Chapter 18 TJ
"Well, that was amazing," I say on the drive home. I’m still in awe of how Rachel handled that whole mess. Also, I’m amazed that I’ve been following her ClikClak without knowing it was her. She’s one of my favorite accounts.
"It’s not really. It’s just sewage removal."
"No, you don’t understand, I love your videos."
She shifts in the passenger seat of my SUV. "It’s literally shit removal. The only glamorous part of the job, if you want to call it that, is the grinder pump installation on new construction, but those videos don’t do anything. I don’t know what it is about septic tanks."
"There’s something fascinating about it. Also, until I saw it on the side of the truck in person, I didn’t put it together. Cramer-Romero Associates Pumps. C.R.A.P."
Rachel twists her hands together in her lap. "Yeah, Gramps was quite the clever one with that. Ironically, he hates poop jokes. No one’s allowed to make any in his presence."
"No wonder you knew so much about ClikClak. You have a big account."
"Well, the videos practically shoot themselves. I still can’t figure out why people want to watch them," she mutters, shaking her head.
I can’t explain it myself. Instead, I say, "Yeah, coming up with content ideas sucks. It stresses me out. I’m not bright enough to have a good platform or pitch, so I end up taking my shirt off." I shrug. "Works okay for now."
"I’ll say. You have over four million followers."
"Yeah, but it’s all I have." My words hang in the air between us.
"That’s not all you have," she says. "You have a family. A loud family. A very loud family. Are they always that loud?" She laughs.
"Yeah, pretty much, though there was a little more panic this time. You know, Ma has already said you have to come back again when there’s not a crisis."
Rachel is quiet. I steal a glance. She’s looking out the window. The sadness is back. I’d seen it lift when we were washing the girls, but now it’s like a heavy curtain has dropped over her face.
"I’d like you to come back too."
She turns to look at me, her face getting harder and harder to see in the fading light. "Why?"
"You seem like you need a friend." It’s probably the wrong thing to say, but it’s the truth. What I don’t say to her is that I need a friend.
"And you want to be my friend?" She’s turned her body to face me.
I pull into a parking space in her building’s lot. Shutting off the car, I angle my body toward hers. "Yeah, sure. It makes sense. We live in the same neighborhood. We’re bound to run into one another. It’d make more sense for us to be friends than for me to keep accusing you of stalking me."
Rachel laughs. "Richie would absolutely die if she knew this was happening." She looks up at the ceiling of my SUV and yells, "TJ Doyle and I are now friends. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it." Then, sheepishly, she looks at me. "I still have to talk to her. I know it makes me crazy."
I shake my head and put my hand gently on hers. "No, it doesn’t. I’m sure you have a lot to tell her." I try to think of what my mom or dad would say to comfort someone in a situation like this.
"I keep waiting for her to answer me." Rachel’s eyes are beginning to glisten.
"Well, that makes you crazy," I say deadpan.
It’s enough to break the tension. Wiping her eyes, Rachel starts to laugh.
"And you can call me Tyler. It’s what my friends and family call me."
"Tyler," she says, trying it out. It sounds good coming from her mouth. "Well, good night, Tyler. Thank you for today. It helped. More than I can say."
"You were a tremendous help, too. You saved my parents’ house. We owe you big time."
"It’s nothing."
Silence overtakes the SUV. I don’t know what else to say. Seems like Rachel doesn’t either. Odd to think that three days ago, I didn’t know this person at all, but sitting here in the dark, I’m already thinking about what I should say the next time we talk. All because of some list.
"The list!" I exclaim, suddenly remembering why we’re together. "We need to do the list."
"Um, there’s no ‘we’ here." I see Rachel’s hand move to the door handle.
"Okay, you need to do the list, but I can help. Or at least be a sounding board. An accountability partner." Jesus, I sound desperate.
Her hand stills for a moment. "Why?"
I’d like to know that too. "I need something to do." It’s about as close to the truth as I can bear to admit.
She stays facing the door. I have to strain to hear her voice. "I’m not a charity case."
"I’m not treating you like one. I lie there alone every night, watching videos of other people live their lives. I feel like I have the opportunity to not just be a spectator for once. Will you let me not be a spectator?"
