Sarah Dessen - This Lullaby

Dexter reached over the kitchen counter and found another candle, then lit it and put it on the table as I slid into the chair opposite him. “Romantic,” I told him.

“Of course,” he said. “I planned all of this, just to get you alone in a dark house in the candlelight.”

“Chee-sy,” I said.

He smiled. “I try.”

We sat there for a second, in the quiet. I could see him watching me, and after a second I pushed out my chair and walked around the table to him, sliding into his lap. “If you were my roommate and pulled this kind of crap,” I said as he brushed my hair off my shoulder, “I’d kill you.”

“You’d learn to love it.”

“I doubt that.”

“I think,” he said, “that you are actually, secretly attracted to all the parts of my personality that you claim to abhor.”

I looked at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what is it?”

“What is what?”

“What is it,” he said, “that makes you like me?”

“Dexter.”

“No, really.” He pulled me back against him, so my head was next to his, his hands locked around my waist. In front of us the candle was flickering, sending uneven shadows across the far wall. “Tell me.”

“No,” I said, adding, “it’s too weird.”

“It is not. Look. I’ll tell you what I like about you.”

I groaned.

“Well, obviously, you’re beautiful,” he said, ignoring this. “And that, I have to admit, was what first got my attention at the dealership that day. But then, I must say, it’s your confidence that really did me in. You know, so many girls are always insecure, wondering if they’re fat, or if you really like them, but not you. Man. You acted like you couldn’t have given less of a shit whether I talked to you or not.”

“Acted?” I said.

“See?” I could feel him grinning. “That’s what I mean.”

“So you’re attracted to the fact that I’m a bitch?”

“No, no. That’s not it.” He shifted his weight. “What I liked was that it was a challenge. To get past that, to wriggle through. Most people are easy to figure out. But a girl like you, Remy, has layers. What you see is so far from what you get. You may come across hard, but down deep, you’re a big softie.”

“What?” I said. Honestly, I was offended. “I am not soft.”

“You bought me plastic ware.”

“It was on sale!” I yelled. “God!”

“You’re really nice to my dog.”

I sighed.

“And,” he continued, “not only did you volunteer to come over here and teach me how to properly separate my colors from brights-”

“Colors from whites. ”

“-but you also stepped up to help solve our power bill problem and smooth over the differences with the guys. Face it, Remy. You’re sweet.”

“Shut up,” I grumbled.

“Why is that a bad thing?” he asked.

“It’s not,” I said. “It’s just not true.” And it wasn’t. I’d been called a lot of things in my life, but sweet had never been one of them. It made me feel strangely unnerved, as if he’d discovered a deep secret I hadn’t even known I was keeping.

“Okay,” he said. “Now you.”

“Now me what?”

“Now, you tell me why you like me.”

“Who says I do?”

“Remy,” he said sternly. “Don’t make me call you sweet again.”

“Fine, fine.” I sat up and leaned forward, stalling by pulling the candle over to the edge of the table. Talk about losing my edge: this was what I’d become. True confessions by candlelight. “Well,” I said finally, knowing he was waiting, “you make me laugh.”

He nodded. “And?”

“You’re pretty good-looking.”

“ Pretty good-looking? I called you beautiful.”

“You want to be beautiful?” I asked him.

“Are you saying I’m not?”

I looked at the ceiling, shaking my head.

“I’m kidding, I’ll stop. God, relax, would you? I’m not asking you to recite the Declaration of Independence at gunpoint.”

“I wish,” I said, and he laughed, loud enough to blow out the candle on the table, leaving us again in total darkness.

“Okay,” he said as I turned back to face him, sliding my arms around his neck. “You don’t have to say it out loud. I already know why you like me.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yep.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “So,” I said. “Tell me.”

“It’s an animal attraction,” he said simply. “Totally chemical.”

“Hmm,” I said. “You could be right.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway, why you like me.”

“No?”

“Nope.” His hands were in my hair now, and I was leaning in, not able to totally make out his face, but his voice was clear, close to my ear. “Just that you do.”

“This,” Chloe said as another bubble rose up and popped in her face, “is disgusting.”

“Stop,” I told her. “He can hear you, you know.”

She sighed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. It was hot, and the black asphalt of the driveway made things seem positively steamy. Monkey, however, sitting between us in a plastic baby pool up to his haunches in cold water, was totally content.

“Get his front feet,” I said to Chloe, squeezing more shampoo into my hand and lathering it up. “They’re really dirty.”

“All of him is dirty,” she grumbled as Monkey stood up and shook again, sending soap suds and dirty water over both of us in a wave. “And have you looked at these nails? They’re longer than Talinga’s, for God’s sake.”

Monkey stood up suddenly, barking, having spied a cat working its way through a row of hedges on the edge of Chloe’s yard. “Down boy,” Chloe said. “Hello? Sit, Monkey. Sit. ”

Monkey shook again, dousing us both, and I pushed down on his butt. He sat with a splash, his tail flopping over the side. “Good boy,” I said, even though he was already trying to stand up again.

“You know, if my mother were to show up now I’d be homeless,” Chloe said, spraying Monkey’s chest with the hose. “Just the sight of this mangy beast within spitting distance of her prized Blue Category Chem Special would give her an aneurysm.”

“Blue Category What?”

“It’s a kind of grass,” she explained.

“Oh.”

Chloe had first given me a flat-out no when she opened the door to see me on her front porch, shampoo and dog in hand, before I’d even begun my hard sell. But after a few minutes of wheedling, plus a promise to buy her dinner and whatever else she wanted to do that night, she’d relented, and even seemed to warm to Monkey a bit, petting him cautiously as I got the baby pool-a Wal-Mart bargain at a mere nine bucks-out of my car. I’d planned to wash the dog at my house, but Chris had co-opted our hose to rig up an elaborate watering system for the lizards, which left me with few options.

“I still can’t believe how low you’ve stooped,” she said now as I finished the final rinse, then let Monkey leap from the pool and do a series of full-body shakes up and down the driveway. “This is total girlfriend behavior.”

“No,” I said, steering Monkey away from the grass before Chloe had a chance to freak out. “This is a humanitarian act. He was miserable.”

Which was true. Plus, I’d been spending a fair amount of time with Monkey lately, and okay, there was a certain odor to him. And if all it took to fix things was a five-dollar bottle of dog shampoo, some nail clippers, and a quick trim, what was the harm in taking action? It wasn’t for me, anyway. It was for Monkey.

“I thought you weren’t getting attached,” she said as I pulled the clippers out of my pocket and sat the dog down again.