be empowered, just like Rose described.
A knock sounds on my door. I’m expecting it, but I still flinch. My heart ramps up to warp speed, and my skin goes numb. I look through the peephole. Yes, it’s him. One breath in. One breath out.
I open the door.
He’s not wearing his motorcycle jacket tonight, just a graphic T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and tattoos. They’re plain, unremarkable clothes, and I like that he didn’t dress up. I don’t want him trying to impress me. Even so, I can’t help noticing how good he looks. I appreciate the way the fabric stretches over his chest and the swells of his biceps, the way his pants hang on his hips and fit his strong legs. There’s a physicality to him that I’d find fascinating if I weren’t panicked out of my wits.
Holding out a white cardboard box toward me, he starts to smile, but it fades into a frown as he gets a good look at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re … greenish.”
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of me, and I cover my cheeks with my hands. “Sexy green, or scary green?”
He laughs, though his eyes are concerned. “Is ‘sexy green’ a thing?”
“I won’t judge you if you think it is,” I say, trying to laugh and failing. A wave of nausea has me breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Still, I put on a bright smile and step aside, opening the door invitingly. “Please, come in.”
Once he comes inside, I accept the white box from him and, after hesitating a second, set it on the end table by the couch and welcome him with a hug. That seems like the right thing to do, given what we’re planning to do later tonight. But then I’m in his arms, and it’s not the casual greeting I meant it to be. I haven’t been hugged, really hugged, in forever, and I can’t help the broken sound that escapes my throat when he holds me.