Page 9 of Win You Over

A large yellow, pink and blue flag that I’ve seen before, but don’t know the meaning of hangs above his bed, the tape on one end peeling so that the flag moves gently in the breeze coming from the open window that looks out onto a rolling lawn.

Beneath the glass sits a bench lined with cushions and to the right of it, a bookshelf filled with a mixture of non-fiction and fiction texts, and notably, a large collection of Agatha Christie novels.

“Welcome to my kingdom,” he says, sweeping his hand around the room. He pulls out a chair from his desk. “Sit. Do you want a drink? Food?” I shake my head and lay my bag on the smooth wood, then pull out my laptop and sticky notes.

What language were you and your mom speaking? And what did you say about me? I scribble on one and hand it to him before taking the offered seat.

He flops down on his bed, his head hanging over the edge, a picture of casual, carefree youth.

His t-shirt rides up to reveal a thin line of light brown hair leading to the waistband of his jeans.

I don’t know why I notice it, but I do, and enough to startle when he answers my question, my cheeks burning at the thought of him noticing my staring.

“Afrikaans. It’s a language from South Africa.

That’s where my mom’s from. She taught my sister and I when we were younger.

She said it was important we learnt some of our heritage.

Our grandmother hates it, so we make a habit of speaking it around her.

” He chuckles, then runs a hand through his hair.

His cheeks are red, presumably from the blood rushing to his face while his head is tipped off the bed. “And I told her you're shy.”

With my laptop on, I open a blank document to start our assignment, then write out another sticky note for Remington.

I’m surprised that he hasn’t asked me about my silence yet – it’s something so many ask me the minute they realise I can’t converse like they do.

Always inquisitive about why I don’t speak.

When did it start? What caused it? Can I change it?

So many questions that I either don’t want to answer or simply can’t.

But not Remington.

Standing, I walk over to his bed and hand him the note.

Don’t you want to know why I don’t talk?

“I mean, I want to know. But I figure you'll tell me when we're better friends.” He smirks, looking at me upside down.

Oh. That's…unexpected? Sweet?

I shake my head both as a reminder to him about us not being friends and as a reminder to myself not to fall for his charm.

I hand him another note, bringing us back to the reason I'm here.

Have you thought about which poet we should focus on?

“You have nice handwriting,” he replies instead of answering my question.

“My handwriting looks like a doctor's. Here, let me show you.” He rolls onto his stomach, pushes off the bed and moves to the desk, leans over me and takes the post-its out of my hand.

His arm brushes my chest, and like that night in the pizzeria, I catch a whiff of his expensive cologne.

I know nothing about fragrances, but I think there is something citrusy in it.

Underneath it is a subtle hint of grape.

Remington writes his own name and what I think says Walt Whitman, but he’s right, his writing is terrible, bordering on illegible.

I tap my pen on the poet’s name and nod my head. Remington grins.

“Good.” Then he flops back onto his bed. He’s rolled the note I gave him earlier into a little ball and is throwing it into the air then catching it, alternating each hand as he does.

“I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you,” Remington recites the line from Whitman’s poem To You, his voice soft and lyrical.

I find myself drawn in by the cadence of his voice, entranced as he recites the poem word for word.

I’m finding it hard to reconcile this man from the cocky one I meet in the ring, the one who openly jeers with his friends, sometimes at the expense of others.

I wait for the inevitable panic to hit, for my fears of being alone with him to surface, but they don’t.

There’s a current of comfort that runs through this entire house that makes me feel safe.

Maybe it’s ill advised, but I relax back in the seat, listening to him as he concludes the poem.

There's something about this version of Remington that I don't hate.

“Good memory,” he says, tapping his head. “And I have a knack for words, which is why I’m studying English. I love poetry and the classics.”

I open my mouth to tell him that’s how I feel, not sure that I’ll manage to get the words to pass my lips, but feeling confident enough to try. I don’t get the chance though, as his bedroom door flies open, startling us both.

“Remington,” Finn groans, drawing out the last letters of his name. “I’m so fucking horny, dude.” It’s only once those words are out of his mouth and Remington is shooting up on the bed that Finn notices me at the desk.

“Ah, it’s the fucking loser. Again .” He sneers.

“What’s he doing here?” Finn directs his question at Remington, a hint of accusation in his voice, but doesn’t take his eyes off of me.

There’s a hardness to his posture. A silent warning, a bolstering of his feathers that tells me to stay away from his friend.

“We’re hanging out,” Remington replies, his lips twitching into a grin, like he’s enjoying his best friend's obvious peacocking.

“Watch out he doesn’t steal your mom’s jewels,” Finn snickers, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. “Maybe we should check his bag before he leaves.”

Remington rolls his eyes, but he says nothing.

Not a fucking thing. Remington, I decide in that moment, isn’t a bully.

He’s a bully-by-proxy, which in a way is worse because he has the ability to put a stop to all.

He could tell Finn to stop. To shut up. He doesn’t though.

He acts like it’s all one big joke. Like words don’t have the capacity to hurt like a punch to the gut.

I jot down a note, then cross the room, passing Finn, and shove it at Remington.

We are not hanging out. Is he going to leave so we can work?

Remington looks from me to his best friend and back again. The indecision clear on his face. Heaven forbid everyone’s favourite golden boy tell one of his minions to fuck off.

I scribble out another note.

I’ll go, and we can do this another time. When you’re not busy.

“What’s with all the notes? God, it’s like you’re some schoolgirl with a crush,” Finn mocks. I keep my eyes off of him, that earlier calm I felt in Remington’s presence now a burning inferno of anger and frustration. I knew coming here was a bad idea.

“Finn, dude. Go down to the den and play on the Xbox. Holden and I have work to do. Give us an hour, then we’ll heat up dinner.” Remington’s words are delivered with an air of finality, leaving no room for arguing.

If I was that way inclined, I’d be the one showing off my feathers now. Fuck you, idiot, I won. But, I don’t because I am better than him.

Never stoop to their level and never show them how much they affect you. That’s how bullies win. Mum’s words come to me as I stare Finn down.

Finn’s nostrils flare. “Yeah, whatevs,” he remarks before trudging out of the room, his footsteps silent on the soft carpet.

I watch the door where he’s just left before turning to face Remington. He shrugs.

“He’s not a bad guy. His dad’s a proper dick and maybe it’s rubbed off on him a bit.”

Maybe? I scribble on a piece of paper.

“Ha! But seriously, he’s a good guy.” I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’m not asking Remington to take sides or to defend his asshole friends. I couldn’t really care about any of them. I’m only here to get this project over and done with.

My pen scratches over the paper as I write out another note.

You sure I can’t do this alone?

He scrunches up the note and throws it into his trash bin.

“No, we’re doing this together.”

After an hour of pouring over Walt Whitman’s words and both writing out points about what we thought his motives were for writing the poem we selected, Finn walks back into the room.

“Got bored. Can he go now?” he asks, making himself comfortable on Remington’s bed.

He has a familiarity with Remington and his home that speaks of a long friendship or of someone who takes life for granted.

I imagine that comes from being handed everything you could ever dream of and wanting for nothing.

“Holden’s staying for dinner,” Remington replies, his tone flat as he studies the laptop screen, still distracted by the work we’ve been doing.

I nudge his shoulder to get his attention, then shake my head before closing my laptop and gathering up my things. Remington protests and when I pass him a final note reminding him once again that we are not friends, Finn grins widely, like the cat that got the cream.

I want to tell him that he can stand down – that we’re not in some competition to win over Remington. I want nothing to do with either of them.

But, I can’t say anything. So instead, I leave and head home to my empty room and my cheap noodles.