Ch. 01: Heavy like Honey

Note: Hi, thanks for your interest in this series. This first chapter is kind of a 'meet-cute' situation and does not involve anything explicit, so if you're looking for a quick fix, this may not be the one as it is also somewhat long. However, if you're looking for the first chapter of a romance series with lots of build up and tension, hopefully you will enjoy. Thanks so much. ~ Fluidity

Casey's head swam, a drunken weight swirling around in her temples and blurring her vision of the basketball court. She watched as the players ran, some lagging, toward each respective net again and again. She searched for Olly and found him, the lone towhead on the court, so skinny and the tallest in his grade. He was the school's star player, landing more baskets than any of the others could probably hope to.

She was proud of her brother. She could be jealous, but that would be admittedly child-like. However, she couldn't help recalling how middle school had been for her, and the memories stung like flies, biting at the unchangeable. She remembered being the tallest as well, (it ran in the family.) Unlike her brother, though, she had also been one of the few 'plus' size girls and she remembered how it made her feel like she stood out against all the other kids. She'd grown quickly, once even being asked if she were a visiting sub. She quirked a smile at the ridiculousness of that as the memory came. She remembered how lost she'd felt, how her depression had found her at such an early age. She'd been told countless times what an old soul she was - but she'd had to be. She hadn't, couldn't have, related to her peers. They just hadn't understood.

Her heart pounded steadily in her chest. Having not eaten anything decent, she was hungry, and the pills she'd taken were making everything take on a kind of glimmering sheen- the clean court seemed to come alive with the light from the scoreboard. The middle school she and her brother had attended, was winning, and would win, she was sure.

She sighed, looking over carefully at her mother, who looked very pale, hands in her lap, staring placidly out. She realized she probably looked very similar, and the thought was not an entirely pleasant one but it didn't sting anymore either. She seemed to have collected a lot of the hurt and insecurity from both of her parents, piling them together and slinging it over her shoulder as though they were raked leaves, just never to be thrown out. She put her head in her hand as it rested on her thigh. She was tired.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted someone entering the gym. She glanced over casually. Her heartbeat escalated from its already pronounced state as she realized who it was. It was Hassan. She quickly looked back down to the bleachers, staring at her tennis shoes, bringing them together and rubbing the siding, nervous.

She had never really figured it out, why she found him to be so interesting. Her proclivities and attractions often confused her. She sometimes felt she could fall in love with almost anyone, given the opportunity to truly look, to see if she could find the gems hidden in their eyes. She hadn't told her parents that she was both attracted to men and women. Hell, she hadn't told anybody about that, and she had only told one friend about her long-standing crush on Hassan.

He was one of those people with a charming smile that could light up a room. Even if one were sad, you felt compelled to smile along, as though the corners of your mouth were tugged by a rope. He was thin, and alternated startlingly between being very fashionable and wearing a loose hoodie and jeans. His features were somewhat boxy, angular, and uniquely handsome. Most of all, though, his eyes were warm, almost like melted copper, if a bit darker.

She chanced another look and saw him sit down at the very end of the bleachers. She recognized his father, a very straightforward man who wore his belted jeans high with a shirt tucked in. He always seemed serious, but kind. He sat, however, next to the other with them, his girlfriend, Mary. Mary was intoxicatingly beautiful, with big bright blue eyes and pale blonde hair, long thin legs and sharp shoulders. Casey could feel her jealousy toward the girl, but it was not animosity. She'd never had a negative experience with her, only had watched her from afar as she seemingly had sailed through life, captain of the cheerleading team and the debate captain. So, not only was she beautiful, but Casey knew she was wickedly smart. She watched as Mary turned toward Hassan and smiled a bit. He sat down and stared out at the court. Casey thought it a bit odd that they weren't more overtly affectionate toward each other but she also realized that they had been together for quite a long while at this point, at least in Casey's view. They had started dating in the last year of highschool and were still together now, two years later.

