O(scar) C(onnor) D(avis)

O(scar) C(onnor) D(avis)

By Kayleigh Watts

Did you lock the door?

Your wan arm slingshots across the unmade bed and snatches the chiming phone off of the bedside table. It returns hastily to your location and, with a reddened hand uncharacteristically cracked for their age, brings it close to your dark brown, fatigued eyes.

Yeah, the fingers of your hands type back. Almost immediately following the whoosh of the text, the screen replies with:

Are you sure?

You sigh, put the phone down gently, and swing your legs out of the bed. You clench your hand so that your chewed nails dig into the skin of your palm. It’s a little relaxing, soothing even.

You haven't felt like that in a long time.

The Sherpa of the bedroom’s rug brushes against your sockless feet as you reach for the door handle, jiggle it, and find it locked.

Yeah, just checked, you reply.

You collapse back onto the mattress, but just before you can finally sacrifice the anxiety to the sweet release of slumber, the phone chimes again.

Did you check the sheets for bugs?

There aren’t any bugs.

Are you sure?

You groan, turn on your phone flashlight, throw back the covers, and check the sheets thoroughly, peeling back each folded section in the thought that some huge hideous spider is crouching there. But the bed is empty.

There isn’t anything, you text. You just want to retire for the night. You glance at the clock. 10:02.

But the phone fills with more messages.

What about the oven?

Lights in the hall?

You’re sure the door’s locked?

Do you think you said the wrong thing to your dad yesterday?

You haven’t talked to your sister in a while. You hate her, don’t you?

With every insistent chime, you answer begrudgingly:

It’s off.

It’s off.

It’s locked.

No.

I don’t hate her.

But the phone keeps chiming, and each time guilt twists a new knot in your gut and injects you with apprehension as the next line hits you over and over and over again.

Are you sure?

When the texts finally cease and you can peacefully lay your head on the pillow, it’s 10:46.

“Are you ok?”

Her velvety voice jolts you out of your trance of exhaustion. Your head jerks up as you lay your eyes on Valerie’s sparkling blonde hair. You would sell your soul to run your fingers through it.

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you stammer, gluing your eyes back to the soaked cement as the two of you start the trek across campus. The frigid air stings your nose, and you bury it into your lightweight hoodie, which might as well be as helpful as a sheet of paper when put up against the fifteen-degree windchill. “I just…didn’t get much sleep.”

“Where’s your coat, girl?” Valerie jokes, gesturing to the outfit definitely unsuited for the weather.

“It was dirty,” you murmur underneath the hoodie.

“Girl, wear it anyway!” Valerie says, her tone bright and playful, but with a subtle undertone of solemnity. “It’s too cold for that. What’s the worst germs can do to you?”

Your stomach knots tighter.

“Here, I’ll warm you up.”

The second she makes contact, warmth becomes the least of your problems. Your cheeks warm instantly, and you bury your face further into the hoodie to hide the crimson shade no doubt overtaking your usually pasty complexion. You can smell Valerie’s bodywash, a hauntingly beautiful scent of pumpkin pecan waffles, and immediately want to bathe in nothing else. Her arms wrap around your chest (as if it couldn’t feel any tighter in there), and the fleece of her hot pink jacket toasts your insides immediately. You both stand in the middle of the sidewalk in that tight embrace, and you never want it to end. You want to grab Valerie’s gloved hands and never let go, bringing them up to her face and kissing every individual finger and pressing her lotioned palms against your face and just standing there for all eternity. You want to–

“Am I interrupting something?”

Recognizing the voice, you tear away from the embrace, whip around, and shake your head immediately. All the warmth seems to immediately rush out of your body as you step closer to him.

“N-Nope. Um…hi…Oscar.”

The man standing in front of you brushes his thick brown hair out of his eyes and takes his phone out of the pocket of his thick winter coat with the other.

“Robin, you got my texts, right?”

You nod solemnly and the three of you start walking again.

“Who’s this, Robin?” Valerie asked.

“Oscar,” you murmur in reply, burying your face back into your hoodie and staring once again at the ground.

“Oh,” Valerie asked, though sounding unsure of how to respond. “Um…how do you two know each other? Are you guys…dating?”

“No!” Overcome by alarm, you rip your head out of your hoodie as humiliation of a scarlet shade extends all over your face. “We’re not dating, we’re just–”

“Friends,” Oscar interrupts. “I watch out for her.”

