“Yeah, but they’d probably try to pin your death on me. I don’t think my career can withstand that kind of scandal.”
“Fair point, but why are you in my bed?”
“You said stay,” he says matter of factly.
Never in a million years would I invite Brandon Nix into my bed. “No way. I did no such thing.”
“You did. I came in to check on you, but you said stay. I thought maybe you were afraid or not feeling well, so I stayed. Again, I can’t have you dying on my watch. I don’t watch enough Dateline to know how to dispose of your body without tracing it back to me. Just my hair alone will incriminate me. It sheds all the time.”
I have to laugh at this absurd situation as well as his comments about his locks. “Your hair is a crime in and of itself. But don’t worry; you’re a dude. You get an automatic pass. You’d be fine.” I stand up and head to the bathroom. When I finish up and open the door, he’s sitting on my couch like he owns the place, scrolling away on his phone.
He keeps talking as if there’d been no break in the conversation. As if he belongs here. As if this is somethingwe do.As if it’s normal for us to share a bed. “What was that supposed to mean? Do you really think I could accidentally kill you and get away with it just because I’m a male athlete?”
This is an easy argument to win. I don’t even have to visit Google to come up with a list of offenders. “Michael Vick. Oneil Cruz. Ray Lewis. O.J. Simpson.”
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with our society?
“Michael Vick didn’t kill anyone. It was just dog fighting.”
“Yeah, and he was permanently suspended, except then he wasn’t, and he ended up not only playing again, getting paid millions of dollars, but even winning a courage award from his teammates. The other three absolutely killed people, and two of them kept playing after the fact! I can’t even get paid the same amount as my coworkers simply because I don’t have a penis. Now I’m going to lose everything I’ve ever wanted because some hot soccer player invades my personal space, and the collective internet expects me to swoon like a ninny.”
“You think I’m hot?” Brandon asks with a shit-eating grin. He stands up and disappears into my kitchen.
Of course, he focuses on that. “You know what you look like, though someday we have to circle back to what’s going on with your hair. Did you even hear what I said? The rest of it? I ...” I plop down on my couch. “I don’t know what to do with you.” The last statement is more a mutter to myself.
He sits down next to me and hands me a glass of water. “First you can drink this because you have to stay hydrated, and then you can thank me because I’ve solved our problems. Do you have a computer?”
I point to the second bedroom that serves as my office. “Laptop’s on the desk in there. Just grab it and bring it out.” I’m pretty sure that even without my permission, Brandon would have helped himself. He has boundary issues, which is a shock to exactly no one. I do drink the water though, not that I’d tell him I’m thirsty.
Actually, I wouldn’t tell anyone I was thirsty because I wouldn’t want to put them out or draw attention to myself. In this case, though, I don’t want Brandon Nix to know he was right.
I’d probably rather turn to dust right in front of him than admit that he was right about something, especially my needs.
He returns with my computer and opens it up. He turns it toward me so I can enter my passcode. As he does he says, “We also need to circle back to the pay comment.” Brandon opens up a browser and hits a few keystrokes. “Voila!” he says triumphantly. “This is what we need. I tried telling you about it last night, but you were having trouble focusing. I already emailed them and took care of everything.”
I blink at the screen. I’m not supposed to have a lot of screen time. I don’t know what I think will happen if I look at it. The scene inRaiders of the Lost Arkwhere the guy’s face melts off passes through my mind.
Probably not that.
I hope.
“Pillowcases?” I squint, trying to read the small print.
“The main thing is pillowcases for kids with chronic illnesses like cancer, but they have this whole other section for siblings of kids with chronic illnesses. They do counseling and groups and special gifts because these kids are often overlooked. Did you know there’s a term for that? It’s called glass child syndrome. It’s because the parents of children with special needs tend to ‘look through’ their healthy children.”
I feel my breath rush out, leaving a hollow feeling in my chest.
It’s perfect.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sudden moisture to be reabsorbed into my body. It sounds ridiculous but it’s a maneuver I perfected when I was a kid.
No one wants to see the healthy one crying about anything. We have no reason to cry.
“I’m going to stop in the front office to see about doing an event. Like a clinic or something. You know, teach them how to play soccer. And then we can have the kids come to a game. Make a big deal for them.”
It takes me a bit longer to process what he’s saying. “That’s all well and good for repairing your image, but what about me? Why am I here? I mean, other than I live here. What does this have to do with me?”
