Phillip

Nata tugs on the corners of my jacket and wraps it tighter around her, thankfully covering the cleavage I don't remember her ever having. Instead of feeling the chill of standing on the roof in just my shirt and pants, I grow warmer in places I should not. Either the push-up bra technology has improved leaps and bounds, or I was blind before, or my Nata is all grown up in places I shouldn't be thinking about. I search for the images of Nata in my memory, and they are the same as the one I saw on the photo at my Dad's bedroom today.

My buddy.

A little sister I've always wanted but have never gotten.

Not a woman with cleavage and thick thighs I should not be thinking about.

I tilt my head to check if a different angle of seeing her is going to help me break this inappropriate want I'm feeling toward the only girl who has ever been just a friend. I would never want to break a friendship over a momentary gratification of sex. Maybe I should put an end to my self-imposed year of celibacy, if a curvy dark-haired Nata with her wide cheekbones and even wider hazel eyes is making me hot on a chilly rooftop.

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Whoville," she says in a tone so sharp my ears could bleed.

If her bringing up the nickname only she has for me wouldn't have been enough confirmation, this beautiful woman and my awkward tutor from my college years are the same person, the way her eyes light up with cold ire is a dead giveaway.

Blood rushes to my face as my pulse speeds up. "No, you do not."

"Are you agreeing or are you mocking me? I can't tell." Her gaze throws icicles at me.

"You can't?" My eyebrows climb up in a challenge. "I haven't changed that much."

Saying this unlocks that long-forgotten feeling of freedom I don't experience much if ever anymore.

"Agreeing then. Good."

"Good indeed." I struggle not to smile.

There's nothing polite about our interaction, and I can't remember a time I had a rush talking this freely. Not picking words. Not thinking through the possibilities of what they'll land me, as if my words are the figures in a long game of chess I must win.

When was the last time I wasn't crafting polite nothings in response to empty pleasantries? Figuring out if I should go work for my dad or venture on my own. With Nata.

When did I have the most honest arguments? Debating over the value of advanced degrees. With Nata.

Heaviness lifts off my shoulders. I soar, unchained from the rules of a polite society's conversation. The heady sensation that I can actually say what I feel spreads. How did I forget this feeling? I should have more friends like Nata. A key in a lock I haven't turned in years squeaks. I was safe with her then. Maybe I can recreate that now?

When was I last the most myself? With Nata.

Years ago.

The lock clicks back. Why don't I learn? I shouldn't give into this illusion. People change. The weight settles into its familiar groove between my shoulder blades.

She's no longer the nerdy tutor I knew. And I'm no longer the hopeful idiot eager to make all the mistakes. I pinch my lips with my thumb and my index finger, holding my words in.

Nata stares me down even though I'm more than a head taller. "I am not behind," she reiterates, probably tired of attempting to read the emotions on my face or interpreting my silence. "I just need a new plan. With modern science, so many things are an option."

Is she trying to persuade me or herself?

The tremble in her voice might be from her anger at my suggestion she's messing up her plan, but the wind that moves her dark brown strands like slashes across her face is blowing harder. I don't want to be responsible for her freezing on this roof. I move her hair out of her eyes and behind her ear, pull together the sides of my jacket that's way too large on her, and let the smile I've been trying to keep under control escape. "So what's your new plan?"

"I don't know yet." She shrugs. "But I can't possibly be the only woman who wants to have kids and doesn't have a partner."

An amiable brushoff I should tell her remains locked in my head.

"If anyone can do this, it's you," I say.

And I mean it. My heart pings in agreement. Nata is a formidable force once she sets her mind on something.

"Guess you haven't changed that much." She eyes me suspiciously. "Even when you agreed with me, you've always excelled at sounding patronizing."

I chuckle. Nata's never been afraid to tell me the truth, whether about me partying instead of studying, or the way I threw money at all my problems. I tighten my grip on my jacket on her chest. She stares at my hands, grasping the collar and almost touching her neck.

The honest comeback I shouldn't be saying smolders its way up from the pit of my stomach and scorches the tip of my tongue. "And you've always excelled at calling me out on my bullshit."

"Is this supposed to butter me up?" Her voice continues to tremble as she lifts her chin and narrows her eyes at me.

My spine prickles from the intensity of her glare.

The steady blistering tide that's been rising from below my waist and moving to my ribcage meets the counter flow of heat that's trickling down my back. The growing torrents of craving merge and plunge me into a swirl of confusion.