People had been confused about their relationship in school. Unfortunately, a lot of people in school had been judgemental, seeing only skin tone and clique affiliation as the only determining parameters of what constituted a solid choice for a prom date, but, with Mary's status as Queen Bee, no one pushed the matter, and Hassan was funny, and, well, had 'scored.' Casey could see the match, and why it worked. Hassan was kind of quiet, understated and kind. Mary was motivated, ladder-climbing, and a tad vain, but was not the kind of person, having been raised by 'good' parents, (whatever that meant,) to come down on someone or tease them, especially for things out of their control.

Casey imagined Mary's frazzled mother she'd once met at a bake sale, with her frizzy red hair, at Christmas with Hassan's father. Maybe they found common ground over a food they both liked, or a movie, or maybe they both liked gardening... Casey would never know, and she chided herself for wondering about things that had absolutely no bearing on her own life, instead of focusing on the mile-long list she had been writing in her mind, containing all of her faults, all of the things she should be doing, and all the things she wish she'd done differently.

"Go, Olly!" Casey's Mom unexpectedly let out a small yell to encourage her boy. Casey smiled. That was encouraging. Usually out in public, her mother shut up as though mute. The fact that her brother had recently stated he'd rather not be called Olly but Oliver instead made it even better. Casey had finally reached that age where she no longer found her Mother to be embarrassing, and saw her as a person too. She did, however, revel a little in her brother's embarrassment. A little is good for a kid, she thought.

She realized she'd missed his basket and made the effort to continue watching, and not continue looking over at the pair she had nothing to do with.

The times she'd interacted with Hassan were special to her, though.

They'd made stuffed animals together in Home Ec. It was a memory she kept so close to her heart, she could still feel the polyfil. They'd laughed and laughed. They'd gone almost mad, joking, flirting. She realized now that it was, indeed flirting, as an adult. She still questioned it sometimes but she knew it internally to be true. She remembered getting higher and higher with every step she took as she'd walked toward that class while they were partners. Still, his affections were never in reach within her mind.

His father owned the only bowling alley around for miles, and most times she'd gone in, (whether it be for a birthday or just to bowl with Vickie, her best and only friend,) Hassan had been behind the counter. Vickie knew instinctively to scuttle off after she'd gotten her shoes to scout out the lane.

They had a routine. He'd ask, "Size Clown?"

The question was in reference to the first time she'd come in to bowl there.

He'd asked her shoe size and in a somewhat bold mood, Casey had said, "Size 11, Size Clown."

He'd laughed. It had made Casey feel warm all over, melty. It still did, when she thought about it, and how the joke had evolved over the years-- when he'd once given them to her along with a red rubber nose. She had laughed hard, and asked him where he'd gotten the thing.

"There was a birthday party here a few weeks ago, and he had some for the kids. I asked for one too."

There had been a moment of stillness as she'd realized that he thought of her enough to act, in that moment, and approach a child's birthday clown.

"I'll wear it with pride," she'd said.

"Ha, no you won't," he'd laughed.

"You're right. I probably won't, but, um, thanks anyway." She'd lifted the nose in mock appreciation and started off to join Vickie, dopamine flooding her brain as the space-themed bowling alley carpet seemed to take on the form of puffy clouds that floated her to her destination.

She hadn't been back bowling in years, though. Times had been hard. Two years out of highschool, and she had dropped out of college. Vickie was still a friend, but no longer the constant at-her-hip companion that she used to be. Time does that; hurt does that.

The night flashed again in her mind's eye. It burned. It stung her stomach and still made her want to cry. Waking up to hearing your mother wailing with sobs is never the best way to wake up. Finding her, crumpled upon the floor, with a note in her hand, only a page long, was a disturbing sight, with only the kitchen light illuminating her form, just so.

"What's wrong? Mom-"

Casey stopped the reverie as quickly as she could. He was gone; there was no going back, and good riddance. He'd never been a good father anyway. He had been like a ghost in the house, floating from car to kitchen for sustenance, to hide away in his office, where he'd sleep for the night. When she was a child she thought she saw something in his eyes, but no longer. Now when she thought of him, his eyes looked gray, like still pools of dirty standing water, as a stranger, a stranger who'd had another family and came home to them, as though their home were a hostel and not a place where two children were struggling to become themselves, and where a woman was losing all that she had ever found.

