Chapter 31
I’d seen the news, knew inflation was up which meant interest rates would go north with it, but I’ve had my head so far up my ass lately, I didn’t do the math ‘til now. Now that I’m at the checkout of our grocery store, overwhelmed, overstimulated, with a credit card that’s been declined.
The store is crowded, and some electrical issue has only one register open, and the checkout operator looks as though she may cry.
“I can try it again sir, but it’s not working. Do you have another card?”
“No, I don’t have another bloody card. Would I have had you try that ten times if I did?”
“Don’t be angry at her,” says one of the many assholes in line behind us acting like assholes do, staring and tutting. This one dressed head to toe in Red Sox gear. “It’s not her fault.”
I’m not angry, I think to myself, because now I can’t fucking speak. I’m … suffocating. Drowning. Every fiber of my body on the verge of exploding because every sound in this building is over amplified.
Hoping one may magically appear, I check my satchel for the hundredth time, this time pulling everything out and dumping it on the conveyor belt.
I do normally carry a second bank card, Faith’s, after something similar to this happened one day, but with Dylan screaming alongside me.
There’s a drink bottle, a few stray almonds, my keys, some treatment plans and a napkin that seems to have some kind of note on it.
The same jerk that yelled at me for yelling, pipes up again before I can read it.
“For God’s sake, man. Just admit you’re a loser, put the shopping back, go. I got a game to get to.”
Pain shoots through my chest, sweat dripping into my brow as I try and shove everything back in my bag before I become the six-foot-five loser someone live streams crying in Wegman’s.
And that’s what I want to do. I want to collapse to the ground and cry if I don’t drop dead of a heart attack first.
Not a fish. Not a fish. Not a fish.
“Doc Plum?”
Oh dear God.
There’s only a handful of people on the planet that call me that.
One I can rule out instantly. Actually, make that two.
It’s not Cory, I’d know that voice anywhere, and there’s no accent so it’s not Brady either.
Daring to look, I raise my eyes and find the soft smiling face of Sam. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
“He needs someone to pay for his shopping, that’s what he needs,” Red Sox adds. I really hate that guy.
Before I can process what’s happening, Sam rests a steadying hand on my shoulder, and fishes his phone from his pocket with the other.
“I got it, Doc.” With a tap he’s paid, is loading my shopping back into my cart, and wheeling towards the exit.
After muttering another apology, I take off after him, humiliated, grateful and dreading the questions I know he must have.
It takes longer than I expect for them to come, which is good as my brain is too congested with anxiety over how this must look, of what he must think of me, to let anything else exist.
Looking too scared to speak, Sam is patiently waiting for me to load the groceries into the trunk, hand annoyingly tapping on the roof rack. I crack before he does, the first words I offer him after showing such kindness become, “Must you do that?”
“Do what?” He follows the direction of my death stare, and his hand stills. “Oh, sorry.” His crestfallen expression leaves me feeling like an even bigger tit than I already do, but I can’t deny the relief I feel with out the tappity tap tap. “So.” He forces a smile. “That was—”
“Rude.” I take a beat or two longer than I’d hope to get the rest out, Sam’s big green orbs never leaving mine, but eventually I manage to add, “I’m so sorry. I’m autistic, and embarrassed and … broke.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I had a cousin who was on the spectrum. I kind of figured what was happening.” My mind catches on ‘was on the spectrum’. Dear God don’t let him be a ’we cured him with Vitamin A and protein-person’. “He passed away a few years ago.”
“Shit. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. It was hard, but he had been really sick for a long time, so at least he’s not in pain anymore.” He gives the car one more tap, then snatches his hand away. “Sorry. Ah, do you need a hand with anything else before I go?”
“No. No I don’t.”
“Okay then. Well, see you at practice.” With a wave he strolls away like he didn’t just step in and save my day. I watch him go, noticing he passes all the cars parked before the store.
“Did you walk here? Do you want a ride?” I yell as he waits to cross the street.
