Though we lingered oft' in the garden - part six (1/3)
It’s clear to her in the weeks following that things have changed irrevocably. He’s pulling away from her, and not subtly or slowly, he’s launching a full scale retreat on their friendship and it’s killing her. When they are together he is absent, vacant, reserved, he won’t touch her or meet her eyes really. She feels repulsive and ugly and miserable.
What makes it worse is that she can tell that he wants to touch her. She’ll catch him sometimes, when he goes to lay a casual hand on her shoulder, or drop a thoughtless kiss on her temple, and he’ll stop abruptly and just kind of hang there, looking for a way out, without a chance of finding one, and realizing, she supposes, that nothing between them can be casual or thoughtless anymore.
He’s redrawing the lines in his head, figuring out what is and isn’t ok in the aftermath of the incident. He’s redrawing the lines in bright red marker pen, and his choices of placement are frustrating her to the point where she feels that she might scream.
So she picks a fight. It’s stupid and childish and she doesn’t really think it through, because she wants to get something from him other than the reserve and caution which she is growing used to and really wants not to be, but she never considered what the consequences of getting a rise out of him might be.
She picks a fight, a fully blown, drag-down knock-out fight because she can’t be around him and so aware of the lack of contact that he’s imposed on them, and the lack of freedom in his manner, and the feeling that somehow she has destroyed their entire relationship just by growing up a little and not consulting him about it, without doing something to get some feeling back in the freezing limbs of their flailing friendship.
They’ve had many fights in their lives, obviously, she’s temperamental and he’s kind of a jerk when he’s trying to be cool, and they both run pretty hot as a general rule, so their relationship hasn’t always been plain sailing. But their fights in the past have ended in the same way, without fail, and from the second that she starts this one, she can tell that there’s no way it’s going to end in their traditional manner.
“Jesus! Why do you always gotta be like this?”
He’s yelling at her from across the choir room, his hands are keeping a tight grasp on the back of the chair which she thinks is currently the only thing keeping him from crossing the room and getting in her face. She has never been scared of Noah, never been reluctant to tell him just exactly what she thinks of him, but she has to admit that his physical presence is intimidating, even to her. He knows this too, and so when he gets really angry at her he keeps his distance.
He’s yelling at her. Which is no surprise because she hasn’t really been keeping her cool with him either, but she really hates it when he yells at her, it feels so much like being told off when he yells at her, she still looks up to him so much. Still, the act of him yelling at her alone is not enough to get her to back down, she has never been one to back down from a fight simply because it’s a fight.
So she huffs, and rolls her eyes at him, because he hates it when he thinks she’s belittling him.
“Like what Noah?” She asks him in what is, she admits, a fairly patronizing tone. He knows how to push her buttons, but she knows how to push his right back, and he forgets that about her. She learned from the best how to get right at people and make them squirm, and she’ll use every trick he ever taught her in order to come out on top.
“Like, how you are!” He throws his hands up, exasperated, and shakes his head, as though to say that there is no possible way to explain the way she is other than to say that it’s the way she is.
“What? Principled?!”
“No.” He leans forward over the chair and nods pointedly. “ Ridiculous.” He thinks he’s won, she can tell, he’s such an idiot sometimes. He honestly believes that calling her ridiculous is going to win this, sometimes she thinks he really doesn’t know her at all.
But she knows him. And she knows how to win this. She takes a deep breath and narrows her eyes, steeling herself for a speech. Her fists ball unconsciously, and she can see the moment that he knows what’s coming; he straightens his posture and his eyes flash in apprehension. She allows her lips to curve into an incredibly slight smirk, his signature move, so that he knows she knows he knows that she’s won, and then unleashes her tirade upon him.
“I’m sorry Noah,” she begins, controlled and determined, “if you believe that my refusing to compromise my integrity in order to gain the good opinion and respect of people that you consider to be cool makes me ridiculous. I was raised to stand up for myself and what I believe in, and for other people who for whatever reason are unable to protect themselves when I am in a position to do so, and in case you’ve forgotten, so were you. I don’t care how annoying or creepy or unhygienic Jacob Ben-Israel is, no one on this earth deserves the humiliation and degradation of being thrown into a dumpster! And I’m sorry if that’s how you and your Neanderthal friends get your kicks, but it’s completely unacceptable from an humanitarian point of view and I refuse to stand by and witness it without speaking my mind. If that makes me ridiculous then I am perfectly content to be so. But your stance on the subject makes you kind of an asshole, and if you’re happy with that then I am no longer happy to be associated with you.”
She sucks in a deep gulp of air and unclenches and re-clenches her fists a couple of times to try and dissipate some of the adrenaline that she can feel flowing through her. She may have started out calm and controlled, but as was invariably the case when she felt really strongly on a subject, she had descended into a kind of raving lunatic, and she suspects that she might possibly have gone a bit too far.