“Oh, ok.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think Valerie sounds…relieved.

God, having a crush sure makes breathing hard.

You stop in front of an ancient brick building, no doubt lingering with the smell of stale formaldehyde and whatever else biology majors play with in their labs.

“Well, this is my class,” Valerie announces. “I’ll see you later, Robin. Want to get lunch or–”

“Wait.”

As the word spills out, you desperately wish it were a knife you could bury deep into your throat to prevent yourself from saying the stupid thing that is about to be thrust into existence.

Valerie spins back around. “What’s up?”

“Val, will you…” An invisible rope tightens around your throat, and you almost hope that a trapdoor opens up underneath you so that your neck snaps two feet off the ground. But you somehow manage to choke out the words. “...go on a…date…with me?”

The breath hitches in your chest as the final word tears itself out of your larynx. What are you thinking? You’ve only known each other for a month. You’re stupid to think Valerie sees you as anything more than a friend. She’ll reject you, she’ll stomp on your heart, she’s going to say–

“Yes.”

Your thoughts come to a screeching halt as you look into Valerie’s eyes. Those gorgeous, emerald eyes.

“W-What?” You must have heard her wrong.

“Yes,” Valerie repeats, and you can see that she’s blushing too.

“R-Really?” You feel like smacking yourself, and instead say, “g-great.”

“See you soon,” and Valerie disappears into the building.

“Oh, my God,” you whisper, still trying to wrap your head around this reality that four seconds ago had not existed.

“Do you think she’s just pitying you?”

For just one second, you had forgotten Oscar had been there.

And you bury your face back into your hoodie.

You’re in your algebra class, but all you can think about is Valerie. You’ve made plans to go out to dinner tomorrow night, and you’re afraid that by the time she knocks on the door to your dorm, you’ll be dead: keeled over from the shock of her not saying no.

“You should just tell her you’ve changed your mind,” Oscar whispers in your ear. He’s sitting right next to you and yet, you wish he was a million miles away. “Before she dumps you.”

“She’s not going to dump me,” you whisper back, coiling one of your thick red curls around your finger and laying your head on your desk. “She’s not going to dump me,” you mutter again.

“Are you sure?”

The next night, you tear through your closet, looking for an outfit that looks somehow presentable.

“That’s dirty,” Oscar says from behind you when you select a black-and-white striped sweater. He’s leaning against the wall, gaze fixed on your actions.

“No, it’s not,” you say defensively. “It’s hung up. It’s–”

“You washed it at your parent’s house, right? Bugs get in there all the time. One of them might have crawled into the washing machine. I bet it’s covered in germs.”

You sigh and toss it into the laundry basket. You know he’s wrong–well, you think he’s wrong. But you shouldn’t risk it.

You select a gray cardigan and a plain white top and, ducking into the closet where Oscar can’t see, put them on. You step out to examine yourself in the mirror. You hate the outfit, but everything else is dirty. You can’t risk it.

“I’ll need my coat. It’s really cold,” you say, crossing to the laundry basket and digging through it until you pick out a thick purple coat.

“It fell on the bathroom floor, remember? It’s too dirty. If you hug Valerie, you’ll spread the germs to her.”

You sigh again and drop it back into the laundry basket. It’s not that cold, you suppose. Your cardigan should be enough.

Then you step outside and feel like a lizard in the Ice Age.

You take her to your favorite restaurant: a spaghetti place only a seven minute drive off campus and, against all odds, it goes…well? You talk about work and that one stupid guy in your English class who keeps thinking Frankenstein was written by William Shakespeare, and she talks about an eighteen-year old band kid dating a twenty-five year old theater kid and how glad she is to be eating something other than dining hall food. And then you force another difficult question out of your mouth and give her a bewildered, wide-eyed stare once you ask it, like you’re the deer and she’s the headlights.

And to your disbelief, she says yes.

And now you have a girlfriend.

“Can you believe we’ve been dating for a week already?” She asks later, smoothing back a strand of your hair and planting a warm kiss on your forehead. You wrap your arms around her and, just like that day on the sidewalk, never want to let go. You both stand in the middle of her dorm like two penguins absorbed in a huddle. Then the alarm on her phone rings and she says that the two of you should probably get to work.

“We have to pick up Oscar,” you say, a little regret in your tone.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him,” she says. “He seems like he…stresses you out.”

