CHAPTER 12
Remy
“Go-go dancers, huh?” Chris scrunches up his face into the morning sun, gripping onto my hands as I stand between his feet to provide tension for his lower back stretches.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I swear he went almost every weekend for months.”
He shakes his head with an amused sound.
I’m not sure how we got to talking about Jamie or his many quirky habits, but that’s been our norm for the last two weeks.
If we’re not quizzing each other on random lists of favorites, we’re jabbering about anything and everything from the news to childhood to awkward shopping encounters.
Conversation has become as simplistic as breathing.
It no longer matters that it’s been fifteen years.
Our time capsule has been opened, and we’ve picked up right where we should have started.
I release his hands reluctantly. I’ve got to get ready for work, and I’m sure he’s likely had enough for one day.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” he says as always, but I’m not sure I believe him.
He’s been looking haggard for the last few days, with obvious bags under his eyes.
I want to believe I’m helping him, but I don’t know if that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
His flexibility is showing signs of improvement, but I can tell he’s still in pain most of the time.
I’ve spent years reading my patients, looking for cues that they’re at their pain threshold.
Maybe I’m hyperaware of Chris’ facial expressions because of how many times I saw him basking in pleasure.
A face can tell no lies to a former lover.
The tick of his cheek, the clench of his jaw, a twitch near his eye—each micro-expression convinces me he powers through when there’s no need to.
I’m wary of grilling him too much, though, and sparking that pride he keeps strapped across his shoulders.
I will never know how he feels or what he’s had to endure, but I know a little of what it’s like to lose faith in yourself.
I experienced just a fraction of that in recent months, and it’s certainly not a mood I’d want to live in for an extended period.
“Sounds like you guys made better use of your college experience than I did,” he teases, getting to his feet, but there’s a wistfulness there. “Hell, I’ve still never been to a go-go club.”
“If you’d… been out back then do you think you would have gone?”
I can’t decipher the emotion that crosses his face this time before he looks away. He shrugs, appearing to take a sudden interest in my lawn, his profile wearing a sad smile.
“Probably not. I’d have had no one to go with and would have just been some creepy guy, sitting by himself, ogling the dancers.”
“Well, that worked for Jamie.”
That’s less loaded than saying I’d have gone with him. Plus, therapy has seemed to become my secondary goal to making him laugh. It is the best medicine, after all. Seeing him smile is a medicine of its own to my heart.
I watch him lumber to his feet, trying not to get caught staring.
His weight sways momentarily before he almost rights himself, the curve in his spine preventing him from doing so.
I hope he’ll keep showing up every morning long enough for me to work through my knowledge to help him reduce the curve.
It’s also quite possible that I hope he’ll keep showing up because it feels like I have a new friend. A new old friend.
“Do you regret anything? About the path you chose?” he asks curiously, just as I thought he was about to turn to leave. “I mean, would you have picked a different career? Lived somewhere else?”
The questions churn in my mind. Were they self-reflective, I wonder, but give up on dissecting them as I catch him waiting.
“I have plenty of regrets. I’ve beaten myself up over every single one of them, but I think we’re supposed to a little.
It’s how we learn.” I guess that wasn’t an answer and partially TMI—typical me—so, I smile helplessly.
“But no, I don’t think so. I like helping people, and thought physical therapy was something I could be proud of.
And San Antonio? Well, that just sort of happened.
I figured there was as much for me here as anywhere else. ”
After saying all that, I realize the real answer is that all my choices were safe ones. Steady job. A city I was already familiar with. So, yeah. I guess I’m right where I should be—right in the middle of my comfort zone.
Spewing life reflections to Chris, however, doesn’t feel safe when he looks at me like he is right now: haunted eyes sometimes clouded with troubled thoughts, searching for answers. I wish I could give him all the ones he’s looking for. Pensive, he nods and gives me a smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Chris.”
Like each morning, I watch him disappear around the side of my house. At least, there are fewer weeds now that I’ve committed to doing some yard work. Hustling up the stairs to my deck, I snag my phone off the railing where I left it and find two messages from Jamie.
