Achilles has always been beautifully complicated. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him at fifteen. He doesn’t know it, but it took me almost a full year to gather the nerve to talk to him. Loner, bad boy, social outcast… whatever it was, it drew me to him.
Beautifully complicated… and I knew I wanted to be a part of it.
Then it happened. The night before I started my Junior year, my dad got called out on a domestic issue. He and his partner at the time walked up on an obliterated Pete Kingston in a fit of rage, and his wife, Sandy, was being shielded by her seventeen-year-old son, Achilles. In an ironic twist, it was my dad that gave me the courage to talk to Achilles.
On the first day of school, I approached him and never gave him the chance to turn me away. And it’s been that way ever since. I’ve always loved Achilles, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never gotten over it.
To this day, I don’t understand what happened to him three years ago, but I swore if we ever got back to a good place, I’d cherish the friendship and leave the rest behind.
“You hear me?” His question breaks me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
“Did that yoga class mess with your head? I was talking and you went into a daze.”
“Sorry.” I shake out of my haze. “I was actually taking a trip down memory lane.”
His expression goes blank. “Was it a pleasant trip?”
“It was sixteen-year-old Harley and seventeen-year-old Achilles… what do you think?”
His expression changes. “Sixteen-year-old Harley is always an excellent memory.”
My heart and stomach do that flipping, twirling, fluttering thing again, and I decide to move to safer subjects because this exchange is giving me too much to think about.
“What’s for lunch?”
“Hopefully, still your favorite.” He awards me with his heart-stopping grin and goes behind the counter of the summer kitchen. Unfortunately, this means he releases my hand, but when he places a tray on the counter, I debate on what is better. Achilles holding my hand or the unmistakable packaging of my favorite sandwich ever made.
“Oh my God,” I sigh as my mouth waters. “How did you do this?”
“Called the shop this morning and had it delivered.”
“That’s impossible. They don’t deliver. I should know. I’ve tried many times to order delivery, even starting an online petition to change the owners’ minds. It didn’t work, but they gave me a nice gift card for giving them the publicity.”
“They deliver to me.”
“Don’t be cocky.” I scrunch my nose and shoot him a scowl.
“You want to argue about how the food was delivered, or would you like to eat?”
He sweetens the deal by opening one Styrofoam box, and the sight of the sandwich shuts me up. I sit on one of the barstools, take the box, and reach for the plastic silverware. Carefully, I cut each half into halves until there are four equal portions. Then I sprinkle a few of the chips on top of one side and take a bite.
A small moan escapes when the rich mixture of cream cheese, turkey, and provolone coats my tongue. It’s the perfect way to distract me from my Achilles and Harley history. A bottle of water slides in front of me, and I glance up to find him watching me closely.
“Thanks.”
“What’s with the sections?”
“I’ll eat one for dinner and save the rest for tomorrow. It’s my way of savoring.”
“We’re having steaks for dinner.”
“Since when?”
“Since I marinated them before coming to pick you up.”
“Presumptuous much?”
“I call it decisive.”
The smart ass in me wants to educate him on the proper etiquette of asking someone to dinner. But the silly, frilly hearts and unicorns Harley wants to keep the mood light. “I guess I could eat a steak. But regardless, there’s no way I could eat all this.” I point to my food.
“Try,” he clips, picking up his own sandwich.
“I don’t remember you being this bossy.”
This time, when his eyes flare, there’s a slight gleam that shines. He shakes his head, finishes chewing, and relaxes his hip against the counter. “Tell me about your job.”
I decide to let him have his play, ignoring my comments and changing the subject easily. I launch into my position, explaining that it’s a lot more administrative work than actual marketing. It would be nice to have a seat inside the circle of creativity, but my time will come.
He listens intently, keeping his eyes trained on me, and after a long while, I realize he’s finished eating and letting me ramble.
“Sorry! I get a little carried away.”
“I enjoy listening to you.” He takes my leftover food and puts it in a refrigerator that I thought was a part of the stone façade.
“Is that yours, too?” I refer to the other container on the counter.