The boy in front of her looks a lot more like Noah, her Noah, and less like the self-styled Puck that he has lately become. Her boy looks hurt, and a little worried; his brow is crinkled, his lips pursed, his eyes clear and bright.
When he clears his throat and looks down, and she hears the lowly muttered, “Well shit, Rach.” Tumble from his lips, she thinks she probably definitely went too far when she said she didn’t want to be associated with him anymore. But it’s done now, and she’ll stand by her word if he makes her. She really hopes he won’t make her, he’s her best friend and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she doesn’t have him.
“Look,” he exhales heavily, moving around his chair and coming to stand almost directly in front of her, “I’m an asshole.” She raises her eyebrows in agreement, and returns the small smile he throws her way. “But you’re kinda stupid.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but he lays a heavy hand on her shoulder, and his eyes tell her that he really wants her to listen to what he has to say. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, and honestly, neither does she.
“You stand up for what you believe in, and that’s cool, it is. I admire you for it. But Rach, standing up to these guys, the football guys, is not the same as standing up to me. I’m your friend, you know? You’re never gonna say anything that’s gonna make me hate you. But these guys take offense easy, and they hold grudges. You gotta think about whether or not you’re willing to take what they can dole out on you if you keep getting all up in their faces about this dumpster shit, coz they can be really mean, and I’m not always gonna be around to protect you.”
Both of his hands are clutching her shoulders now, his thumbs rubbing along the thin ridge of her collarbone. She can feel the warmth of his skin seeping into her, soothing her in that way that only his presence, his physical presence in her life, can do.
She sighs, because, in some ways, she knows he’s right. She’s seen firsthand the cruelties that these football players can dispense, and she certainly doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of them. She gazes down at her feet, rubbing one patent leather shoe against the other one, wishing that she could click her heels and take them both away somewhere better, nicer. But she can’t, so she looks up at him instead, and nods, almost imperceptibly, and he nods back.
The fight is over, they both know it, but ever since the time when they didn’t speak for two weeks because they both thought the other one was mad at them, Rachel insists that they formally end every fight they have, so that there is no confusion over the matter.
She holds out her hand for him to take, and he does, shaking it gently.
“I’m sorry.” She says quietly, and waits for his reply.
“Me too.” He tells her. When they’re done with the handshake he pulls her into a hug, wrapping her up in his long, lean arms and burrowing his nose in her hair. “I forgive you.” He murmurs, as was written on the script in the contract that she drew up and had him sign his name on next to hers.
“I forgive you too.” She breathes into his chest, and squeezes tighter as he squeezes tighter. They release each other, and smile. Their fight is now officially over, and she beams at him as he throws an arm around her and tells her that they need slushies, like, now.
Part two
What makes it worse is that she can tell that he wants to touch her. She’ll catch him sometimes, when he goes to lay a casual hand on her shoulder, or drop a thoughtless kiss on her temple, and he’ll stop abruptly and just kind of hang there, looking for a way out, without a chance of finding one, and realizing, she supposes, that nothing between them can be casual or thoughtless anymore.
He’s redrawing the lines in his head, figuring out what is and isn’t ok in the aftermath of the incident. He’s redrawing the lines in bright red marker pen, and his choices of placement are frustrating her to the point where she feels that she might scream.
So she picks a fight. It’s stupid and childish and she doesn’t really think it through, because she wants to get something from him other than the reserve and caution which she is growing used to and really wants not to be, but she never considered what the consequences of getting a rise out of him might be.
She picks a fight, a fully blown, drag-down knock-out fight because she can’t be around him and so aware of the lack of contact that he’s imposed on them, and the lack of freedom in his manner, and the feeling that somehow she has destroyed their entire relationship just by growing up a little and not consulting him about it, without doing something to get some feeling back in the freezing limbs of their flailing friendship.
They’ve had many fights in their lives, obviously, she’s temperamental and he’s kind of a jerk when he’s trying to be cool, and they both run pretty hot as a general rule, so their relationship hasn’t always been plain sailing. But their fights in the past have ended in the same way, without fail, and from the second that she starts this one, she can tell that there’s no way it’s going to end in their traditional manner.
“Jesus! Why do you always gotta be like this?”
He’s yelling at her from across the choir room, his hands are keeping a tight grasp on the back of the chair which she thinks is currently the only thing keeping him from crossing the room and getting in her face. She has never been scared of Noah, never been reluctant to tell him just exactly what she thinks of him, but she has to admit that his physical presence is intimidating, even to her. He knows this too, and so when he gets really angry at her he keeps his distance.
He’s yelling at her. Which is no surprise because she hasn’t really been keeping her cool with him either, but she really hates it when he yells at her, it feels so much like being told off when he yells at her, she still looks up to him so much. Still, the act of him yelling at her alone is not enough to get her to back down, she has never been one to back down from a fight simply because it’s a fight.
So she huffs, and rolls her eyes at him, because he hates it when he thinks she’s belittling him.
