Chapter 12 TJ
I’m dying to know what’s on that list. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I spend so much time scrolling ClikClak that I am used to getting the inside details of complete strangers’ personal lives, and it’s made me nosy. Who knows?
I have to see that paper.
I want to know what else would be on a list that includes meeting me. I’m still trying to process that someone thought about me, thought I was worthy enough to include on their dying wish list.
Also, that someone actually took the time to write it down. Weird.
Rachel is looking at me with those big, sad eyes. She also has some of the frosting from the cinnamon roll on the corner of her mouth. I can’t stop staring at it. Thoughts of how to remove it dance through my brain.
All involve touching her, and some involve my tongue.
She’s totally not my type, so I don’t know why my brain is going there.
"You can’t laugh at it. Richie wrote this for me." Her hand is shaking as she holds the paper out. "I can’t believe I’m doing this," she mutters softly.
Tell me about it. When I walked into Lawadessa and saw her sitting there on the swing, I did not have control over my feet.
They moved directly to her. Why? I have no idea.
I would typically never seek out a crazy fan.
In fact, most times when I’m out in public, I try to conceal my identity with a baseball hat and sunglasses.
With the skies being gray and the humidity oppressive, I didn’t bother with them today. Too hot for a hat, and wearing sunglasses would probably call more attention to me.
I glance down at the list. It’s a photocopy of a piece of notebook paper. I can see the faint lines that I know are blue, though they appear light gray. There’s a swirly handwriting that starts off neat but is visibly shaky by the bottom of the page.
The first line says, "Dear Rachel, If you’re reading this, I’m dead, and you’re probably crying. It’s time to knock that shit off and put on real pants. Don’t even try to lie to me and tell me you’re wearing hard pants. I’ll haunt your ass."
Before I can read more, the paper disappears from my hands. I look up. "Hey, I was reading that."
Rachel is clutching the paper against her chest. "I changed my mind. I’m not ready to share it yet."
I look at her for a minute before nodding. Again, I can’t imagine what it’d be like to lose one of my brothers. I’d probably be a little nutso too. While the curious part of me wants to know what’s in the letter, there’s a burning need to have something else explained.
"What are hard pants?"
Rachel’s face breaks into a momentary smile.
"You know, pants that are hard. Jeans. Khakis. Dress pants. Pants you wear to be professional and a functional human being. The opposite of soft pants. Sweatpants. Yoga pants. Pajama pants. One has a high content of Lycra and spandex, while the other doesn’t. "
I bend over to look under the table and then sit back up. She’s wearing loose-fitting shorts over her thin legs. "Those are soft pants."
"Yes, but it’s a Sunday morning, and I was out for a walk. You don’t exercise in hard pants."
She has a valid point.
Rachel continues. "And furthermore, I don’t need dressy pants for my job, and Richie knew that. I can be a completely functional human being and be comfortable. The two are not mutually exclusive." She punctuates her rant with a small fist pound on the table.
I put my hands up. "Easy there, killer. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up. I wear soft pants for my job too." I want her to know I’m on her side.
"I’m just sick and tired of everyone thinking they know what’s best for me.
I can make my own decisions. Am I sad? Yes.
Terribly so. My sister was my best friend.
Watching her suffer and die was the worst thing I could possibly imagine.
I’m allowed to grieve. I’m allowed to process it the way I want to process it.
I don’t need everyone up my grill all the time about how I’m grieving. "
There’s obviously a lot more going on here than just the list. It’s probably time for me to leave. And maybe move so I don’t have any more accidental run-ins. That’s too bad, because I really like my apartment.
Awareness dawns on Rachel’s face, her eyes huge and her mouth forming an "O.
" She quickly covers it with her hand. I’m embarrassed for her.
"I’m sorry," she adds, practically jumping to her feet. In the process, she almost flips the table. The jolt is enough to send my half-full smoothie toppling over. It hits the table with enough force that the lid disengages, and I’m left with a lapful of almond, avocado, and oat milk.