My, my. Someone’s daily crisis started early.
Children should not get up before sunrise. I think there’s something wrong with my family’s genetics.
And no, it’s not too early to commiserate with me. I know you’re awake.
Snorting, I step inside and lock the patio door behind me before heading to my room to get dressed. Yes, I’m awake, but for all he knows, I’m just finishing up a jog. I may not have told him about my new morning workout routine.
Through my bedroom window, I catch sight of Chris hoisting himself into his truck at the curb.
An ache blooms in my chest as I linger. Thank goodness he can’t see my face.
I’ve somehow avoided receiving any more accusations of giving him pity for the last two weeks.
I don’t want to break my record, so I move to my closet, but glance back to watch him pull away.
The ache spreads, settling into my bones. It worsens the further away he gets.
It’s not pity, my internal voice says calmly, the way you break something obvious to someone. A silent laugh gusts past my lips. The voice is right.
It’s not pity at all. I think it’s… longing.
Longing to go with him. To see how he spends the rest of his day, each minute he’s not with me. Longing to hear his voice and those laughs of his that he gives up like a stiff coin wheel on an old gumball machine that requires a special touch.
It’s a liberating realization, one not consumed by thoughts of passion.
We haven’t touched each other in the last two weeks, aside from my helping him stretch.
And now that I think about it, I haven’t had a single impure thought about him.
My evenings have been spent reflecting on our conversations, quietly laughing to myself, and smiling.
“I have a crush,” I laugh softly, oddly proud of myself.
My first real adult crush. It’s calm and settles over me, wrapping around me like a warm hug. It’s so unlike the overwhelming delirium I experienced back in college. Softer and far stronger than whatever I considered a crush after that.
I think…I’m falling for Chris Mightener. Again. Unlike then, however, I think there may be some place to land this time.
Dressing quickly, I know I don’t need to rush since I’ve cut jogging out of my day lately.
Switching to showering at night has given me more wiggle room in the morning, in case a certain man with big feelings decides to show up early or eke past my normal cut-off time.
While I’m feeling inspired, I should use the extra few minutes to spread the good word… or at least part of it.
Jamie’s phone rings once. A fumbling noise and a few curses follow, but then I’m treated to his breathy, whispered voice.
“I didn’t mean you had to call. What’s up?”
“Excuse me. I thought commiserating was best done vocally. Why? Did you go back to sleep or something?” There’s an audible panting of labored breath while I talk. “Why do you sound like you’re winded?”
“Nothing. You just scared me.”
“You’re…whispering. Why are you whispering?”
“Because I’m in the closet where little people can’t invade my room at 5 a.m. asking for a bowl of Froot Loops.”
Oh, boy. I don’t know whether to laugh or to send a therapist over to help him. “You’re sleeping in a closet?”
“No. Who the fuck can sleep in a closet? And there is no sleeping in this house. It’s like one of those horror films with the creepy little insomniac children.
No matter where you go or what you do, whenever you turn around, one is staring at you, asking for things—your soul, your wallet, oat milk for an alley cat, the answer to fourteen to the third power. It never ends.”
“Uh…and the closet is a safe zone from pesky zombie children who need regular, natural nurturing?”
“It is not natural, Jeremy! Don’t give me that until you’ve waded through the hellscape that is currently a day in my life.
Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid?
I can’t even jerk off in my own house. My hand thinks I don’t love it anymore, and this closet smells like mothballs.
Gran must have had a fear of moths, because the stench is so potent it’s sure to kill any of them well beyond my dying years.
You try having some happy time while inhaling pesticides with limited elbow room, and then tell me how much patience you have. ”
“Wait…are you…jerking off in the closet?”
“Well, not anymore! You called.”
Rubbing my eyes, I wish I could go back and rethink the use of my free time. I shove my shoes on and grab my keys off the hook on the hall tree.
“I’m sorry. You sounded like you needed to talk, but I think I have a pretty good picture now as to why.”
