20⎜The Hug

Doors were pretty interesting things. Some possessed the ideology that doors were just planks of wood, metal, plastic, or any other material that had hinges on them and provided entrance and exits to places—that was it. Unlike those particular people, I seemed to have acquired a much more complex association with doors. Doors were the entities that determined so many various incidents in life. Going in one could lead to an entirely new experience, or be the paradigm of routine and order. Doors could also be scary, for the aspect of uncertainly that veiled over them. What if the door opened wasn’t the right one? What if one accidentally knocked on the door that lead to an international drug smuggling ring? What if the door belonged to an axe murderer?

           As I stood before a specific door in a college dorm on the Stanford campus, I was wondering all these random thoughts and worries about what lay on the other side. What if I had the wrong door? I couldn’t hear anything coming from the other side, so was afraid that maybe it was empty. Maybe there was nobody inside. Then again, I hadn’t exactly let my presence be known, so what was I even thinking?

           Cautiously, I positioned my knuckles on the door, and then patted lightly, only to receive silence. I knocked again, but this time louder, and I actually got a reply. It wasn’t the response I had been expecting, but it was still a response, nonetheless.

           Standing before me was a beautiful girl. She was barefoot and had baggy sweats on her long legs. A large black T-shirt was on her small frame, completely swallowing her up. Her hair was set in a loose ponytail, the curls erupting from a central point in the back of her head. And then there was her face. She was such a gorgeous girl, yet all I seemed to notice about her face were the tears that were running down it. Water was spewing from her eyes and gushing down her cheeks, and she was mutely crying. Unlike most people when they cried, this girl wasn’t making any noise. She was just allowing the tears to cover her striking face.

           I didn’t ask if she was okay, mainly because I had always hated it when others asked me that question. Like, if I was crying (which rarely ever happened), did I look like I was okay? No. So then why bother even wasting breath on the rhetorical question? It had never made sense to me. It was clear as the translucent drops of liquid on her face that she wasn’t okay, so asking if she was had easily been ruled out as a plausible conversation-starter.

           Since words were never really my forte—verbalizing them, at least—I acted on instinct. They always said that actions tended to speak louder than words, so right now I tried to prove them right. Not even thinking about what I was doing, I allowed my arms to come around her, and she wrapped her own thin ligaments around me, too. Her head rested on my chest, tucked underneath my chin. I rubbed small circles on her back, hoping that they would help, and we just stood there—in the hallway of her dorm, as she cried, and I attempted to console her.

           I could feel her jagged breath as she continued to cry, just hugging me, as I hugged her. And hugged her. And hugged her. I felt like I was holding such a fragile thing in my arms that should’ve been labeled, “CAUTION: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE,” and was unaware if I was handling it—well, her with as much care as was meant. As the seconds passed by, her grip around me only grew tighter, and I found myself returning the tautness, hoping that I wasn’t squishing her. Closing my eyes, I internally began to ache over the fact that she was hurting. It shouldn’t have affected me in the slightest, but it did. I didn’t like seeing her like this.

           What felt like hours passed by, though were really probably only minutes, and only then did her hold around me loosen the slightest bit. I took it as a sign that she was beginning to come out of this dark place filled with all the evil and demons she was suppressing, so allowed my eyes to wander from the tip of her head to beyond. More specifically: to her dorm room that lay in front of me.

           It was a normal room, just like the one inhabited by Seth and me, and Noa and Kay. There was, however, one major difference that I noticed. The physical space itself was noticeably smaller than mine, though not by much. Also, instead of having furniture in duplicates so that it was set up for two people, I only saw ones: one bed, one dresser, one desk, one chair.

           “Hey, Ari,” I began, unsure if what I was about to ask was the most appropriate inquiry at the moment, “do you have a single?”

           “Considering that there’s only one bed in my room, then yes, I do,” she mumbled into my chest, our bodies still embracing.

           “How’d you manage that?”

