Starting A Club And (maybe) A Long-lasting Relationship

9. I make a special memory

9
Every morning for the rest of the week, I'd catch a message from Luke that read "hey Viz. You're beautiful." I suppose it's his way to help me out with my self-love journey which is sweet. I feel like I should be doing the same for him in some way but I feel it would be too inappropriate to text him 'hey Luke. Don't be afraid of sex!' every morning. Considering he hasn't tried kissing me ever since the accidental touching, that's the last thing I can ever text him. Ever.

Our drummer is a high school kid in fourth form and she's exceptionally good. Luke says she's one of the club members' sister and I don't fail to point out how convenient it is that we've been looking for a drummer and she's been looking for ways to take her anger out by hitting drums with a stick rather than punching walls.

Her name is Kennedy by the way. Kenn for short. She's even taller than White and has long straight black hair. She's always got dark circles under her eyes but she promises it's just some style of makeup she prefers.

Since Kenn can't haul her whole drum kit to Encore every day after school, we settle on practicing in her garage. It's snug enough for just the right number of band members: three. Of course, with the big drum kit there, Luke and I more or less end up bumping into one another but I secretly don't mind it because I find just accidentally elbowing his bicep (he's got a sleeveless shirt on so his muscles-- though not huge-- are showing) to be a happy accident.

"I'm thinking we make the bass line simple. Tempo's not all fast either so you shouldn't struggle with it much." He gives me a brief smile and then looks at the little mic he has taped to the collar of his shirt. It's the only mic we have for now so he makes sure it's steady and doesn't just go flying off his shirt and disappearing on the ground. "I'm sure Kenn will make up for the missing punch until you've learnt to play a lot faster, yah?"

I nod and it was at that point that I really wished he'd kiss me again. Just a tiny peck on the cheek because he was there and was handsome and caring and infuriatingly distracting.

He strums his guitar and sings a single 'ah' that matches the note he'd played and he turns to me and asks, "Can you match the pitch?"

I sheepishly shake my head. "I'm more of a visual learner."

He approaches and gets behind me, first asking permission as if just standing behind me would have been a violation of my privacy. I tell him I don't mind and he reaches over, leaning beyond my shoulder and looking down at the neck of my bass. I hear him breathe and then I hear him strum a bunch of times until he achieves the same pitch of voice he'd sang.

"Just play that a bunch of times. I'll work something out."

I tried really hard not to mess up. I didn't. I regarded that as an achievement no matter how tiny it was.

Kenn is a solidly good person. She offered us cookies and milk before we left her garage. We exchanged numbers then too and she'd go ahead and send me pictures of basses she thought looked funny. I'd, in turn, send pictures of drum kits people turned into tiny houses for their pet rats. We didn't send words to each other and I enjoyed that part of our friendship where I didn't have to force myself to make her think I was cool. To her, I was cool simply because I could play a bass and was in a band.

Luke walked me home too. Aside from our band and the songs he was planning on writing, he didn't talk much. I offer my own two cents about the songs and then we shut up for a while. That silence ends shortly when I stop walking. He looks at me, confused of course. I didn't mean to be dramatic. I just couldn't think and I thought if I stopped walking, my brain will focus more on thinking rather than making my legs move. There's also the fact that I don't want him to look at me yet but of course he's turned back regardless.

"What?" he asks, obviously. I not-so-obviously don't even know what I want to say. I want to tell him more. Not just the whole self-love issue I have. I want to tell him about my meeting with the doctor and the reason I joined the Sex club and how I keep thinking about him and his offer and how annoyed I am at myself for not finding it easier to just accept that someone like him can like me.

I do what I want. I tell him. I'm not expecting him to like what I say because I know I've got issues and I don't want them to be his issues too.

"They won't be my issues too Viz," he tells me. "They'll be yours and yours alone but you'd be crazy if you think I wouldn't at least try to distract you from them."

That answer seems to make me malfunction because I'm laughing instead of crying from complete relief. "Listen to your own advice first."

"Huh?" He laughs and he seems genuinely confused again.

"You thought you'd be trapping me with you if we ever start dating for real. Like your fear is a burden on me too when it's really not."

He looks at the ground and kicks at the stones. His teeth clench, I can see it when his jawline looks sharper. "Lots of people want to have sex."

"I don't if you're not comfortable with that! I'm not ready to be naked in front of someone else either-- can barely look at my own bare shoulders." I sigh and clear my throat, suddenly feeling like my voice is about to get carried away by the air. "Why'd you ask me out if you knew you weren't ready for this to work out?"

"I asked you out a long time ago. I gave you one month to decide, Viz. One month." He keeps saying that-- 'one month'-- as if he didn't really give it to me but to himself. He confirms this too. "I thought a month would be enough for both of us."

"One month ends in a week."

We're both quiet. I'm quiet because I don't know what else to say. There's no going back. We both know we like each other but want to fix ourselves first. It's easier for both of us that way, isn't it?

"What do you want then?" He asks. "Because I don't want to rush you at all."

"And I don't want to keep you waiting either."

He nods because of course he does. Because he's the most understanding person on earth and I like him so much.

He holds my hands in his own like he's about to try and convince me to do the craziest thing imaginable.

"Let's try," he begins and it seems I'm the one who's confused now. "If you need ten dozen more messages from me telling you you're pretty every morning to finally see in the mirror what I see-- and if I need to see a boob or two to stop being a coward, let's both just try instead of postponing it. We'll start your club together as soon as possible and we'll get people who need help. We'll get them-- and us-- help."

I nod and hug him-- pause to ask to kiss him next-- then kiss him. This time, I try not to accidentally touch him and he tries to touch me and then I try to not feel super awkward or let my thoughts ruin the moment when I let him. He only manages to squeeze my thigh though but that's okay because I was fine with just the kiss and the many more throughout the months after that. And I could sit and describe how proud of us I was three years later when we finally decided to not be virgins anymore, you know, the only way one would stop being a virgin, but that's something I want to keep special. And because I want it to be special, I'm afraid this is where I'll stop.

I'll stop at the beginning. I'll stop at where I start a club and (maybe) a long-lasting relationship.