“Like what Noah?” She asks him in what is, she admits, a fairly patronizing tone. He knows how to push her buttons, but she knows how to push his right back, and he forgets that about her. She learned from the best how to get right at people and make them squirm, and she’ll use every trick he ever taught her in order to come out on top.
“Like, how you are!” He throws his hands up, exasperated, and shakes his head, as though to say that there is no possible way to explain the way she is other than to say that it’s the way she is.
“What? Principled?!”
“No.” He leans forward over the chair and nods pointedly. “ Ridiculous.” He thinks he’s won, she can tell, he’s such an idiot sometimes. He honestly believes that calling her ridiculous is going to win this, sometimes she thinks he really doesn’t know her at all.
But she knows him. And she knows how to win this. She takes a deep breath and narrows her eyes, steeling herself for a speech. Her fists ball unconsciously, and she can see the moment that he knows what’s coming; he straightens his posture and his eyes flash in apprehension. She allows her lips to curve into an incredibly slight smirk, his signature move, so that he knows she knows he knows that she’s won, and then unleashes her tirade upon him.
“I’m sorry Noah,” she begins, controlled and determined, “if you believe that my refusing to compromise my integrity in order to gain the good opinion and respect of people that you consider to be cool makes me ridiculous. I was raised to stand up for myself and what I believe in, and for other people who for whatever reason are unable to protect themselves when I am in a position to do so, and in case you’ve forgotten, so were you. I don’t care how annoying or creepy or unhygienic Jacob Ben-Israel is, no one on this earth deserves the humiliation and degradation of being thrown into a dumpster! And I’m sorry if that’s how you and your Neanderthal friends get your kicks, but it’s completely unacceptable from an humanitarian point of view and I refuse to stand by and witness it without speaking my mind. If that makes me ridiculous then I am perfectly content to be so. But your stance on the subject makes you kind of an asshole, and if you’re happy with that then I am no longer happy to be associated with you.”
She sucks in a deep gulp of air and unclenches and re-clenches her fists a couple of times to try and dissipate some of the adrenaline that she can feel flowing through her. She may have started out calm and controlled, but as was invariably the case when she felt really strongly on a subject, she had descended into a kind of raving lunatic, and she suspects that she might possibly have gone a bit too far.
The boy in front of her looks a lot more like Noah, her Noah, and less like the self-styled Puck that he has lately become. Her boy looks hurt, and a little worried; his brow is crinkled, his lips pursed, his eyes clear and bright.
When he clears his throat and looks down, and she hears the lowly muttered, “Well shit, Rach.” Tumble from his lips, she thinks she probably definitely went too far when she said she didn’t want to be associated with him anymore. But it’s done now, and she’ll stand by her word if he makes her. She really hopes he won’t make her, he’s her best friend and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she doesn’t have him.
“Look,” he exhales heavily, moving around his chair and coming to stand almost directly in front of her, “I’m an asshole.” She raises her eyebrows in agreement, and returns the small smile he throws her way. “But you’re kinda stupid.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but he lays a heavy hand on her shoulder, and his eyes tell her that he really wants her to listen to what he has to say. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, and honestly, neither does she.
“You stand up for what you believe in, and that’s cool, it is. I admire you for it. But Rach, standing up to these guys, the football guys, is not the same as standing up to me. I’m your friend, you know? You’re never gonna say anything that’s gonna make me hate you. But these guys take offense easy, and they hold grudges. You gotta think about whether or not you’re willing to take what they can dole out on you if you keep getting all up in their faces about this dumpster shit, coz they can be really mean, and I’m not always gonna be around to protect you.”
Both of his hands are clutching her shoulders now, his thumbs rubbing along the thin ridge of her collarbone. She can feel the warmth of his skin seeping into her, soothing her in that way that only his presence, his physical presence in her life, can do.
She sighs, because, in some ways, she knows he’s right. She’s seen firsthand the cruelties that these football players can dispense, and she certainly doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of them. She gazes down at her feet, rubbing one patent leather shoe against the other one, wishing that she could click her heels and take them both away somewhere better, nicer. But she can’t, so she looks up at him instead, and nods, almost imperceptibly, and he nods back.
The fight is over, they both know it, but ever since the time when they didn’t speak for two weeks because they both thought the other one was mad at them, Rachel insists that they formally end every fight they have, so that there is no confusion over the matter.
She holds out her hand for him to take, and he does, shaking it gently.
“I’m sorry.” She says quietly, and waits for his reply.
“Me too.” He tells her. When they’re done with the handshake he pulls her into a hug, wrapping her up in his long, lean arms and burrowing his nose in her hair. “I forgive you.” He murmurs, as was written on the script in the contract that she drew up and had him sign his name on next to hers.
“I forgive you too.” She breathes into his chest, and squeezes tighter as he squeezes tighter. They release each other, and smile. Their fight is now officially over, and she beams at him as he throws an arm around her and tells her that they need slushies, like, now.
Part two