Page 63 of Rent: Paid in Full
“Well, when last did you buy your own groceries?” I shoot back, forgetting my role as a doe-eyed boyfriend for a moment but quickly rectifying it with what I hope is a saccharine smile.
“Oh my God.” He laughs, cradling my dumb gift in his hands like it’s frankincense or myrrh dipped in twenty-four-karat gold. “I can’t believe you got this for me.”
His eyes glisten, and I can’t be sure it’s just from the candlelight. He sets his glass and the seasoning down and wraps both arms around my neck, pulling me so close it reminds me of the other day when he had me in a chokehold. I brace myself to ensure I don’t have a similar reaction to the one I had then. He plants kisses all over the side of my face and neck. He doesn’t stop until I’m squirming so much I can’t tell if I’m trying to get away from him or if I’m trying to get closer.
“What are we drinking to?” I ask when I’ve managed to extricate myself from his grip and recenter myself.
“Same thing we always drink to.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”
“You,” he says as if it’s obvious. As if it’s something we’ve done many times before. He clinks our glasses together and fixes me with a gaze that starts out innocent and quickly turns blisteringly hot. His voice drops an octave. “And the fact you’re my guy.”
Not going to lie. The champagne goes straight to my head. One sip and my spatial awareness is fucked. I find myself curling around in my seat, nestling my body against the hardness of Miller’s, onlyjusthating the fact he’s choosing cheese he thinks I’ll like and painstakingly arranging it on a cracker for me.
He asks about the psychology final I took today and actively listens as I talk. It’s the last thing I need. This kind of attention has been known to go to my head faster than champagne.
“Did you get the question you were prepping for about ethics in experimental psychology?” he prompts when I get to the point where I think I’ve spoken as much about this particular subject as I possibly can. It sets me off again. Best I can tell, Miller’s hand on the back of my neck has opened a portal of sorts. A portal to all the crap I don’t usually tell people because of absolute certainty it will bore them to death.
Miller appears to be immune.
“So why psychology?” he asks as soon as I finish chewing the hazelnut praline truffle he fed me. That I ate. From his fingers. Voluntarily.
“It’s dumb,” I sigh, actively trying to wake up, to wrench myself out of the illusion Miller is in the process of waterboarding me with.
“Dumber than wanting to buy old houses and give them old-fashioned names like Sally and Beth while I break my back restoring them to their former glory?”
He’s never told me that before, and it’s like a fresh sheet of water forcing air from my lungs.
“I think so.” I’m distantly aware that I can’t tell if I’m playing a role anymore. The candescent lighting has slowed my brain rhythms. Rules and boundaries and pre-agreed limits feel woolly and far away. I can’t tell if this is The Boyfriend me or the real fucking me that’s crept out of the crevice I usually hide him in. I know I should be trembling under the weight of the stupidity I’m about to unleash on Miller, but I’m not. I’m worse. Way worse. Iwantto hear myself say it. Despite the bone-chilling stupidity of it, I want to hear myself say it.
“School counselor.” The first time I say it, it’s hardly two separate words. It’s a squished-together sound that’s so soft even I can’t make out the distinct letters that give it meaning. Miller’s hand travels up my neck and down again, drawing a circle around the knob of each vertebra. The portal widens. “School counselor,” I say again, releasing the words into the night, giving them flight. “I want to be a school counselor.”
Look, if you’re rolling around laughing, I don’t blame you. I don’t judge you. In fact, I’d probably judge you if you weren’t. I know I’m terrible at people, and I know I’m the last person on Earth who should be trying to help others. Given my recent behavior, it seems clear I’m the one who needs help—and a lot of it—before I can even think of helping others. I know it. I understand it. I wholeheartedly agree with the assessment.
“Why school counselor?” The jarring lack of judgment is a sharp probe to the precise part of my frontal lobe that controls speech. Broca’s area, if I’m not mistaken. It lights up.
“I want to help kids.”All right. Okay. That’s enough. Just leave it at that.“I want to give them a voice. I want to create a space they feel safe.”Right. You’ve said it. You can stop talking now. You can start stopping now.“I want them to know there’s a door that’s always open. At recess. At lunch. I want them toknow there’s a place, a seat that’s assigned to them. Where they belong. Where someone is happy to see them.”
Despite my strenuous objections, I keep talking. My voice drones on and on. I don’t stop until I’ve spewed everything out. Puked it all out in a massive word vomit that’s totally out of my power to control. Miller keeps the portal—which, as best I can tell, seems to be located somewhere between my C2 and C3 vertebra—open. He doesn’t let it close until my face falls into his neck and I gulp down hungry mouthfuls of him to center myself.
“I want a house called Annabel.” His voice is different. Dreamy. The smoothness is gone. Something almost scratchy has replaced it. I look into his eyes, and to my endless surprise, I see the same thing I feel mirrored back at me. Dark orbs in the night. Two windows. Nakedness to a soul level. “She's an old lady with white weatherboard with a wraparound porch.” I hear the smile before I see it. It’s unlike any other smiles I’ve seen or heard from him. It’s sheepish and hesitant, almost hopeful.
“A sprawling double story with an unnecessarily grand entrance. She’s one of those houses that used to be graceful, but now she’s a mule. And just as stubborn as one. She’s one of those houses where every time you touch one thing, another falls down. She’s surrounded by a big garden lost to the wild. It needs to be redone, but there are a few trees and rose bushes that are worth saving. A lemon tree, at least. Maybe a lime tree too.”
“Peach.”
“Huh?” He’s as surprised as I am at my unexpected contribution to the conversation.
“There’s a peach tree too. Worms eat the peaches before they get ripe, but that doesn’t matter because every year in spring, the tree blossoms.”
“Okay,” he says, dipping his tongue into my mouth, giving me a taste of lively acidity, green apples and lemons and, as insane as it sounds, peaches. “No peach tree, no deal.”
He kisses me until I’m so unsteady I veer to the left when he pulls me onto my feet.
“What do you say, baby.” He smiles. “Want to come back to my place?”
I smile back, aware I’m trapped in a crazy dream with Miller, but no longer sure if I can or want to wake up. “Hmm, I’m not sure. Will your roommate be there? I hear he’s kind of a dick.”