Page 21 of Blitz

I lift the weights and eke out my eight reps. “She doesn’t want me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Okay. Fine. I don’t know how I feel about her.” I huff and puff for breath. “My heart wants her, and my head is telling me to run far, far away.”

“And your dick?”

I force out a laugh. “I know better than to listen to my dick. It just wants to get laid. I’m not about that life.”

“I know, I know.” He lifts a few reps and pauses with the weight curled into his chest, breathing hard. “Maybe you should, though. It hasn’t steered me wrong.”

“I’ve tried that.”

“Once.”

“And it was awful.”

“Maybe you should try again. Evaluate a larger sample size. Maybe it was only that one chick.”

I don’t want to try again. Sex isn’t a need for me, it’s a want, and I’m more than used to repressing it. I need an emotional connection with someone before I can want to get naked with them. The only person I’ve ever felt close enough to in order to let my guard down is Mason.

Mama calls me demisexual. I don’t need to put a label on it. I am who I am. Mom says labels are important, but living outside of them can be just as freeing. I don’t know. I don’t feel the need to come out like they had to. I’m just me.

I wish I knew whether I am still hung up on the past or if I’m actually in love with Mason. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. I’m definitely still attracted to her. There’s a pull there, a connection. I want more than just sex with her. I want a life with her. I want to spend all my free time with her. I want to know everything about her. I’ve always seen a future for us: past college, past grad school, a real future with marriage and babies. It should scare me. For some reason, it doesn’t—it never has.

But I also have to put myself first. I have a year and a half left before I graduate. I need to get into grad school. I need to play football and keep my athletic scholarship. I don’t have to have a girlfriend in order to achieve my dreams. That’s a want, not a need.

Not that any random girl will do. I only want her. She’s the only one I’ve ever wanted.

I wish I could talk to my brother about this. Jamal is great with women. He always knows just what to say, what to do. I’m not naturally suave. I’m just a big, giant loser.

My brother answers on the first ring. “Little T!”

“Hey, man,” I say, ignoring the fact that I outweigh him by nearly a hundred pounds. He’s tall and all lean muscle, the ideal size and shape for a basketball point guard, and I’m big and wide, the ideal shape for a defensive tackle. How our white lesbian sports-averse moms ended up adopting two black semi-pro athletes, I’ll never know.

Well, Jamal is technically a real professional now. It doesn’t matter that he’s riding the bench. He’s in the NBA. It counts.

After all these years of putting my body on the line, it’s time for my brain to pull its weight. I’m going to be the best damn addiction counselor there is.

Which is another reason Mason’s meltdown last night worries me. I know college kids go out. I know they drink. But this... it’s not like the Mason I used to know. And I realize she’s a different person now. I understand she’s a grown adult and allowed to indulge in alcohol, if that’s what she wants. But it doesn’t sit right with me. She’s hiding. Using.

I can’t fix her. That’s not my job, not anymore.

Jamal and I catch up. He has a game tonight in Philly, then it’s back on the plane to Detroit. It feels like he’s on the road more than he’s home these days. Then again, he’s living the life he’s always dreamed of; he has to make some sacrifices, and constant travel is part and parcel for professional athletes.

I miss my big brother. We’ve been living apart for five years, ever since he went off to UNC on his basketball scholarship. Our relationship exists mostly through memes and random text conversations. He’s my big brother, but he doesn’t have time for me. It took me a long time to accept that. He’s moving on to bigger and better things. He’s not leaving me behind; it’s just that his priorities have shifted. So have mine.

I don’t talk to Mason all week. She sits in the back of our sociology class all by herself, where she can stare out the window and daydream. On Wednesday, I see her from across the dining hall—she’s talking to her friend, the blonde woman from the track meet. We don’t interact. We simply… coexist.

And then it’s time for our Friday shift at the assessment center.

I don’t know what to say to her. Do I say anything at all? Was Saturday night a one off? Does she go out drinking every weekend? Does she get that wasted every week?

As much as I don’t want to worry about her, a piece of me is always going to care about her. Right now it’s a pretty significant chunk. I want to make her smile and I want to make her laugh, yes, but I want to take care of her and make all the bad things in her life go away.

Mason gives me a polite smile when I walk into the clinic. She’s already sitting at her desk, her developmental psychology book open in front of her.

I can be civil. I can be the bigger person.