           “If you get your psychologist to write a letter to whoever is in charge of rooming, saying that you suffer severe anxiety at times and have trouble sleeping due to memories and nightmares, they tend to give you a single.” Her voice was serious—dull, though with a slight edge of muted sarcasm in it. “It’s like magic or something!”

           “Huh,” I mumbled. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind for next year.”

           “Eric,” she began, her voice marginally muffled.

           “Hmmm?”

           “I don’t think you should join the frat,” she said simply in the straightforward manner that she always retained.

           “Neither do I,” I uttered. At that, she finally broke away from the hug, taking a small step back so that we weren’t colliding into each other. Her teary eyes asked, “What? Why not?” but she didn’t dare articulate what she was thinking. I didn’t owe her an explanation—hell, I didn’t owe her anything, but something about her just made me want to tell her. Not everything, just something. “Grant was asking me all the questions that I expected him to ask, but when I asked him one, he didn’t give me the answer I wanted.”

           “Grant,” she murmured.

           “I asked if drugs were allowed, he claimed they weren’t, and then offered me, uh, some pot,” I gulped, genuinely having no clue as to why I was telling her this. “I don’t do that stuff,” I paused, searching her eyes for any sign of judgment, and then forced myself to finish, “anymore.” My eyes connected with hers, and I was wondering how she would take my confessing to having some relationship with drugs. I hadn’t told anyone at Stanford about that stuff other than that Cynthia lady from the clinic, and I hadn’t really intended to, up until now.

           “Grant,” she sighed, shaking her head. “So, you’re not joining?”

           “No,” I said slowly, surprised by how quickly she had processed and moved on from what I had told her. There was no interrogation. No look of disgust. No pity. Not even a morsel of intrigue. She was just blank, moving on as if I had said nothing. “But I don’t really know how to break it to Houston and Scott.”

           “Believe me,” she laughed a bit through the tears, “they’ll get over it.”

           “Ira?” someone suddenly shouted, concern heavily echoing in their voice. Ari and I both glanced in the direction of the speaker, only to see Scott barreling towards us at full speed. He rushed right over to us, and then attacked Ari in a quick hug, pulling away only so that he could inspect her. “Shit. Ira, don’t cry. Please, baby girl?”

           “Scott, shut up,” Ari smiled, though it wasn’t real. Her smile was stiff and strained, unlike smiles should have been.

           “I love you, you know that, right, Ira?” Scott said, kissing her forehead as I looked away, not wanting to ruin the moment. Here was Scott—the sophomore who had his life together and was more carefree than anyone I had ever encountered. He was in a frat and everyone liked him. Jokes were his things, and he played lacrosse. He also had a history with Ari Remon, in addition to the inexplicable ability to make her happy—something that not many could put on their résumés. Scott was practically Ari’s Prince Charming, and I didn’t need to get in the way of that.

           Who was I, anyways? I had quit football. I was an ex-addict. Sure, I had a nice face and body, but what did that really count for in life? I was nothing special. In fact, I was pretty boring. There was nothing remarkable about me, and Ari definitely deserved someone as solid as Scott. After all, at the end of the day, I was nobody.

           “Scott, can you please stop, you’re being too mushy right now,” Ari muttered with a sigh, pulling away from the sophomore in college.

           “But Ira!” he whined, pouting a bit.

           “So, uh, weren’t the three of us supposed to chill—wasn’t that the point of this visit?” Ari said, switching topics with such an ease and expertise I began to wonder how long it had taken her to master the skill.

           “Yeah,” I said slowly, thinking back to the text messages that had passed between us. Basically, Ari had texted me this morning (it was a few days after the interaction at the clinic, and we hadn’t communicated since then), asking if I wanted to hang with her later in the day. I accepted (as always), and expected that it would just be the two of us doing whatever. Scott wasn’t really a variable in my mind, though it was clear that he was one in Ari’s.

