Chapter 13 Rachel
If I were using my rational brain, I’d say I don’t think I have to worry about TJ Doyle making a move on me. Ever. Anyone with eyes knows something like that would never, ever, happen.
However, if someone were writing a list of what not to do in the presence of a guy, I think I’d have checked every one off.
Don’t accidentally make friends with his mom. Check.
Don’t freak out over every single thing he says. Check.
Don’t accidentally touch where his bathing suit covers when you spill his drink on him. Check.
Don’t assume he’s trying to get in your pants when he clearly has no interest. Check. Check. Check.
Finally, I throw my hands up, losing the battle to my inner monologue.
"Look, I appreciate that you’re being nice.
I just haven’t dealt with many people since my sister died, and I think I’ve forgotten how to do it.
Not that I was that good at it before, but I’m definitely worse now.
Yeah, a lot worse. In case you couldn’t tell.
Also, in case I haven’t made it incredibly obvious, I have some trust issues I’m working through right now, too. "
Water drips off his hair and runs down his temple. He raises an eyebrow. "You? Have issues? Say it isn’t so."
I force a small smile. This is why I don’t like to talk to people.
Because when I do, they have no context for me or my life, and I just end up looking like a freak.
When I was in grade school, my classmates didn’t understand why sometimes I would have new clothes, and then I’d be in the same outfit for days.
It was too hard to explain that I had lots of clothes at my grandparents’ house, but sometimes my mom made us leave our belongings behind when she stormed out of a relationship.
It became easier not to talk to people than to explain why I couldn’t have friends over or why I had to make sure Richie had her lunch every day.
Maybe I can explain. "Okay, do you want the short version or the long version?"
"I don’t want any version right now. I want to go put some dry clothes on and warm up before I get too tight. I’ve got practice in a little bit, and I don’t want to be more sore than I need to be."
Yup. I have definitely overstayed my welcome.
"Good point. I’ll just go." I hitch my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the door. This will be for the best. It’s easier to keep to myself than get into why I am the way I am.
I look out at the parking lot. The rain has escalated, and it’s now coming down sideways, pelting the pavement. It’s going to sting, I just know it.
Then I look closer and see tiny white pellets bouncing off the ground. Hail can damage cars. I can only imagine what it’ll do to me. I’m going to be bruised and battered. At least my outsides will finally match my insides.
"Don’t be stupid. Just come and get dried off, and give this a chance to pass. I promise, I won’t make a move."
Of course, he won’t make a move. I can’t even believe I said that. There is no way in hell someone who looks like him would go for someone like me. Not that I want him to. I don’t. I’m still not interested in dating because it’s nothing but heartbreak.
But it’s not like he’s asking me out. Or even flirting with me. Perhaps he’s simply being nice. I spent an hour or so with his parents and brothers yesterday after the game. They do seem like the type of people who like to help. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think he was raised to be kind as well.
Okay, maybe I should take him at his word. Just a little. Just for right now. "I mean, it’s probably not the best idea to go out in the hail."
"If that’s what you describe as ‘not the best idea,’ I sort of want to be there for what one of your worst ideas is. And when I say be there, I mean sitting on the sideline, eating popcorn, and watching that shit show. I’m this way." He tips his head down the hall.
We head to the elevator, where he pushes the number five.
If you looked up awkward in the dictionary, it would have a picture of this moment.
The two of us, standing side by side. Me, looking like a drowned rat with my brown hair parted down the middle, falling out of the sloppy bun at the nape of my neck, and plastered to my head.
I’d actually put some mascara on this morning, and it’s undoubtedly tracking down my cheeks, so that I now resemble a deranged raccoon.
TJ Doyle, on the other hand, is one of those mythical creatures who actually gets hotter when he’s soaking wet, like Mr. Darcy walking out of the lake.
His black T-shirt is now hugging every single muscle on his torso and arms.
I totally understand why he made it to Richie’s bucket list. He should be on every woman’s bucket list. And free pass list. He should be on all the lists.
I should break the silence. I should make small talk. I should do something—anything—to make this elevator trip less uncomfortable. We’re only going up five floors, but it might as well be fifty. Are there minions pulling this elevator by hand? Maybe a hamster on a wheel?
I try to think of something to say and draw a complete and total blank. Why am I so bad at this?
Oh, right. I don’t talk to many people, unless it has to do with sewage.
Even I know that’s a topic to steer clear of in casual conversation.
I virtually never speak to a member of the opposite sex if he isn’t related to me or if he doesn’t work with me.
Dear Lord, it’s as if I’ve lost all ability to function in a social context.
Normally, I’d say it doesn’t bother me, but I’m blowing this for Richie.
I fulfilled her wish, technically, but I have to make more out of this experience.
For some reason unbeknownst to me, he keeps landing in my path, and fate keeps pushing us together.
It has to be because I need to do more for Richie.
"So, what do you do when you’re not playing soccer?"
TJ turns to look at me. Based on the expression on his face, I quickly glance at myself in the mirrored doors to see if I’ve suddenly sprouted an extra head that I’m not aware of. Nope, just me in all my drowned-rat glory.
Thank God I put on a bra today, otherwise I’d be ready to compete in a frumpy wet T-shirt contest. I’m a mess.
"What’s it to you?"
If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a distinct snap in his tone. I don’t know if I should redirect the conversation to something else or if standing here in the most painfully awkward silence ever is the preferred option.
I open my mouth, but the doors part, sparing—or prolonging—my misery. I follow him down the hall and to the door that leads to his place. He unlocks it and pushes it open, gesturing for me to go in front of him.
I walk in and immediately halt, too busy taking everything in to move further. This apartment is stunning. High ceilings showing wood slats and beams. Visible ductwork in shiny chrome. White walls and exposed brick. It’s a total fusion of the past and present and is uber chic.