Awesome.
Rachel lurches forward, grabbing a handful of napkins as they’re skittering toward the edge of the table. Immediately, she begins blotting.
She’s blotting the smoothie that landed on my lap.
Right there.
Now it’s my turn to jump up, using my hands to block hers, otherwise I’ll be the mortified one. After a split second, she realizes where she’s been rubbing. She lets out a squeak and then proceeds to run toward the door. She didn’t even grab her coffee.
I look from the entrance to my soaking black shorts and back, the bell jangling in her wake.
Almost immediately, two cafe workers with mops and towels appear and begin cleaning up the mess.
I mumble a quick, "Sorry," dropping a few bills on the table, and then I head for the door myself, grabbing Rachel’s iced mocha for her.
The cafe is located on the corner, so she could have gone in one of four directions. I do a quick scan and see her bright pink T-shirt. She’s crossed Chauncey Street and is heading up North Main toward Oakland.
There’s not much traffic on this Sunday morning, so I sprint across all four lanes of Chauncey, not paying any attention to the walk signal. Rachel’s walking at a good clip, but I can run a hell of a lot faster than she can move.
"Rachel, wait! Rachel!"
She slows and then stops as I run up beside her. She turns and looks at me like I’ve got three heads. Or a crotchful of smoothie and a half woody.
Then, the tears start. "What do you want? Can’t you just let this end?" Her hands drop to her knees, and she bends over trying to catch her breath.
I hold out her cup. "You forgot your coffee."
Her head pops up, her eyebrows arched. "You chased after me to give me my coffee?" She straightens, hands on her hips, chest still heaving. "And how did you catch me so fast, and why aren’t you out of breath?" she asks between gasps of air.
"You were only walking."
"I was … speed … walking," she huffs out.
"For one, my legs are a lot longer than yours. And for two, I’m a professional soccer player. I run for a living. If I can’t catch up with you walking, I probably shouldn’t have a job."
"Fair point." She takes the drink and takes a long sip. "I’m sorry about"—her gaze drops down to my groin and then quickly back up—"that. I don’t know what got into me."
"It’s fine. I haven’t been felt up in public in a while, so it’s no biggie."
Rachel’s eyes pinch shut. "Richie would die if I told her this story." Her eyes open. "I should really get going, and no offense, so should you. You’re a mess."
"Okay. You heading this way?" I point down North Main. "Me too."
We start walking, not saying anything for a minute.
I’m not sure what to say next. This whole experience is out of character for me.
Hell, it beats staying inside, aimlessly scrolling on my phone, but I have no idea why I keep pestering this poor girl who is obviously mortified beyond all belief. I can’t help myself.
"I’m up on Oakland," Rachel says. "Not too far."
"I live on Oakland. We must be neighbors," I reply, relief rushing through my veins to finally have a connection to this place. I live in an apartment complex that is a converted chocolate factory. There have to be at least 100 units in my building. I don’t think I’ve spoken to a single neighbor since I’ve moved in.
Wish I knew what was prompting this bout of reclusiveness.
The last few years, it’s been getting worse and worse.
I don’t like being around people anymore.
It’s like, unless it’s my family, I have no idea how to be real anymore.
Even with my teammates, I’m putting on a show of who I think they want me to be.
I’m always thinking about the aesthetics of everything.
I worry constantly that I won’t get the right angle or the perfect shot, or that people will be able to tell it’s all fake.
And if I’m not perfect, they’ll laugh at me.
Except Rachel is real and vulnerable in a way she can’t hide. She doesn’t even bother. Since she’s not hiding, I don’t feel the need to either. She’s probably one of those people on ClikClak who airs all her dirty laundry and train wreck of a life, and gets millions of views because of it.
Hell, I bet I’ve seen her videos.
I realize that the entire time I’ve been with Rachel, I haven’t been thinking about what I’m going to post. Other than the shot of my smoothie, which I’m wearing more than I was able to drink.