“Yeah. Cool, thanks.” Face lighting up, he jogs back to the car, waiting at the passenger side door while I return the cart.
“Great. So you’re heading back to your dorm? You share with Lucas, right?” I ask when I pull from the curb. “How’s that? Playing together, living together.”
“Most of our classes are together, too. And it’s fine. He’s cool. Pretty quiet, and obsessed with his girl, Hannah. A lot of people expect things from me, but he’s not one of them.”
“Why?”
“Why do people expect things from me?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, my family is loaded. Those that know love to take advantage of it. It’s kind of my fault though,” he shrugs, knuckles tapping against the window, “I was kind of shy as a kid. Money helped me buy things. Buy friends, I guess. So yeah, that’s why I like Lucas.
He was my friend before he knew I was Samuel Bailey.
Son of media magnates Eloise and Bronson Bailey.
Cory, too.” He raises his brows as he says Cory’s name.
I notice and he notices me noticing. “You shouldn’t be mad at him.
He never told us about you, we guessed and to be fair, you make it pretty obvious that you like him. So, in a way it’s kinda your fault.”
“Oh really? I’m not quite sure what you think you saw, but I do not like Cory.”
“He likes you. A lot. He’s been miserable since—” Enraged that Cory has again spoken to Sam about our non-existent relationship, I go to jump in. Sam’s not having a bar of it, though. Neither is the stop gesturing hand he’s shoved into my field of vision.
“He never said anything, but again, it’s obvious something changed, and since whatever happened between you happened, he’s been miserable.
If you want to be with Cory just be with him, Lucas and I won’t say anything.
And what, you have a few months left with the Bears before you’re qualified?
Just control those hungry eyes of yours and you keep it on the DL. Easy. ”
“I’m not having this discussion with you.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be a discussion. Maybe you just need to listen.”
“Well, maybe you need to tell me your address so I can get you the hell out of my car.” My tone is gruff, and I’m not sure if I meant it to be. Either way Sam doesn’t seem to mind. That same easy smile is back.
“You know, on second thoughts, I don’t feel like going home. I might go see my cousin. It’s on the way. Could you drop me off there?”
“As long as you say nothing else about you know what, then fine. Lead the way.”
“Are you dicking with me?” I pull up to the curb and slam the car into park. “I mean seriously, this isn’t funny. How did you get this address?”
“This address.” Sam taps the damn window again and I’m a second from losing it.
“No, the address you haven’t guided me too, and that we’re not sitting in front of. Yes this address. This is my apartment building.” Or it was.
“No way! My cousin lives here… well she has a place here. I’m probably here, hiding from the world, more than she is. Bit of a globetrotter. Small world, hey.”
“Frighteningly.”
“She’s on 3A. What about you?”
“3C.”
“No way. You’re freaking neighbors. How awesome is Mrs.T? Great cookies.”
“Well I did think she was great, but that was before I heard about the cookies I’ve been missing out on.”
Unclipping his belt, Sam chuckles, then pauses, hand on door. “Wait. 3C’s for sale. This is a great building. Why are you leaving?”
“It is a great building. I love it. But remember how you just paid for my groceries, which, by the way, I am very grateful and fully paying you back for? Yeah. That’s why.”
“Oh. Shit. That sucks.”
“It does indeed suck.”
Lips skewed to the side, Sam nods. “You know Cory’s family has money trouble too. It’s really sad. You’ve met his sister Cherry, right? She’s hot.”
My head is spinning from the sudden change in both Sam’s countenance and expression. I guess a pretty young woman can do that to some pretty young men. “I have met Cherry. We spoke about her at the dunk tank, remember? She seems like a handful.”
“Yeah.” He sighs wistfully, settling back into the seat.
“Sam.”
“Yeah,” he repeats.
“I need you to get out of the car, now.” Like he’s been shocked back to life he jumps in his seat and opens the door.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. And don’t worry about paying me back. If you must, make a donation to charity. I don’t need it. See ya later, Doc.” With that he slips from the car and jogs towards the building. My building. My home.
