ONE
SHANE
I stoodon the pier and gazed down the length of the beach. The great Lake Michigan extended into the horizon, borderless and unbound. Its blueish-gray surface faded into the washed-out sky with only the haziest line separating the two for those whose eyes were sharp and minds grounded. While my eyes weren’t the sharpest at great distances, my mind lacked almost any affinity for poetic imagination.
It wasn’t always so gray here.
Just a couple of months ago, the beach was not as empty and windswept. It was dotted with people enjoying the last chance for a swim for the summer. Not that it stopped at swimming. Lakeside activities were performed like the courting dances in all of the avian world. The way it went—and this interested me purely for analytical purposes, of course—was something like this.
A guy grows up with confidence. Sometime earlier, the star in which that particular guy’s atoms were forged was blessed with an incredible amount of confidence to bestow on the said guy. He moves to Chicago to study or work, gets a gym membership, acquires abs, and shows up on the beach.
The whole process gets hazier from that point on. He says he’s there to swim, to stay in shape, to be one with the water or some other nonsense, but he walked away from the beach with a girl or a guy under his arm.
Not me.
The lame star that had forged my atoms some eons ago had been rich in athletic affinity combined with spectacular clumsiness, social anxiety mixed with a desperate need for other people, and a body-fat index made for abs, yet such lankiness that they hardly improved a thing about me. On some days, I was more inclined to think they made me look weird, so I wore my hoodies extra large and my pants baggy to hide the length of my limbs. I looked down the beach where the birds bopped and spread their wings and walked off for nights of passionate sex, the thought itself making me flush, awkward jitters rising from the pit of my stomach and reaching right into my fingertips. Not to mention the giggles. I hated the goddamn giggles that took over me whenever a guy winked or asked to buy me a drink. Don’t get me wrong; it didn’t happen often.
I drew in a deep breath of air, cold and sobering, and left behind the memory of the beach when it had been cluttered with hormone-brimming bodies of people who had it so much easier than me. Instead of dwelling on another summer that had run me over, I had more immediate worries. It was not something I wanted to think about, either.
My hands closed into fists against the cold wind settling over the lake. Around the South Lagoon and through Lincoln Park, up Stockton Drive and Clark Street, I wandered through the city, waiting until the last moment to turn in the right direction. Westmont University, the campus where I lived, and the bars I went to, people I saw in passing who wouldn’t have noticed me if they tripped over me. Humming “Mister Cellophane” from the show set in this great, messy, wonderful city—albeit quietlyinside my head—I delayed myself until half past six, then rolled my eyes and headed to the meeting.
I generally enjoyed people. I liked meeting them, learning about them, hearing what they had to say, and seeing their brimming confidence and radiant imagination at play. Some people were easier than others. Some moved smoothly through life like it was a gift given to them by a higher power and only meant for enjoyment. Others were burdened by the simplest problems, usually of their own making. But none were alike.
My meeting today was with one I couldn’t decipher. Whenever I saw him around, he was at ease, laughing and joking with his buddies, flirting with girls so effortlessly that I wanted to bite my tongue, and genuinely enjoying himself. Yet, when I saw him playing, he was a torrent of destruction and vitriol.
I checked the time and picked up my pace. Lumière was a warm and welcoming bar imitating the interior design of the bohemian bars of Paris, Rome, and Madrid. It was awash with orange and yellow lamplight, large Edison bulbs screwed into antique lamps, and time-faded oil-on-canvas paintings in large, vintage frames filled up all the walls. Located in the heart of the Westmont campus, it was part of the student center, surrounded by bars, coworking spaces, fast-food joints, a library, and study areas.
If one were to look for me on most days, I would be across the pedestrian pathway and a lawn, inside the library. Alternatively, I spent plenty of free time blasting music straight into my brain while working out to very mediocre results.
The sky had already darkened by the time I stood before the wood and glass door of Lumière. My fingertips rubbed the outer seams of my baggy black denim pants. I stepped inside, triggering the brass bell above the door that made several pairs of eyeballs turn in my direction, putting me in an unwanted and unwelcome spotlight.Fucking great, I thought as I looked down.Some distant part of me leaped at the opportunity to be seen. That was how you met people. That part of me wanted to bask in the attention of the moment, but my shoulders fell, and my head tilted down as I walked over to the bar. I ordered a wildberry tea, aware of the harder drinks lined before people at the bar, and carried it to an empty table.
My fingers drummed the wooden table, its dark surface polished but chipped, and I stared at the door. Time passed, though I didn’t measure it, and I hoped that the entire thing might fall through if he didn’t show up.
I wanted to do the project. It was an exciting idea. But it wasn’t the ideas that I struggled with. The execution was. If he agreed—which wasn’t going to happen, and I could tell my professor we’d gotten excited too soon and just had to rework the thesis—I would have to be so far out of my comfort zone for so long that it would hardly be worth it in the end.
My notebook lay open on the table, and my tea was half-finished. I glanced at the door one more time, made up my mind, and shut the notebook to leave. As I did, the brass bell rang, and he swaggered in.
Tall, broad-shouldered, fit as hell in a tight T-shirt, Patrick Callahan was a sullen blond with icy blue eyes, a narrow face, black eyebrows, and the fullest lips you’ve ever dreamed of kissing. He scanned the bar, and I froze. We’d only ever spoken over student email. He didn’t know what I looked like. Perhaps he was going to see a friend, join their table, and forget all about me. It would be a lucky escape.
His cool gaze swept over the talking heads in the bar and landed right on me, recognition dawning on his face instantly. Of course. If someone was going to do a semester-long thesis, they were bound to be a lanky nerd with glasses and a hairdo made by their pillow.
He had no clue how annoying that was, but it rubbed me hard enough that I met him coldly when he stepped to my table. “You’re Shane,” he said, not asking.
“You’re late,” I said.
His gaze danced over my entire attire. “It’s fashionable.”
He knew all about fashion. Every piece he wore was branded and well-fitting. The shirt hugged his shoulder and chest, narrowing around his waist, and the pants emphasized his glutes and quads as he turned around, hooking his black jacket on a vintage coat hanger in the corner. “I’m afraid I don’t see so much value in fashion.”
Patrick glanced at me in mild bewilderment. “Really? A psychologist-in-the-making who can’t see the value in self-expression?”
My mouth snapped shut, heat creeping up my neck. “That’s not…”
Patrick dropped into the chair like a sack of potatoes. “I’m teasing. What’s that?”
“Tea,” I said. “Cold.”
“Researcher. Snappy,” Patrick said, getting up and walking over to the bar. He put the order in and returned to his chair.
