Page 54 of Yes No Maybe

Keepingmydistanceisn’tworking. Keepingherat a distance isn’t either.

Reading her neurotically detailed annotations felt strangely like being with her, letting her wriggle into my brain and root around… in a good way, like an earthworm in the dirt letting in air. Her comments got my creative neurons firing. She enlightened me, as she does every time we’re together.

I’d be an idiot to give that up over fears of us getting too close.

We’re already too close.

Touching her the other day made me feel like her hero, the Superman to her Lois Lane (even though she hates that kind of thing). Touching her scars isn’t off-putting, either. The opposite, really. Beautiful in a strange way. It’s like running fingers over a canvas with thick swirls of expressive paint.

And worth the risk for the two truths it revealed—that she’s rarely if ever, touched there, and I like showing her that not every guy is a heartless prick.

This isn’t too bad either—sitting around the kitchen banquette with her and Sara, feasting on Thai food. Sara is talkative with a dry sense of humor, and it’s a relief that she’s pulled the stick from her ass. Whatever Rowan said to her when she returned inside must have been spot-on, the exact thing she needed to hear.

Mid-dinner, the doorbell rings. Fear spikes that it could be Dean showing up to ruin whatever this is.What is this?

But it’s the neighbors. They shuffle into the little house armed with wine, desserts, and their usual neighborly persistence.

“We can’t stand it any longer,” Rose announces as they stream into the living room. “We must meet Sara.”

“Seconded,” Vernon says. “I need to tell her the air pressure in her back bike tire is low.”

“I need to tell her how much I love her purple hair.” Marcy’s face scrunches in delight. “It’s my favorite color.”

“Purple Haze,” Tom mentions calmly. “Jimi Hendrix.”

“Come in,” Rowan says, though they’ve already invaded. Her hand goes to her hair tie, releasing her messy bun to let her hair hide her scars, and I wonder if it’s subconscious, automatically covering up.

Introductions circle, and Sara takes it in politely, even the interrogation portion. Rowan tenses beside me like she doesn’t know whether to intervene or let Sara handle herself.

“Don’t look so worried,” I whisper. “They’ll figure each other out.”

Her shoulders relax. “You’re right. I’ll sort some wine glasses and start pouring.”

She disappears as Vernon asks, “Did you know Rowan before you moved in?”

Helping Rowan in the kitchen seems the more interesting of my two options until Sara’s answer stops me.

“I haven’t had her as a teacher yet, but everyone knows Miss ‘Mac-n-cheese’ Mackey.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that I imagine it’s attached to a funny story involving a trip-and-fall in the cafeteria and Rowan being stuck in a cheesy blouse all day.

“Mac-n-cheese Mackey? That has a funny ring to it,” Marcy says.

Vernon folds his arms. “I hope it’s not a derogatory nickname, young lady.”

“How exactly would it be derogatory, Vern?” Tom asks.

“Well, I don’t know, but surely calling your teacher cheesy—”

“Sara, tell us. Why on earth would you call her that, love?”

“You don’t know her mac-n-cheese story? It’s why she’s covered in scald marks,” Sara says with aduhtone.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that,” I say.

“It’s no secret,” Sara says. “Everyone at school knows. She talks about it—no big deal. A dumb accident while making mac-n-cheese. She splashed herself with boiling water—”

“That’s right.” Glasses clink together on Rowan’s tray as she stops abruptly beside me. “Not my best move.” A weak laugh accompanies her deer-in-the-headlights expression, and I know right away—that story is bullshit.

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