Knowing at least my bed and my weighted blanket is on the horizon, I sigh, shove my crappy car into drive, and go.
“Dylan, want to help me make dinner?” Responding with a hum, he practically leaps from the sofa, and I congratulate myself on a perfect afternoon. We’ve been to the park, watched a movie and the credits are rolling right when I need to start food prep.
“What do you feel like tonight? I was thinking some fancy omelets.” The words have hardly left my mouth and Dylan is floating around the kitchen, humming while gathering ingredients.
There’s definitely an omelet in the making, but then he adds bananas, chocolate chips and baking powder to the collection and I know what he’s after. “Omelets and pancakes?”
It is times like this that I am more fascinated by autism than frustrated. Dylan struggles with many daily functions, especially those requiring fine motor skills, but slap an apron on him and put him before a mixing bowl, and he’s a Great British Bake Off contestant.
Dyl gets busy mixing up his favorite, and while he does that I bitch to him, like he holds the solution to all my problems.
“You remember Cory, the Jenga guy?” Dyl’s whole face lights up on hearing Cory’s name, then I picture the face touching and get all the feels again.
“Yeah, him. Well, turns out he told his friends about us, even though he said he wouldn’t.
I got mad of course, ‘cause I’m a grouchy piece of shit, and now I feel bad ‘cause I really like him. It just feels like … unfair. You know?”
Rocking back and forth, Dyl holds up his eggs.
“Shit sorry, mate. I forgot cracking these bad boys is my job.” Once they’ve been added to the dry ingredients, Dyl adds double the chocolate needed and the banana he’s mashed already and then the milk.
None of it’s measured, but seconds later he has a perfectly smooth batter and is holding it out to me, eyes darting between his bowl and mine.
“Why is yours not done,” written all over his face.
Like with the eggs, I’ll handle the cooking.
Not because Dylan’s not capable, but because he has a fear of the naked flame on the gas stove top.
Grabbing two frying pans from the pot drawer, I put them on the heat, and toss in some butter. “Big?” I ask, holding out my clenched right hand, “or little.” Repeating the same on the left. As expected, Dyl taps my right fist. “Good choice, dude.”
Since I haven’t even cracked my eggs yet, I decide to stick with the pancakes. It’s not the healthiest dinner, but Faith’s not here to judge, and it’s still better than a greasy take away.
I give myself a little pat on the back for a perfect first pour and wait for the bubbles.
“This kid on the team, Sam. He thinks I’ve been too hard on your pal, but I’m not so sure.
Theoretically I get where he’s coming from.
I may not give a shit about fitting in, but Cory does.
Spilling the tea was like some kind of ritualistic, bonding experience.
Sam also says Cory told him he really likes me, so that’s nice.
But also not because he shouldn’t like me ‘cause nothing can happen. It’s just a fucking mess and so bloody typical.
Why does the first guy I’ve been into for an eternity have to be out of reach? ”
I’m daydreaming now, picturing Cory’s face and staring out the window by the stove, when Dylan shoves me. “Oh, shit. Sorry mate.” I flip the pancake that was seconds from burning and give a half smile to my brother.
“I know this is for the best. Being friends was never going to work, but I miss him, Dyl. Is that weird?” In response, Dyl holds out a plate that’s as empty as I feel. “Here ya go bud. Thanks, for listening.”
I’ve only just poured more batter into the pan, when several loud thumps echo up the stairs and through the open doorway.
“What the hell is that?” Cleo is turning circles at my feet, so it’s not her knocking over my stick collection again.
Turning off the heat, I mosey over to the entrance to my dungeon, heat rate accelerating with each step, and stick my head into the darkness.
“Turn the light on dick.” I lean back, flick the switch then peer in again.
For a second there’s nothing, but then three more bangs ring out.
Holy shit, someone is trying to break in through my door.