           Ari didn’t say anything more, and just pivoted on the ball of her foot, turning back into her dorm room with the two of us following. As I entered her dorm, having already known that it was a single, I was initially surprised by the sparseness of it all, but then I remembered to whom the room belonged: Ari Remon. Light gray sheets covered the bed, and it was pretty much stripped down to the bare essentials. There was a white area rug by her bed, and clothes were neatly scattered throughout the room. Nothing distinct except maybe a band poster or two was put on the walls, and it was all very drab—it had more personality than my room in rehab, but not by much.

           Scott went over to the unmade bed, and then flopped down, kicking his flip-flops off in the process. He put his hands behind his head on the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. Ari slinked over to a freezer or mini fridge, rummaging through the contents, and I just stood towards the entrance, taking it all in. Eventually, I made my way over to her desk chair, and then tentatively sat down, this unknown aura of awkwardness protruding itself in the air.

           “Do you eat ice cream, Wilson?” Scott suddenly asked.

           “Scott, what type of a question is that?” Ari demanded with a laugh. I wasn’t sure if she was still crying, but her demeanor had definitely changed considerably.

           “Uh, an American one?” Scott fired back with a dull tone.

           “Eric, do you like ice cream?” Ari inquired.

           “Yeah,” I said slowly, answering to precisely what she had asked.

           “Now, the real question, is do you actually eat ice cream?” she then went on to say, her rainy voice taking on an inquisitive tone.

           “No,” I shook my head from side to side.

           “Wait, what?” Scott scrunched his face up in disgust.

           “I like it, but I don’t eat it very often…or, like, ever,” I explained to the best of my abilities. Scott still looked lost, so turned to Ari for a better explanation than the sucky one I had given him.

           With a small smirk and a few tears still trickling down from her eyes, she tried to elaborate on what I had said, but was even more cryptic than I. “He looks like a bodybuilder,” was what Ari Remon decided to articulate. She then added: “Well…maybe more like an Abercrombie model. Yeah, you look more Abercrombie than bodybuilder, Eric Wilson.”

           “What the hell does that have to do with ice cream?” Scott demanded, still not understanding anything of what we were babbling about.

           “I don’t really eat ice cream because of the sugar level and, uh, I like having abs and shit,” I expressed sheepishly. Instinctively, one of my hands found its way to my toned stomach, and I rubbed it affectionately. One did not obtain a freaking six-pack from consuming the likes of Doritos and ice cream. It had taken years of self-restraint and crunches to get abdominal muscles like mine. Ice cream didn’t really have a place in my life, though it would always remain in my heart.

           “So then what the hell do you eat?” Scott questioned.

           “I don’t know,” I shrugged lamely, “other foods besides ice cream.”

           “Do you want anything to eat right now?” Ari asked, continuing to rummage through the cooling mechanism.

           “No, I’m fine,” I said. Before I had come over, I somehow managed to scarf down two hotdogs, so I was good for the next few hours.

           Scott shifted on the bed, creating a squeaking noise as he then addressed Ari. “What about me, Ira?”

           “What about you, Scotty-boy?” Ari sighed, pausing for a moment to look in his direction.

           “Can I have some food?” he requested bluntly.

           “What’s the magic word?”

           “Boobs.” Ari shot him a pointed glare. He reluctantly corrected himself. “Ira, can I please have some food?”

           “What do you want?” She bit the bottom of her lip, glancing over to me for a brief moment, before shifting her gaze back over to Scott.

           “Ice cream,” he stated firmly. Ari then turned back to the largish cube, and after a few more moments of searching, turned back with a stubby cylinder in her hands. She tossed it over in Scott’s direction, but her aim was off, so it landed by his feet. He picked it up, took the cap off, and then Ari threw him something else. The other object was small and slender, and had a parabolic curve to it at one end. It was a common kitchen utensil, and Scott used it just as was meant, scooping a giant helping of the frozen treat, and then shoveling it into his mouth. “Damn, this is good shit!”

           “It’s actually chocolate ice cream, not shit,” Ari informed him.