Stop it, Casey, goddammit. Stopping those thoughts was always harder than she thought it should be.

She turned her thoughts back, instead, to Mary.

She'd never really talked to her, only watched her debate. She was devilishly, viciously good. She'd tear apart an argument as though she were a hungry vulture and she'd found a fresh kill. She won at regionals once. Casey wondered at what it felt like to really succeed at something. She knew she was good at her hobby, photography, but she would never dare to say that she was as good at that as Mary was at debate.

The game was nearing its end. She observed the opposing team, and they all looked a little tired, irritated, grumpy. Middle school was hard. Casey didn't think she'd ever heard anybody say that middle school had been easy for them. She comforted herself a bit with this thought. She saw it in her own brother, such a time of change. However, he had lots of friends and things to keep him occupied. He wasn't like her. He didn't hide away in his room and let his sorrow fill it full as he listened to a new song on repeat- one that made him feel. She watched as Olly jogged back down to center court.

She decided to chance one last glance at Hassan, because, who knew, it might be the last she'd get, or at least, the last for a long while.

She was startled when she found his eyes. He was not boredly observing, or laughing with Mary. What is happening? She thought.

There was no doubt about it, he was looking directly at her, and as their eyes met, even from the opposite end, what felt then like miles away from where she sat, she found herself still able to swim in the warmth, to dive into the deepness of his eyes and a slow tingle started at her toes and curled its fingers up along her spine.

As quickly as they'd made eye contact, though, it was broken, and Casey quickly turned her attention back to the court, full of nerves. The buzzer went, and the score flashed a bright red LED. Another win for her brother. Good for him, she thought.

She itched to leave, to go home and work on a small sculpture she was painting. She felt heat in her face, and she suddenly felt very overdone; suddenly she thought maybe she was wearing too much makeup for a middle school event or that her all black attire was embarrassing and not nearly as cool as she had thought it was when she'd picked it earlier. She could feel the confines of her body, where maybe there was too much of it.

"I'm gonna step out. I'll meet you and Olly out front, okay?" She turned toward her Mother.

"Okay, you alright?" The perpetual lines of worry furrowed in her mother's brow as she asked, gently.

"I'm fine. Just gonna sneak a cigarette."

"Okay, honey. What a nice game."

"Yeah. He's doing great, Mom." Casey said, and gently placed a hand on her mother's in reassurance before walking down the precarious bleacher stairs, out of the gym and into the main hallway.

The surroundings were so familiar, and yet seemed so eerie. Certain things weren't right, like how they'd repainted the lockers a deeper blue, and how it smelled too clean.

It was refreshing walking out into the crisp summer evening, able to look up at the giant oak that stretched its arms across the sky, wavering purple and orange as the sun shone its last rays.

Casey meandered over to the bike rack, situated next to a white shed where the janitor's supplies were kept, with its peeling paint job. She kicked a pinecone out of the way and leaned against it. Digging in her purse, careful not to drop anything, as it was close to overflow, she found her cigarettes and lit one. She knew it was a dirty habit, but she'd started very young, and it seemed to be one of the only things that could ever take the edge off for her. She'd stopped drinking, which was probably one of the reasons she spent less time with Vickie, who was known for liking a shot, or three. It had never felt that great to her; in fact it frequently left her feeling an even deeper shade of lonely gray inside, instead preferring the occasional double dose of her prescribed anxiety medicine. So, she blew a plume of smoke up into the night air and breathed, remembering that even at 13 she would come to this spot, alone, by the bike rack no one ever used and the shed everyone neglected, just to be by herself. To be by herself, and to smoke.

"You always say that! I am so tired of that!"

Casey could make out someone half-yelling, over and across the parking lot. She adjusted her glasses and squinted to try and make them out in the dark.

It was Mary, walking with purpose, toward her car, keys in hand. She threw open the door of the white Saturn she owned and spun around. Following quickly behind her, she could tell that she was speaking to Hassan.

"I don't always say that, Mary. Can we just talk about this, please?" He stood somewhat dejectedly by her door that divided them.

