trace me from head to toe. “Though, I’ll let you in
on a little secret. You’re not my type.” Moving back in his chair, he begins to
play, what I think is “All Apologies” on his guitar.
Okay, well, that was
embarrassing. Not to mention that I am starting to recognize just how much I do
sound like a bitch -- who I hate and who I need to change.
“I am such a bitch.” My eyes
go wide, realizing that I may have said that out loud. He snorts, so I know I made
a public announcement.
As he looks at me, his
fingers slide up and down the neck of the guitar. I can’t help but notice that
he has nice strong hands. He puts the guitar down and turns to face me.
“The name is Eli. Just in
case you are wondering. Like the biblical prophet, not the football player,” he
says, holding his hand out to me.
“Jay,” I reply back as I
reach for his hand.
“Well, Jay. Doesn’t seem
like you have too many friends around here. Want to hear the reasons why I
think that is?” Smiling at me, he tugs on my hand one last time and lets go. He
picks up his guitar again, sits back in the chair, and plays some riffs.
Staring at him, I wonder if
I have lost my mind. Something about him reminds me of someone, but I can’t
think of who it is. Plus, I’m at a loss for words, and that doesn’t happen
often.
“No answer necessary. You
push everyone away so you can keep everything bottled up inside, or you could
just be a raging bitch. I like to think the best about people, so I’ll go with
option A,” he says with a grin.
Is this guy for real?
Gritting my teeth, I hold back every scathing comment that is coming up, but
the weirdest thing happens. I laugh. Hard. Looking at him, I try to think of
something to say, but the only thing that comes to mind makes no sense
whatsoever, so of course, it spills from my mouth.
“I think you have nice
hands.”
My God, did I just say that
I think he has nice hands? For the love of all that is holy, please let the
ground open up and swallow me whole. He just reminds me of someone, and who
that it is, I don’t know. It lingers on the edge of my mind.
He lightly laughs, and with
a smirk on this face, says, “Thanks, my mother gave them to me, whoever she
was. Now, what did your mother give you?”
“Everything, I guess. My dark
hair and gray eyes are the same as hers. My height is from my dad though.”
“Are you close to your
parents?” he asks with eyes fixed on me.
“I think I used to be. It
seems so long ago now.” He seems really interested in what I have to say. “What
about you? Are you close to your parents?”
He leans closer and looks
deep into my eyes. “Define close. Am I close to driving them to drink? If my
dad wasn’t a Southern Baptist preacher, that would be a definite yes. Am I
close to driving them crazy? Absolutely. They’re my adoptive parents, and no, I
don’t know my biological parents.” He lifts his hand and runs his fingers
through his thick mane of hair. “What’s your story? From what I hear, you’ve
been here almost three months and still haven’t spoken up in group session.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I
choose to ignore him and look at my iPod like it holds the secrets to the
universe.
“Are you always like this?”
“Always like what?” His
question catches me off guard, and I glance up at him.
“Snarky, stuck-up girl one second,
lost little girl the next?”
Rolling my eyes, I look back
down at my playlist.
Holding his hands up in
surrender, he says, “Don’t get mad. I just ‘call’ it, like I ‘see’ it.”
I shift to my knees and lean
towards him, placing my elbows on the arm of the chair, “What about you? You’ve
got the looks, you’ve got the whole Mr. Mystery thing going on, and not to
mention, most girls would just about wet themselves when you play your guitar.
What brings you here? Your eyes are way too clear to be detoxing from drugs or
alcohol.”
His eyes twinkle, and I can
tell he is enjoying the little