If I hadn’t had to move so quickly, and if I could afford it, I’d love to live in a place like this. It’s got so much more personality than my sad, tan apartment.
"Wow," I say. "This is amazing." I’m looking up, around, turning in a circle.
TJ disappears down the hall, returning a moment later with a thick, fluffy towel in his hand.
He hands it to me and disappears again. I’m still holding my iced mocha.
I set it on the counter and try to dry off.
I wipe my face off, and then my arms and legs.
How we got so wet in so little time is beyond me.
I throw the towel over my shoulders like a cape and wait.
A moment later, TJ returns. He’s in gray sweatpants and is pulling a shirt over his head. I catch a glimpse of a flat, muscular stomach.
Is it hot in here?
Holy shit, I didn’t think people looked like that in real life.
Sure, I’ve seen people like that on TV, or even on ClikClak, but I assumed that they were using filters or airbrushing.
While I generally have no interest in sports or athletics, I do enjoy the occasional eye-candy video.
Just because I’m a homebody doesn’t mean I don’t have a libido.
They give me inspiration for how to picture my favorite book heroes.
And the authors are always going on about gray sweatpants. I had no idea why, until now.
It all makes sense.
Then I realize I’m staring, so I abruptly turn away, looking back at the ceiling. "So this used to be a factory? What kind? Like a textile mill or something?"
"Um, I’d guess chocolate."
I turn back around. "Chocolate? Why do you think that?"
"Because it’s called The Chocolate Factory. I never looked into it, though. The space is nice, and it’s close to work. I didn’t want to have to worry about taking care of a house just yet."
Mmm, chocolate.
Of course, at my job, when someone says "chocolate factory," they mean something totally different.
"Well, this place is amazing. Thanks for this," I say, pulling the towel tighter around my shoulders. I look toward the living room area and try to see what’s going on outside. The windows are splattered with rain, so it makes it tough to see if it’s still coming down.
The air conditioning is cranked, and I shiver in response.
"Are you cold?" He walks over to the thermostat and presses some buttons. Instantly, silence befalls the apartment, with the exception of the rain hitting the window. Guess that answers that question. "Let me get you a change of clothes. Hang on."
Before I can protest, he’s gone again. I wish I could tell Richie all about this. She’d die all over again. "Richie," I whisper, looking at the ceiling, "you will not believe where I am."
"Did you say something? I put some stuff in the bathroom for you."
"Um, thanks." Ignoring his question, I practically run to the bathroom. He’s put out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a gray Boston Buzzards sweatshirt. The pants look brand new. They’re way too big for me, so I pull the drawstring and roll the cuffs.
The crewneck sweatshirt comes down to mid-thigh. The sleeves have to be rolled up, too.
As if I could look any more ridiculous.
My hair is beyond help, short of ripping the elastic out and using my fingers to comb through it.
Then I take a second to confirm that, yes, my mascara has run down my face.
Of course it has. Tissues aren’t the best at cleaning up makeup, but it’s the best I can do.
I only glance in the mirror momentarily.
It’s not going to get any better than this.
I walk out with my clothes folded under my arm.
"Here, let me toss them in the dryer for a few minutes." He holds his hands out, waiting for my clothes. I pass them over but then remember my folded-up list. It’s been somewhat protected in the pocket of my shorts. It doesn’t appear to be too wet—just a little damp.
Good thing there’s a stack of copies in my apartment.
Maybe I’ll make some more, just in case. Can’t be too careful.
TJ disappears down the hall, and then I hear him opening the dryer door.
Then comes the sound of him pressing buttons.
Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep. The dryer door opens and closes.
Beep-beep-beep-beep. I’m sure he has a top-of-the-line washer and dryer, but it can’t be that complicated.
I shuffle down the hall to see what he’s doing, delicately holding the hem of the too-long pants up like a Regency heroine.
He pushes one button, and then another. He opens the door. He closes it. He pushes more buttons. He puts his hands on his hips. He scratches his head. It’s quite clear he has no idea what he’s doing.
"Um, do you need a little help?" I offer.
"I know you’re supposed to do something so you don’t shrink clothes." He’s scratching his head again.
I step up and look at the Samsung dryer. Three quick taps and it hums to life. I set it for a twenty-minute cycle. Turning around to look at him, I say, "It shouldn’t be long."
He doesn’t break my gaze. "I should probably learn how this thing works."
"Yeah, you should. I have to go down to the basement to do laundry in my building. The machines still take quarters."
"Ma usually comes down once or twice a week for my laundry. Sometimes she does it here, but most times she takes it home and brings it back."
I’ve met his mother, so I can totally see her doing that. She’s like a force of nature, but in a nurturing kind of way. However, the thought of having a mother who would take that kind of care of her grown children is mind-boggling.
"Your mom still does your laundry?"
"Yeah, I travel a lot, and I’m pretty busy. Ma always did it for me growing up, and somehow"—he looks around the room as if searching for the answer—"she just never stopped."
The mere thought of that level of caring and commitment from a parent has me green with envy. "Oh. How old are you?" I ask and then quickly regret it. I don’t need to know any personal details.
"Thirty-two. You?"
"Twenty-nine. Richie was only twenty-six when she died. Her birthday was a few weeks ago. Eight-eight. I think that’s why she liked you, because you’re number eight. You were number eight on her list." I’m rambling.
He looks down at his feet for a moment. Talking about my dead sister usually has this effect on people. It’s a good reason for me not to talk to anyone.
"Why don’t we go have a seat while we wait for your clothes to dry? Should only be a few more minutes, and then you can go," he says.
Right. He can’t wait to get me out of his place.
Can’t say I blame him.