"Not right now. I'm gonna take a drive. This is too much right now." With that, Mary got in and closed the car door, rolling down the window. "I'll talk to you later."

As she started the engine, loud, poppy-sounding music spilled out into the night.

"Mary? What, you're not even going to give me a ride back?" Hassan spoke, though there was no way that she could have heard.

She pulled out slowly from the parking lot, increasing speed as she hit the main drag, headlights flooding the night. Casey watched as she pulled away, and had the desire to make herself very small. It felt wrong to have seen it. She took another drag on her cigarette and looked at her shoes again, suddenly very interested in the gravel and dirt.

Looking up again as people began to flood out toward their cars and walk back down along the overlooked sidewalks, she could still see Hassan's vague form standing where he had been. She watched him furtively until he turned back to start toward the gymnasium, to find his father, Casey thought.

He paused by the oak, taking another look towards the lot, and as he went to go back inside, he saw through the deep indigo the burning ember of a cigarette, and, squinting, seemed to make Casey out in the dark.

She found herself barely breathing. She felt silly, and like a spy, and not a very good one, as though she had planned to see their argument, like a stalker. Her cheeks burned, but, trying to play cool, took another drag and looked away and down.

She started inside as she noticed him coming her way, and in what seemed to be only a few strides, he was there before her.

The scent of pine and honeysuckle, carried by the summer air, became prominent as he came closer into view, and the moment seemed sweet and heavy like honey.

"Hey. Casey, right?" He asked, smiling gently, a bit awkwardly.

Casey instructed herself internally to try and not act like a total freak. "Yeah, Hassan, right?" She smiled genuinely.

"Yeah. Been a while." He looked down at the ground and his sincerity seemed out of place to Casey, who felt like she might as well be a worm wriggling in one of the small puddles that marked the path back to the school.

"Can I bum a cigarette from you?"

His eyes were so deep in the darkness, illuminated only in flashes by the orange-glow.

"Yeah, sure." She struggled again with her purse, feeling embarrassed by it. "Here you go." She handed him one.

"Can I get a light too? Sorry," he laughed, coming just a step closer.

"Yeah, no problem." She felt a whirling inside, like someone had turned the key on a music box in her stomach.

He had the cigarette in his mouth and, without thinking about it, lit his cigarette for him. The moment immediately felt too intimate, as she watched his face capture the light, and as she looked at his lips.

"Thanks. Sorry. I know these things aren't cheap. I'm trying to quit."

"It's okay," Casey said, grateful she'd been leisurely smoking and still had some to go. She wondered when she'd see her mother and Olly exit. "I've been trying to quit forever. It's hard."

"It is." He smiled. He seemed a bit far away, like his mind was trying to float off. Casey thought maybe she should leave him to be alone, that he probably just wanted a smoke and not to talk with clown-shoes.

As she prepared herself to leave, he asked, "How are you? What have you been doing these days?"

"I'm okay. I was taking some college courses, but, I don't know. Right now I'm just working on some art." She paused, wondering why she was revealing so much, but continued, "I am kind of just helping my Mom out right now."

"That's nice," he said, "What kind of art do you do?"

"Well, after realizing I'm not that great at making stuffed animals, I had to pivot," Casey laughed, saying, "and now I do photography, some sculpture, some painting."

Hassan was laughing. "I was wondering if you remembered that." He looked out across the grounds to the playground beyond.

"You were?" Casey felt her throat tighten a little, maybe with the realization that her default-mode was to think that no one ever really thought much of her, ever.

"Yeah. We had fun." He looked at her, and the 'melt' began again. He looked serious for only a moment, and then the smile was back. "That teacher was crazy."

"Ms. Fuch's? Yeah, she was something." Staring out as he was, Casey lifted an eyebrow remembering the overly serious, frumpy woman who used to slap the desk with a ruler. She would have disliked her, but, interestingly, she could be devastatingly funny when she meant to be.

As she looked, she saw Olly's team number as he and her mother walked out leisurely, Olly eating orange slices out of a bag.

"Ah, that's my family. I gotta go." she said, wishing time instead would lay its hourglass flat. "Where's your Dad?" She laughed.