Chapter 15 Rachel
"He doesn’t even know how to do laundry!
" I shout at the ceiling. Seriously, Richie needs to know what kind of man she spent her limited time lusting over. Once again, Richie has nothing to say for herself. Would it be too much to ask of her to slam a door or knock over a lamp or do some moaning, just so I know she’s still with me?
But no, she’s silent. Everything is silent. Now I know what they mean when they say silence is deafening. I’ve always been one for quiet, but this is oppressive. I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, but nothing changes.
If Richie were here, I’d tell her about running into TJ Doyle. I’d tell her that out of all the apartment complexes in all the world, he had to live in the one across the street from mine. I’d tell her that he was kind of … sweet. Almost nurturing.
Let me be clear, I don’t think he has any idea how to truly nurture someone else.
But he’s obviously been well cared for in his life, and it seems to be second nature to extend that caregiving to those around him.
His family is the kind I used to dream about having when I was growing up.
A mom and a dad who showed up to school functions and did things like go out for ice cream afterward.
He’s a grown-ass adult, and his family is still doing that.
I wonder if he even knows how lucky he is. Probably not. If I was ever going to talk to him again, which I probably won’t, I’d tell him. Sometimes people don’t appreciate what’s right in front of their faces.
And speaking of faces … I fan myself. He is, without a doubt, the hottest guy I’ve ever talked to. Is lust contagious? If so, I’ve caught it from my sister.
I roll onto my stomach, open up ClikClak, and search his profile. There are several accounts with various versions of his name. Then the real one pops up, with the green star, indicating that it’s a verified account.
Damn, he’s got over four million followers.
It only takes me about 30 seconds to figure out why. Most of his content is of him working out. Barely clothed. My face flushes, and my body feels as if it’s on fire. Holy crap. He’s like a walking … I don’t even know what. My brain is short-circuiting too much to even come up with a good analogy.
Logically, being a professional athlete, you know he has to have good physical fitness. I saw him play. I know that takes a certain prowess that someone like me would never ever possess. But dear God, this man rivals something Michelangelo would have carved.
"Okay, I get it now!" I yell to the ceiling.
The only account I have for ClikClak is the one I use for the business. There is no way in hell I’d message him from that one. I would die of embarrassment if he ever found out that I film shit for a living.
Quickly, before I have too much time to overthink what I’m doing, I create a new account. I follow him and a few pages that I already follow, mostly people who make me laugh. I take a picture of myself and upload it, putting it to music, so there’s at least one video of me. Then, I send him a DM.
Me: Thanks again for letting me dry off yesterday. I appreciate it.
Me: And sorry about the crotch thing again.
I probably will never hear from TJ Doyle again, but I did want to let him know that I saw his kindness and thank him for it.
And also that I was apologetic for the inappropriate touching.
People who grow up in loving and supportive homes often take that for granted.
Not the inappropriate touching—the kindness part.
Gram and Gramps did everything they could for Richie and me, but once that seed of doubt and insecurity was planted, nothing could erase it. I never expect unprompted kindness.
My phone buzzes with a notification. I scramble to sit upright. This cannot be happening.
TJ: No problem. You get home ok?
I smile. I can’t help myself.
Me: Yes. It’s just across the road. You make it to practice ok?
TJ: One minute to spare. That’s notable for me.
Me: I tend to run late too. And that was when I just had to walk across the yard to get to work. Now that I have to drive, it’s going to be interesting.
As soon as I type it, I want to hit unsend. To erase. Because I know what’s going to come next.
TJ: Where do you work?
Yup, there it is.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I do. Working for my grandfather has been great.
Well, it’s been okay. Alright, my job sucks, but I’m helping the family out, and it’s a steady paycheck.
Until I can find something else I want to do more, it’ll suffice.
I keep thinking one day, I’ll wake up and BAM!
Suddenly, I’ll know what I want to do with my life.
That morning has yet to arrive.
TJ: You said you moved here for work?
Sigh. I’d better get this over with.