Are we fighting or flirting?

No longer in a laughing mood, I find myself much closer to her than when our interaction started. So close, I can feel her breath warm the air.

"Never worked before," I say in a low voice I don't use outside of a bedroom or a boardroom.

"Exactly." Her nostrils flare as if she's breathing fire.

We can not be flirting. That's not what I need. My rapidly growing want crescendos. I let go of her, take a step back, and wipe the wrinkles off my forehead. What I want is not what I should want. The sense of freedom I regained around her is great, but not if I lose myself. Nata and I were friends once. Friends is what I need to want. "Nata?"

"Yes?" She gives me a quizzical look.

I scroll through the snapshots of our time together and nod to myself. "I remember what did butter you up."

"What?"

"A tall caramel mocha with extra whipped cream?"

"You remember my order?" She tries to sound defensive, but her face relaxes not quite into a smile, but into a less combative expression.

"I seem to remember a lot of things about you." Especially the warm comfort of being myself in her company. Not an heir. Not a golden boy who has to make sure he's up to everyone's expectations. Not a future CEO in charge of thousands of people's livelihoods. How do I get us back to the friendly territory? We've been great as friends. Why did we not keep it up?

Daylight. A coffee shop. People around us. Chatting about the ways she came up with mnemonics for me to memorize the Mendeleev table or her teaching me how to use chopsticks while I supplied us with her favorite Ramen. That's what Nata and I need.

"Maybe you let me get you that coffee? We reminisce?"

"Reminisce." I hear more suspicion and zero trust from her.

"A chat between friends. We catch up. You overdose on caffeine. I promise to be on my best behavior."

She sighs. "Why now?"

Because I want to see if I can recapture what I've lost, I think. To her I say, "Isn't this one of the reasons we are at this reunion today? Reconnect with old friends?"

She shifts her gaze to the skyline of the campus behind me. "Yes, I guess."

Not enthusiastic, but definitely a yes. I reach toward her to open my jacket. My hand slides dangerously close to that cleavage I'm still not thinking about.

She jerks away. "What the hell are you doing?"

"My phone?" I point at the outline of my cell in the interior pocket that I was reaching for.

She shivers again. "Right."

I remove the device and get to the contacts icon on my screen. "What's your number?"

The string of digits she blasts at me starts with an unfamiliar five-one-zero area code.

"That's not a Chicago number." Or a New York one. I wrack my brain but can't identify it.

"Very astute." Her tone is back to the tutor-Nata. Encouragement with a tiny sliver of sarcasm hidden inside. "Berkley. That's where I went for my graduate and post-graduate work."

My calendar app is next. "Something I'd love to know more about over coffee." I scroll through the meetings I'd have to cancel that I was supposed to attend in New York. "How does this weekend sound?"

"I need to check on my experiment, but we can find a spot near my office." She bobs her head as if indicating the direction of her office. "The cafeteria in our building is decent too."

"We'll figure it out." I send her a text with a 'Hello from Whoville' and hear it ping in her purse. The sound breaks any remaining tension.

Nata pivots to the exit. "I better get going before I freeze here." She tries to remove my jacket.

"Keep it." I interject. "I'll pick it up when I see you again."

"Aren't you going back to the party?"

"I am. But I think you need this jacket more than I do."

She gives me a tiny smile I would've missed if I weren't staring at her so hard. "Nice seeing you, Whoville."

When the door closes behind her, I'm right there, holding the handle. Letting Nata go like that sets my stomach back into a vise of a confusing want. No reason she has to go. Maybe we can do coffee now? Italians drink coffee in the evening, and I haven't heard them complain about insomnia. I jerk my hand off the door handle. The irrational fear that I won't see her again is just that. Irrational.

We haven't seen each other for years.

There's zero urgency.

Running after her will look weird. No need to be a creep.

Plus, I still have some schmoozing with the dean to do. I run my hand through my hair and squeeze the back of my neck. Time to put my game face back on. The tap dance my heart is performing against my breastbone isn't going to help me with that. I pull another cigarette—the easiest way for me to regain control. Three puffs in, the nicotine soothes the restless churn in my chest.

Phillip Van der Heuvel is ready to charm.

Author's Note

10.10.22

Is Phillip protesting too much? 😎

P.S. I've been under the weather the last couple of weeks, but am back to normal. Chapter 6 will be out this Friday.

Love,

GR