           “Same color,” he muttered, stuffing another spoonful into his mouth. He moaned blissfully, and I smiled faintly, reminded of how Noa had reacted when eating sushi. In both cases a food orgasm was occurring, though I had a hunch that Scott’s was more legitimate than Noa’s.

           Ari then lifted herself from the crouched position that she had previously been in, and walked over to her bed, jumping on top of Scott’s lap. She then yanked the spoon from his hand and dunked it into the vat of ice cream, only to place it in her mouth a moment later. Scott was frowning the entire time, his eyes glued to the utensil until he finally snatched it away from the gorgeous girl, repossessing it for himself.

           “You’re so gross, Ira,” he mumbled, inhaling another helping of the creamy dessert.

           “So is your face,” Ari retorted. Personally, I thought that she could’ve said a more creative comeback, but it was Ari Remon, so maybe her inner creativity only revealed itself in small bursts.

           “Real original,” Scott scoffed, voicing pretty much what I was thinking. “Eric, tell Ari that she’s gross.”

           “I’m not a fan of lying,” I said with a small smirk.

           Ari grinned at me, and then climbed off of Scott so that her feet were planted firmly on the ground. “Thank you, Eric Wilson,” she said with a formal edge to her rainy tone.

           “Any time,” I uttered, feeling something in my back pocket vibrate. I extracted my phone and glanced at the screen. It was Seth. He had sent a text, which essentially asked if I could head back over to the dorm because something had happened with the air conditioning. We lived in California. While it may have been late fall already, we still needed the AC like we needed oxygen—a lot. Not having it was slightly detrimental to the way we lived our lives. In short, we needed air conditioning. I stood up from the chair so that I was a few inches taller than Ari, and put my phone away. “Hate to cut the visit short, but I think I have to go.”

           “Why?” Scott asked in the midst of a mouthful of chocolate ice cream.

           “Something about the air conditioning in my dorm. I don’t know. Seth texted me,” I shrugged with a yawn.

           “Is Seth the nerdy one dating Kay’s weird roommate?” he then went on to inquire, his brows furrowed as he attempted to link Seth to his own world. While I may have lived with the guy and had had many interactions through the whole aspect of “sharing a dorm room,” Scott had probably only met him once or twice. Scott was a sophomore. Seth was a freshman. Scott was part of a frat. Seth wanted to become an engineer. Scott played lacrosse. Seth’s elected sport was ultimate Frisbee. It made sense that the two had had limited interactions with each other.

           “Kay’s roommate isn’t actually that weird,” Ari sighed with a shake of her head. She then added the answer to what he had asked: “And, yeah, he is.”

           “Cool,” Scott nodded. “So, before you go, Wilson, I have to ask—have you made up your mind about joining the frat yet, or did Grant scare ya into taking longer in the decision department?”

           “Grant scared him,” Ari replied for me. I nodded, validating what she had said.

           “Sorry ‘bout that, dude,” Scott apologized remorsefully.

           “It’s fine,” I brushed off the topic. I didn’t really want to dwell on the meeting I had had with Grant Sterling. It wasn’t important, and shouldn’t have affected me in the slightest. “So, uh, I guess I’ll see you two later.”

           “I would say ‘let’s do lunch,’ but that would make me sound like one of those cheesy Hollywood agents, so bye,” Scott said, momentarily pausing his pursuit of devouring the entire carton of ice cream that was in his current possession.

           At first, Ari didn’t say anything. She just walked over to where I was, and put her arms loosely around my torso. The visit was ending just as it had begun—with a hug. My arms found their way to her back, and I awkwardly enveloped her small frame to the best of my abilities without coming across as overly weird. The hug lasted only a brief few seconds, and as we pulled away, Ari whispered a fleeting, “Thanks,” into my ear with a single breath.

           I didn’t ask what she was thanking me for. Something told me that it wasn’t anything tangible or particular, but rather a very Ari Remon type of thing that needed thanking. With that final thought and a one more round of goodbyes, I exited the single dorm room belonging to Ari Remon, headed to mine in order to figure out what exactly was up with the air conditioning.