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I’d known I wanted to pursue a career as a therapist or counselor for a long time, but one thing that no one told me was how much I’d actually care about each person’s individual problems, no matter how much they didn’t want to be helped.
“Do you want to tell me what happened with Christian?” I asked. He was another kid who was in my weekly soccer practice, who was currently out on the field talking to a girl.
Matty glared at me. “Well, he sucked my dick after a party on Friday night and then the next day, he called me gay and told me to stay the fuck away from him. Don’t exactly think someone like you could understand that one.”
My heart ached. “That’s awful, Matty,” I told him. “Listen, you can do some laps around the perimeter today if you don’t want to have to play with Christian. I’m really sorry to hear you’re going through that.”
I was surprised to see a thin sheen in Matty’s eyes. He was holding back tears, despite his tough exterior. “I don’t even like Christian. It just fucking sucks.”
“You still showed up today,” I said. “That’s something to be proud of. Really.”
He rolled his eyes. “Easy for you to say. You seem like you’ve never had a problem in your life.”
Before I could respond he broke out in a sprint, starting his laps around the perimeter of the field.
I wished I could say he was wrong. That was, strangely, the only real problem I had in my life: that I was always the one helping out others with their lives.
I’d been my parents’ sixth kid, and they’d managed to have a total of seven. Growing up in a house with that many siblings had taught me early on that someone else’s problems were always more important than my own, and there was always a louder mouth to feed. If I’d been the seventh one born, I probably would have gotten the “baby of the family” attention, but a short 2 years after I came, my sister was born, and I was just another kid again.
One of many. The second-to-last child.
I got used to never standing out. I never made waves. And all I wanted to do was find some way to help, to settle the circus of lively mayhem that was always going on in our house, with seven kids, two parents, and often some form of visiting cousins, aunts, uncles, or family friends.
So I kept to myself, and helped others. I studied, did well in school and sports, and made sure I was never the nail that stuck up out of the wood. It was what I was good at, and it made me happy to add nothing to Mom and Dad’s stress. I focused on other people’s problems and let my own life stay simple, steady as the ocean—calm, grounding, background noise.
It was still true now that I was in college. I played sports, helped out my fraternity with events, tried to do as well as I could in school as a Psychology major, and worked for cash at the brewery whenever I could fit it in. I supported every group I was in, the best I could, trying to do everything right.
No time for a “personal” life.
Never really any time for a girlfriend.
Certainly no time to wonder why the hell I was suddenly dreaming about kissing Charlie.
I plunged into work that night like I was cannonballing into the deep end of a pool. The rush of bartending was everything I needed after long days of classes and coaching. It sounded backwards, but after busy days, the only way I could clear my mind was by doing something fast-paced where I needed to be on autopilot—and that was exactly how I felt each night at the bar.
It was all controlled chaos, between drink orders and cleanup and making sure every single customer was happy. It was loud music, moody lighting, and emotional drunk people, in a big room that smelled like fresh beer and aged oak.
All I could do was hustle, and let my thoughts dissipate.
Then Charlie walked in. And it was like my brain fucking began melting down.
I’d managed to keep my mind off of my dumb dream all evening, but the moment I saw him, I was dropped right back into the image of the dream.
His lips, so close to mine.
Him whispering at me like I belonged to him.
My cock stirred just from seeing him, looking even better tonight than he had in my mind’s eye. Embarrassment hit me like hot air from an oven, and suddenly I couldn’t handle the thought of talking to him yet.
I told Rush I was going to take my fifteen-minute break and headed into the back kitchen, seeking refuge by the tall refrigerators.