It’s somewhat refreshing not to have to worry about what the internet will think of me right now.
It’s almost as if I can take a deep breath for the first time in years.
If I were the deep-thinking type, which we’ve established I’m not, I’d analyze this and try to figure out what it means.
We continue walking side by side in silence.
I glance down at her. She’s got to be close to a foot shorter than my 6′1″ frame.
No wonder we’re moving so slowly. It’s fine.
I don’t have to be at the facility until this afternoon.
All that awaits at home is scrolling ClikClak and trying to think about what content I should be creating for this week.
After what feels like three hours, but is only about fifteen minutes, we reach my building.
I’m about to announce that we’ve reached my place, but I stop myself.
While I’m 99 percent sure Rachel is not a stalker, I don’t know that I want her knowing exactly where I live.
Being in close proximity to fame can make people unpredictable and a little unhinged.
I don’t know if Rachel needs any more help with that. She seems to have enough on her plate right now.
"How much further are you? I can walk you home," I offer. It seems like the gentlemanly thing to do. My mom would be pleased. Actually, I think she would be pleased about this whole encounter, aside from the junk rubbing. She’s always on me to go out and be more social, like with real people, not just online friends.
Hell, if it means socializing, Ma would probably be okay with the junk rubbing too.
And she already tried to adopt Rachel. I’m not sure Rachel was aware of that last night when Ma invited her out for ice cream.
My mom makes it her mission to make sure everyone is taken care of.
It’s why she still does everything for me that she does.
I’d be shocked if my mom didn’t try to get Rachel’s number, if only so she can continue checking in on her.
"I’m just up here, on the right." She points to a sign that says "Twin Oaks Apartments." It looks like it has been there since the ’70s. I have to will myself not to scrunch my nose at the dated building.
"I can get there myself," she says, looking toward the sky. "I think I felt a raindrop. You don’t want to get soaked."
Maybe she doesn’t want me to know the details of where she lives either.
Can’t be too smart in this day and age. If everything she says is true—which it seems to be so far—she doesn’t know me from Adam.
I could be one of those guys who’s looking for the next conquest. I could be looking to take advantage of her.
I’m not, but she doesn’t know that.
I start to reassure her when, without warning, there’s a thunderclap so loud the windows on the building rattle.
The heavens open into a deluge. Rachel screams. I grab her hand and yell, "Run!" like the raindrops are acid, and we’re about to melt. Like I’ve never played 90 minutes of soccer in conditions worse than this.
The front door to my building is only a few feet away, but the rain is so intense that we’re soaked by the time we get there.
"We can’t just go into a random building." Rachel’s hair is plastered to her head, and that oversized t-shirt is starting to cling in all the right places.
"It’s not a random building. I live here," I tell her.
"You live here?" she repeats, seemingly confused by this development.
I nod. "Down this way. Let’s get dried off."
Her feet stop moving, and her eyes narrow.
"I don’t think so. I may not be the most experienced out there, but I know a line when I hear one.
What’s next, do you want to get cleaned off, and then I’m naked in your apartment?
Do you think I’m one of those girls who loses her head at the sight of a hot guy?
Do you think just because you have abs and buns of steel and because I accidentally already rubbed your penis, I’m just going to take off my clothes and let you use me until you’re sick of me and toss me aside like yesterday’s Chipotle wrapper? "
That seems oddly specific and like it may not have anything to actually do with me, other than the abs and buns of steel. And the penis touching. That much is true.
I try to reassure her. "I can 100 percent believe that you are not the type to go to a stranger’s apartment and take your clothes off.
Yeah, I can believe that. Also, I wasn’t feeding you a line.
I wasn’t planning on making a move. I was planning on offering you a towel.
You’ve met my parents. You know I come from people who like to help other people. "
"Oh."
Oh is right. As in oh boy, what have I gotten myself into?