You scoff and dismiss it with a wave of your hand. “Oh, Oscar doesn’t stress me out. He just watches out for me.”

“But you can make decisions for yourself, and it seems like he’s looking over your shoulder every second. I’ve seen some of his texts. Maybe you should–”

“Trust me, babe. It’s ok. I promise.”

But what good is your promise?

Valerie drives, you sit in the passenger seat, and Oscar sits in the back.

Your phone chimes and you answer it.

Robin, didn’t your jacket sleeve accidentally touch the toilet seat?

No, you reply. But you’re unsure.

I think it did. Also, I think you need to break up with Valerie.

A surge of panic overtakes your veins. What? Why?

Because you’ve been accidentally looking at Marissa’s chest during your shift. You’re cheating on Valerie.

You couldn’t believe what you were reading. We work together. I have to look at Marissa when she hands me the dishes.

Well, you’re cheating on Valerie if you look at a woman that isn’t her, so you’re taking advantage of her if you don’t break up.

Your breath hitches again, and for the life of you, you can’t get it to resume normally. You aren’t cheating, right? You would never do that to Valerie. Right? You know it’s ridiculous: accidentally looking at someone doesn’t mean you’re cheating.

Right?

But Oscar’s words worm themselves into your skin and you can’t quite shake them away. So, during your, Oscar’s, and Valerie’s shift, you keep your head glued to the ground while you wash dishes in the back. When Marissa hands you the dish, you grope for it blindly, not even glancing in her direction. This mode of action seems to go off without a hitch.

Until you don’t quite grab the plate and it crashes to the ground.

Utterly humiliated, you wheel around immediately and accidentally catch sight of Marissa. She’s wearing a lowcut V-neck crop top and short athletic shorts. You lean down and pick up the plate, trying to avoid looking at her any further. But then she crouches down to help you and you catch a glimpse underneath her shirt.

“I got it, thanks,” you murmur frantically. You scoop up the pieces of the plate with your bare hands (ignoring the cuts that start to crop up over your palms and squeeze warm blood out of your veins), throw them in the trash, and sprint out of the kitchen.

You find the bathroom and rush towards it. You pass Valerie who, seeing that you look like you’re about to pass out, grabs your arm gently, stopping you.

“Hey, are you ok, babe?”

“Uh-huh,” you insist, but you don’t believe it, and neither does she. Your head is swimming, stomach constricting, skin sweating, and if you don’t splash water into your face and convince yourself that you’re not a cheater, you don’t think you’re going to make it. You didn’t cheat, right?

“Babe, sit down. You’re not acting ok, and you’re bleeding.”

“I…just need to go to the bathroom.”

You tear out of her grip and rush towards the bathroom, pushing the swinging door open and leaving her and Marissa and Oscar and the prospect of cheating in the restaurant.

You stare at your reflection: a scared woman with a pasty white face, chapped lips, cracked hands, and frizzy hair because Oscar convinced you this morning that your hairbrush had lice. You turn on the faucet, cup some cold water in your hands, and splash it on your face. It helps a little, but you still feel like a cheater. Like you don’t deserve–

Valerie walks through the door, gorgeous as always, and wraps her arms around your waist.

“Sweetie, what’s this about?”

“It’s nothing,” you reply immediately. But it’s not nothing. It’s something, and maybe she needs to know about it.

And in that moment, you spill it. Everything: how Oscar tells you that your clothes are dirty when you know they aren’t, how you’ve been getting terrible sleep because you stay up late thinking there’s bugs in your bed, and how when you look at a woman, you think you’re cheating on her.

Valerie stands there, listening to every word with sincerity: nodding in the right places, tightening her grip in others. When you’re finally done, she utters one simple sentence.

“I think you need to stop being friends with Oscar.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it, but this time, it makes sense. And you nod.

So you do.

“What do you mean you don’t want to talk to me anymore?” He demands the next day in front of your dorm building. “You need me.”

“No, I don’t,” you say, trying not to let his words get under your skin like they have so many times before. “I can watch out for myself.”

And then he smiles and says the sentence that has so constantly made you question everything, and for a second, you think you’re going to succumb. Say you’re sorry and that you can be friends forever, and that he can keep sending you texts that stress you out.

“Are you sure?”

But for the first time in your life, you confidently reply,

“Yes.”