I’m practically begging. Truth is, I have no idea why this means so much to me. Something deep within my gut is telling me to pursue this. To make Rachel pursue this.
Rachel stares at me over her shoulder for a long moment. She lets out a sigh. "Fine. I’ll think about it." With that, she opens the door and slides out. "Thanks again for the ride."
She closes the door and crosses in front of the vehicle. I watch her walk to the end of the building and then disappear up the stairs.
Before I pull out, I send her a text.
Me: You get in ok?
Rachel: I’m in and locked.
Rachel: Thanks again.
Me: Thanks for coming. I had a good time.
Three dots wave for much longer than I’d like.
Rachel: Me too. Sewage aside, but that’s literally the story of my life.
Me: You’re a book person. You can just turn the page and start a new chapter.
I don’t know where those prophetic words came from, but I’m pleased with myself.
I’m only home for a few minutes when the temptation to start scrolling ClikClak comes back. I can let myself. I was out for a long time today, and I barely touched my phone. In fact, other than texting Rachel, I haven’t wanted to use my phone.
This is new.
"Wow, four days in a row on time? What’s the occasion?" Maliq Miller always seems to be watching the clock when it comes to me.
"Shut up, Miller. Who are you, the time police?" I slam my locker door shut a little too hard. If Rachel can start a new chapter, so can I. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
"Hey, Crew, make sure you’re on time. Otherwise, Miller here will be up your grill every single minute of every single day.
" I feel the need to warn the new guy, Crew Benequista, who was moved up from our minor league affiliate to fill the vacancy left by Brandon Nix. "Other than that, we’re a chill group."
As one of the more senior players, I should make him feel welcome. I’ve been with the Buzzards since the beginning of my career.
"Alright, guys," Coach Janssen announces. "As you know, we’re at home tomorrow and then in Las Vegas next weekend. The travel itinerary is being emailed to you today. We are taking the red-eye back on Sunday night to give you a little time off. While what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, please remember that we’re very much in contention for the championship this year, and every single point will help our standing going into the postseason. We have casinos right here in New England, so don’t think that this trip is an occasion to go wild.
Do that on your own time after we beat the Renegades. "
Coach’s speech echoes in my head throughout the rest of practice, but I can’t figure out why.
We travel for half our games, so it’s not like this is new news.
Maybe the warning about Vegas. Last time we were out there, Andy Bracer and Pressley Samson missed our flight home because they were MIA.
The resultant social media posts solved that mystery, and both were stuck with a hefty conduct fine, and Pressley started marriage counseling.
It’s not until I’m on Oakland Street, about to make the left into my parking lot, when the sign for Rachel’s complex catches my eye, and everything clicks together. I’m so excited that I don’t even bother going inside before I shoot off my round of text messages.
Me: I’m playing in Vegas next week.
Me: You should come.
Me: You have to fly out there.
Me: We can go parasailing on Lake Mead.
I’m about to type another one when I make myself put my phone in my pocket and wait.
This could be unwelcome. She could not want to talk about this.
I haven’t heard from her since Monday, and it’s now Friday.
I should be staying in the hotel with the rest of the team tonight, as we usually do before home games, but I convinced Coach Janssen that I’d get better sleep in my own bed.
So now, instead of bonding with a teammate, I’m by myself, cooking dinner for myself, and thinking about my brilliant—if I do say so myself—plan.
Me: Hello? Is this thing on?
Finally, my phone dings with a text.
Rachel: I don’t think so.
She can’t say no. She hasn’t even had time to think about it. It’s so perfect!
Me: You don’t think your phone is on? Then how are you responding?
I smile at my joke. At least I find myself funny. I can have a fan club of one.
Me: Come over so we can talk about it. I’m making dinner.
Rachel: I’m tired. My social battery is low.
Okay. My chest feels a little heavy with …
disappointment. I totally thought she’d be all over this.
Plus, all week I’ve wanted to talk to her, and I couldn’t think of a non-lame reason.
I was so proud of myself for thinking that this would be a great way for her to get some of her list done. Like I could help her.
Like she’d want my help.
Obviously, that’s a big fat no.