Me: Yes, I work for my grandfather’s company. I’m 4th gen. We’re opening up a new satellite office in Sharon. My official title is "South Regional Director," but I think that just means I get to handle all the bullshit.
Me: Do you still have practice even though it’s Labor Day?
I figure if I change the subject, maybe I can avoid the word sewage. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough in front of this man. Talking about my job will only send things down the drain, quite literally.
TJ: If it’s in season, we’re practicing. A slightly smaller workout, so a few free hours today. Whoopie.
Me: What are you going to do with all your spare time? Also, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that a "slightly smaller" workout gives you hours. My body is sore just thinking about it.
TJ: Cookout at my parents.
A cookout. That must be nice. Gramps and Uncle Robert were usually on call on weekends, and there always seemed to be some sewer emergency, so we didn’t have many of those growing up.
Me: With hot dogs and hamburgers and potato salad salmonella and everything?
TJ: 100%, which is why I steer clear of anything with mayo.
I’m trying to think of something witty to say that doesn’t involve a bodily function when the next text comes in.
TJ: Wanna come with me?
This has me jumping to my feet. What? Why? How? I don’t understand what’s happening. With shaking hands that drop my phone not once but twice, I send my reply.
Me: Did you mean to send that to me? I’m Rachel Cramer. You know, the girl you thought was stalking you. The girl who spilled your smoothie on you.
TJ: Dammit, I thought I was sending this to the girl who started to get frisky patting my junk in public.
My face burns. I still can’t believe I touched him there. What the hell was I thinking?
Me: She sounds like a piece of work. She also wants to know what she should bring, because her grandmother raised her never to show up anywhere empty-handed.
That’s true. Gram is as old-fashioned as they come. Homemade apple pies, chocolate chip cookies (the Toll House recipe, naturally), and Italian Jeannettes were her specialty. Since I have neither the time nor the ingredients to whip any of those up, I’m going to have to resort to plan B.
TJ: Ma will just be so happy that I didn’t scare you off with my antics. Don’t worry about it.
Me: I’m going to worry about it, so at least give me time to run and grab something from Stop I’ve got to get ready.
For the second time in three days, I’m faced with the dilemma of what to wear when going to see TJ Doyle.
My clothing choices have not dramatically improved, but at least I don’t have to pretend to be athletic.
It’s cooler today after the storm yesterday.
Not quite fall, but you can tell summer has one foot out the door, not unlike my mom most of my life.
I pull out one of my favorite dresses, black cotton with fluttery sleeves and a tiered bottom.
I wear it to the office if I have to look nice, but it’s also fine for just running errands.
Of course, I throw a pair of bike shorts on underneath because Gram would have a fit if I didn’t.
Flip-flops because I don’t own cute shoes.
I grab the denim jacket I’ve had since 2015 in case it gets a little cold.
Now, on to the hair and face. I never put my contacts in this morning, and I don’t feel like doing it now.
I’m already putting forth a lot of effort.
I don’t want to overtax myself. My hair’s a little hopeless, about fourteen months overdue for a cut.
Before Richie got sick, I wore it in a cute above-the-shoulder bob.
Now it hangs limply down past my collarbones.
There’s probably no helping it now. Claw clip it is.
I throw a little mascara and lip gloss on.
It’s about all I know how to do. Then, realizing that I’m fixing my face for a man, I wipe it off.
I will not do that. I will be me. But really, it actually made me look a little less dowdy, so I put it back on.
Shit. What am I doing? I’m about to wipe it off again when my phone dings with a text alert.
TJ: Which building are you?
I’m out of time to war with myself about turning into my mother. The makeup stays on.
Me: Second building on the left. Be right out.
TJ: I’m the one in the Grand Cherokee Trackhawk.
He says that like it means something to me.
Me: I don’t know anything about cars.
TJ: It’s bright red. You can’t miss me.
As I run down the stairs, a little faster than I’m used to moving, I push down the intrusive thought that’s wormed its way into my brain.
Like mother, like daughter.