Erin McCarthy - Believe

Was there pity on my face? I guess there was, because I did feel a profound sympathy for his childhood. It wasn’t fair that some kids got awesome parents and some got shitty ones. But that wasn’t really the same thing as pity. “Injustice makes me feel sad. It’s not personal.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “Cool. This your place? You got any milk? That would be my drink of choice for the night.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, again not really sure. I turned off the car and palmed the keys nervously.

“Well, I’m pretty confident you’re a milk drinker. So am I.”

“Why, because of the kitten? That wasn’t a subliminal message.” Though he was right. I did drink milk. Behind coffee, it was my favorite drink. I wasn’t big on soft drinks. They left me hungry with an aftertaste in my mouth.

He just shrugged. “Because I can sense it. You have chocolate syrup, too, don’t you?”

“Of course. I have strawberry, too. Even milk needs a little variety now and then.” And were we really talking about milk? It seemed so random and innocent.

As we climbed the front porch, I hesitated at the front door. I realized I still didn’t know why Phoenix had been jail and my assumption that it was drug– or alcohol-related was clearly wrong. But if he were a serial rapist or a girlfriend beater, Tyler would have said that. Neither would Riley let him stay in the house with Jessica living there. Pushing my key into the lock, I studied him like his cheekbones, his eyelashes, could reveal the truth about him.

But only his lips could do that, and he wasn’t volunteering, and I couldn’t ask. It seemed too personal.

He flipped his hair out of his eye. “What? Having second thoughts about hanging out with me?”

I shook my head slowly, because I really wasn’t. I was just curious. “Just thinking that life is weird.” Every decision, every choice, altered the course of our lives, and it was sort of mind-blowing if you stopped and really thought about it.

“Life is like waiting in line at the grocery store. You wait, you slowly move forward, you pay the price, then you exit unsatisfied and broke.”

Shoving the door open I frowned, disturbed by his description. “That’s cynical.”

“I’m not cynical. I’m realistic. And hey, if you choose to be patient, content, then it’s all good. You don’t mind the line.”

“I’m not exactly sure what I am, but I don’t think I’m cynical,” I told him as we started up the stairs to the second floor and my apartment.

“Optimism is a luxury not afforded to the poor.”

I so did not agree with that. “That’s not true. Without optimism no one would ever achieve upward mobility. Without the belief that you can have more, you don’t reach for it.”

The corner of his mouth turned up.

“What?” I asked now. I opened the door to the apartment.

Phoenix carelessly shrugged his shoulder. “Nothing other than I appreciate that you have an opinion. Nice place.” He moved into the apartment, hands in his pockets. “So who lives here?”

“Rory, Tyler’s girlfriend, and our friend Kylie.” I tossed my keys on the kitchen table. “Jessica was supposed to, but then her parents cut her off and she decided to live with Riley.”

“So why does she get to be on your ass about wanting to move out when she was the first one to ditch?”

Good question. “I guess she feels like she had a good reason. Her parents wanted her to major in religion and marry a guy from their church and when she said she wasn’t interested and that she was with Riley, they cut off her money. So she’s too broke to stay here. I don’t have any excuse.”

Yanking the fridge handle, I winced at the hypocrisy of that. I did have a good reason, just not one I could share with anyone.

Fortunately, he didn’t call me out on it. “What’s Rory like? I can’t see Tyler digging the same kind of girl as Riley.”

Pulling the milk out, I set it on the counter. “She’s totally different even though she and Jessica are tight. Rory is sweet and very logical. She doesn’t play games and she really loves Tyler. She thinks he’s the bomb-dot-com.”

“Must be nice.”

“Yeah. It must.” I set two plastic tumblers down and said, “You pour. I’ll get the chocolate syrup.”

He tossed the tumblers in the air in an attempt at juggling or fancy bartending. He was actually pretty good at it, managing to have them spinning while he switched them to hand to hand.

“Wow. Impressive.”

“I’m good with my hands.”

If another guy had said that, I would have either rolled my eyes or giggled, depending on my level of interest, assuming he was flirting. But Phoenix didn’t seem to be flirting in any way. He just seemed like he had needed to get out of the house and I was a convenient way to do that. Like he was mildly curious about me, but not much more than that.

He used the chocolate syrup sparingly, tinting the white milk a soft caramel color. “What’s the point in using any at all?” I asked, squeezing hard to create an inch of chocolate sludge at the bottom of my glass.

“Subtle flavor, that’s all. Just taking the milk up a notch, not drowning it out.” Then he raised his glass in the air and waited for me to do the same. “To the Clean Club.”

“Cheers.” We tapped glasses, and I thought that I should feel uncomfortable around him, considering how little I knew him and how different he was from other guys I’d known, but I didn’t.

We sat on the couch, and the space between us felt natural, a foot or two so we weren’t touching, but not an awkward gap of huge proportions where we both hugged the arms. Scrolling through our movie options, we settled on an action movie and we watched, silent, drinking our milk. I drew my feet up under my legs, and he propped one foot on the coffee table and slumped down in the couch.

It was entertaining enough to hold my interest, and when it was over Phoenix said, “That didn’t suck.”

“So generous in your praise.”

“Cynic. Told you.”

I smiled. “That means its time for a romantic comedy.”

“Really? Do I have to?” He gave me a pained look, but I wasn’t buying it. I had seen how long he had lingered on a Julia Roberts movie in the queue when I had let him have the remote to scroll.

“Yes. It’s mandatory. Like taxes and Taco Tuesdays.”

He gave a laugh. “What? How the hell are tacos mandatory?”

“Because my grandmother says so, that’s how, even though they aren’t Puerto Rican.” I smiled back, pleased that I had amused him, and happy that I actually had wanted to crack a joke. I felt almost . . . normal.

“She the boss in your family?”

“Oh yeah. She has always lived with us and she is totally in charge. She’s my dad’s mother, and she was born in Puerto Rico, though she came here when she was four.”

“So you’re half Puerto Rican? What’s your last name?”

“Yes, though it drives my grandmother crazy how totally American my dad is. Basically the only Latino thing about him is his religion and our last name—DeLorenzo. My mom’s family is a mix of European.”

“That’s a cool name. And now I see where you got your dark hair.” He pointed to my head.

“Where did you get your dark hair?” It was as dark as mine.

“My mom and my aunt Dawn both have—well, Dawn had —light brown hair, but my grandmother’s hair was black, so probably from her. I couldn’t tell you about my father since I’ve never met him and I’ve never seen a picture of him. My mom didn’t even give me his last name, nor did she ever tell me what it was. I’m a Sullivan.”

“How did you get the name Phoenix? We’re both named after birds. How random is that?” Reaching forward, I drained the last of my milk, which was warm, and licked some chocolate off the rim.