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Football had been a compass point, an orientation that made my decisions for me: eat to play better, sleep to play better, train to play better, lift to play better. Then, on the field, the logic became more granular: run here to block, zag there to tackle. Sweat, adrenaline, accomplishment, improvement, repeat.
At the end of a practice or a game, I’d been exhausted, pushed to my limits, and then I’d been able to relax. No room for thought or feeling or worry or dread. Just peace.
“Football was everything then. I played ball, practiced ball, worked out to be in shape to play. Went to friends’ games who played other sports. It didn’t seem like TV high school, though.”
“Were you good?”
I cleared my throat, like that might sand away the years I’d spent pushing myself to be better and better. And what happened after.
“Yeah.”
Felix raised an eyebrow, expecting more.
“Got a scholarship for school. That’s how I ended up in New York.”
“Whoa, for real? You must’ve been really good.”
The crowd cheering, students I didn’t recognize high-fiving me as I walked across campus, cheerleaders vying for my attention, the coach’s slap on my back that said “Well done” louder than my own father had ever said it.
“This is ready.” I put spaghetti, sauce, and salad on the table.
Felix slid off the counter and into a seat, resting one heel on the edge of his chair and folding the other foot beneath him, folding himself up like a paper crane.
“Thanks,” he said, waving at the food. “Did you make this because of the episode?”
“Hmm?”
“Secaucus Psychic. The episode I was just watching, they were eating spaghetti. When you came out of the bathroom?”
“Huh. I didn’t notice.”
“Unconsciously you apparently did,” he said, winking at me.
“If you say so.”
“Do you believe in psychic stuff?” Felix asked after we ate in silence for a minute.
“I dunno. Don’t actively believe in it. But if someone says they see or hear or understand something I can’t? Hell, that happens every day, even without the supernatural involved. I’m not so arrogant as to think I know shit about shit.”
Felix smiled.
“You?” I asked.
He bit his lip and shifted his weight back and forth. He was never quite still.
“I’m not sure I full-on believe that people can talk to actual spirits of dead people, but…I kinda do believe in psychic abilities, yeah. Like, people are attuned to such different things. So why wouldn’t some people be tuned in to things like ghosts or others’ thoughts? Like, there are people who have no empathy at all, right? Just total narcissists. It stands to reason there are people who have excess empathy. Enough that maybe they can tune in to presences that aren’t even around anymore.”
I nodded and he went on.
“But does that mean ghosts and stuff are actually real? Or does it mean the way those people feel is real but the stuff they pick up is only in their brains? Like synesthesia. I don’t really know.”
“Just because something exists only in the brain doesn’t mean it’s not real,” I said. “Like feelings? Hate, fear, pain. Love. The brain’s part of the body, and it processes pain, so if someone gets hurt and the pain processing happens in the brain, does that mean pain’s not real?”
The vividness of the cravings I’d experienced argued that things in the brain were just as concrete as a chair.
“You’re right,” Felix said. “Feelings are definitely real. I guess maybe I was thinking of ghosts or spirits as something tangible in order to be real, but maybe if they’re real they’re more like a feeling?”
“Maybe.”
He slurped up a mouthful of spaghetti that left his mouth red with sauce and gestured absently with his fork.
“I guess I think…a lot of times it doesn’t matter if something is real itself. It’s more about what its effects are in the world. Like, we don’t know if God is real, but religion’s had hella concrete, material effects on the world. So does it matter if the thing is real when people act like it is?”
“I agree. I think the effects matter more than whether something is real. I care more about the ethics and less about the philosophy of it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Felix said.
“No?”
“No. Everything you do says you care about how you treat people, how people treat each other, whether your actions make the world better or worse.”
The back of my neck tingled, and I ducked my head.
“That’s good then,” I muttered, and shoveled in spaghetti.
When it looked like he was going to say more about his impressions of me, I said, “You always intend to hand that gig over to your sister?”
He nodded. “Oh, hell yeah. I only agreed to take that meeting because we realized it could be an in for her. Me as a rock star?” He scoffed at the thought. “Total nightmare. I would die. I like to sing. But like, in the shower or in a car. Being famous seems horrible. Being the center of attention from total strangers? Being on the road in a bus all day? The whole thing’s just super not my scene. It’s maybe not gonna make me sound very exciting or cool, but I like being at home, honestly. Well.” He looked around. “I like it when home feels nice. Our place is…uh, kind of depressing.”