Locking my door behind me, I hear a sigh over the line. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Snickering, I tuck my keys into my pocket and bound down my steps, happy he’s come back to the land of sanity. “You sure about that?”
“Ha. Ha. I’m the snarky, dramatic friend. Not you. At least let me keep that. It’s all I have left.”
“I’d never dream of stealing your title. Everything else okay though?”
“Yeah. Fabulous, but now that I’ve got you on the phone, there’s something I want to ask you. What would you think about a fun getaway for Thanksgiving?”
“To where?”
He delays answering for a beat, setting my suspicion meter on red alert. “California,” he finally says innocently.
“To your house?”
“Yeah. It’ll be fun.” His false bravado tells me it will be anything but fun, especially when he tries to sweeten the deal with, “You can come watch the chaos first-hand. It’ll be like having front row seats to a mud wrestling competition. Biting is allowed at those things, by the way.”
Starting my car, I wait for my phone to broadcast him over my speakers. As much as I’d love to experience a California Thanksgiving with Jamie, I think I’d have to pass on watching him lose his mind. “I can’t. I was going to go home to see my parents.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll call them. They’ll understand.”
“Jamie, I haven’t been home since last Christmas. I already told them I’m coming.”
He mutters something that sounds like ‘fucking coward.’
“Fine.” That four-letter word has never been uttered with such exasperation. “What’s new with you? Still happily single and saving one sciatica at a time, I hope?”
“Yes,” I snort, but a niggle of guilt has me tugging at my collar. “I’ve been giving someone personal therapy in the mornings before work.”
“Oooh, now we’re talking. Give me all the dirt. Is it a pulled hammy? Do you have to get way up in there?”
“Oh, God. You’d better not be jerking off while I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t think I can. I think the chemicals have caused permanent damage.”
I’ll say.
“So, what’s the scoop?”
Here goes nothing. And I thought he was wound up when I first called.
“It’s…Chris. I ran into him again after you left.”
Three thumps resound, the sound of something solid rapping against something else solid. It’s followed by a low groan.
“Are you…banging your head?”
“Yes! I’m trying to activate my mind control powers so you’ll do the same and knock some sense into yours.
Tell me, does this ‘therapy’ involve lube and lots of filthy sex followed by not a single solitary thought about building a house with a white picket fence?
Because that is the only acceptable kind of therapy for a scenario that includes you and the football king. ”
“No. And there are other possible scenarios, believe it or not.” I ignore his sputter of disbelief. “It’s…we’re friends. He’s got…a lot of problems and I’m helping him.”
“Because that’s what you do, Remy! Ugh. Please do not let him take advantage of you.”
“Jay, it’s not like that. Not this time.
I swear. He’s…different. Not like he was at the bar that night.
I think he was just…desperate for comfort and hurting.
We talk.” I’m quick to add, “Without any sex, and…it’s nice.
Really nice.” He’s unusually quiet for once.
The campus comes into view, so I wrap it up, hoping that will signal that I’m putting a pin in this before he can analyze things too much.
“Anyway. That’s what’s new, and I’m fine. I promise.”
“If ‘fine’ means you’re lying to me and getting dicked down twice a day, I swear I will fly my blue-balled ass out there, drag you back here, and feed you to the zombie children if you end up a crying mess after it ends.”
I’m about to blurt out that it’s not going to end but catch myself.
There’s nothing to end. Whether Chris and I ever part as friends, something more, or something less, I know it would hurt, but it would hurt in a way that would be acceptable now that I know where I stand.
Unlike months ago, I don’t think I’d have a sense of being less or missing out on something if I were single after that.
Because I can see that I was right about one thing all those years ago.
I just had no proof to understand why I was right.
Chris is it for me. If it never happens, I’ll be okay with that because I got to know him at least. I don’t know if I’ll want to tell him he’s it, but I trust how I feel.
Trusting how I feel for the first time in my life is really fucking freeing.
I guess my fairy tale happened after all. It just looks a little different than I thought it would.