Bittersweet by Oleksandra Khelemendyk

Anywhere but home.

My classes ended at three, but here I was, still studying at the library at half past five. You could have called me a nerd or a freak, but I preferred spending my evenings here, in the light shed from large windows, surrounded with books and silence, only broken by the rustling of pages. My tiny apartment on the outskirts was not even half as cosy.

After finishing a long chapter on human rights advocacy for the next class, I took some time to enjoy the calmness, until the librarian, just as tired, asked everyone to leave. On Friday, she definitely had other places to be, so I called it a day.

Outside, the street lights were already on and the fresh evening air smelled of cherry blossom, promising a fresh start. Deep down, I needed one desperately...

“Enola?” – I lost the thought to a male voice, familiar, yet unusually soft. “Why are you still here this late?”

It was not anybody’s business, but, caught off-guard by the friendly tone, I uttered: “I was studying… obviously”. This conversation, unwanted from the start, couldn’t get more awkward.

 “I see, must have been a tough day for you”, I heard, as if I wasn’t extremely rude, and my confusion grew even bigger. If somebody told me that Steve Rogers, an always-carefree son of loaded parents, had empathy, I would laugh in their face, but here he was, standing in the pool of light and behaving as a normal human being. “Could I give you a lift then?” – Steve made a tentative step towards me and put his warm palm on my shoulder, trying to find my wandering eyes.

Before I knew it, I brushed his hand off, struggling to catch my breath with a knot of fear tying in my stomach. I wanted to agree to his kindness, to say “yes” to this handsome young man, who found me attractive for whatever reason – but every man, no matter the looks, still has fists.

“No, thank you, please don’t trouble yourself, I live far from here, so I’ll just take a tube,” I mumbled in one breath, stepping back frantically.

“Relax, the distance is not a problem,” Steve smiled at me invitingly. ‘The problem is that you don’t keep it!’ – I thought nervously, staring at the toes of my shoes. “So, what do you say?”

“Actually, I have a student to tutor, and I’m already running late, have a nice weekend, bye,” I blurted out, turning my back on him and walking away quickly.

“Well, alright, take care, Enola,” – was it just me, or he sounded upset?

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. A packed tube, strangers glued to their phones, grocery shopping in the nearby supermarket, over fried potatoes for supper, a soppy film on TV, and hardly any sleep. In fact, I spent half a night tossing and turning, trying to answer a myriad of questions. Why, of all people, did the Steve Rogers approach a bluestocking like me? What was in it for him? Was he offended?

In the morning, I felt like a squeezed lemon. That was a pity, as I had a lesson to give in a few hours. The student I mentioned to Steve the day before was not a mere excuse to leave. Clever and industrious, Elisa dreamt of getting into the law school, so I was tutoring her in History twice a week. Thanks to her, as well as four other students, I could afford to pay the rent. As small as it was, I had my own place where the past would never find me. Going to work on Saturday morning was a fair price for my freedom, so at half past nine I took my umbrella, locked the door and walked out into the pouring rain.

* * *

The library was closed on a sanitary day – another good reason to hate Mondays. Studying at a nearby café filled with lively voices, clatter of dishes, and delicious smell of pastry was almost impossible, yet strangely pleasant. The familiar sound of the keyboard clicking under my fingers and the bitter taste of espresso turned out to be exactly what I wanted without even knowing. Caught up at the moment, I flinched, as someone came up to me and pulled out the other chair.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Enola,” Steve said instead of greeting. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” – he waited for my nod and then took a seat. “Please treat yourself,” he moved a plate of doughnuts covered with pink and blue icing across the table.

I thanked him politely and took one, feeling an itch of a vague unpleasant memory in the back of my head.  

“Listen,” Steve continued, slightly more relaxed, “That’s about what happened on Friday. I made you feel uncomfortable, didn’t I? Now that I think about it, you looked scared before you ran off.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I have no idea what you’ve gone through, but I promise that won’t happen again. Whatever I did, that was the first and the last time.”  

All of a sudden, a raging wave of emotions washed over me. Once again, I was fourteen years old. “It seems that you don’t understand words,” my father, drunk and devastated, pushed me away in disgust. “You’re such a nuisance!” My back hit against the wall so hard that I lost my breath. As if it wasn’t enough, he raised his leg at me. When I felt a flash of pain in my right hip, I couldn't help crying. Crying right in front of my father, who had just beaten me up. With tears streaming down my face, I uttered: “Look what you did! Do you… like it? Look and… enjoy!” I hated myself for being so weak. Later that day, as if apologies could fix anything, he bought me a milkshake and a huge plate of doughnuts in sugary pink icing. “I didn’t mean to do that to you”, he said in a quivering voice. “I promise that won’t happen again. I swear, that was the first and the last time,” but “that” really wasn’t. My heart was racing and the sweetness on my tongue became nauseating…

“Enola, are you okay? Did I say something wrong?” – Steve asked, carefully holding my hand in his.

“No, of course, not, I just…” – remembered why I shouldn’t trust you? “Zoned out for a bit, I’m so sorry.” Suddenly self-conscious, I lowered my head, hiding behind the laptop cover.

“You don’t have to apologise for who you are. I sincerely like you, Enola,” he looked away, totally flustered.

“W-what for?” – his sudden declaration made me stutter.

We often exchanged lecture notes, prepared for the exams and occasionally had lunch together, but I couldn’t even call him a friend. I just didn’t make male friends since “the last time”. His sudden “liking” was even harder to deal with.

“For who you are,” was a confident reply. “Would you give us a try if I asked you to?”

“Us” sounded challenging. “Us” sounded scary. But even Elisa, the hard-working high-schooler with unspoken sadness behind her eyes, knew that “to be happy, you need a lot of courage”. So, I gathered mine and replied:

“I hope we won’t regret it”.