4. Isaac
4
ISAAC
"So are you this nice to every stranger you meet?" Tyler asks once he's dressed in my clothes. He's drowning in them. It’s adorable. Of course, I don't tell him that. I'm trying to keep the creep factor down, especially after spending the last twenty minutes gritting my teeth through the most awkward shower of my life. He's already uncomfortable in my presence. A good part of that is probably that I'm a stranger, but I know I can come off intimidating. So I hope my uneasiness in the shower didn't make anything worse.
I didn't mean to look. In fact, I was pointedly not looking. He's a damn trauma victim. The last thing he needs is some lowlife perving on him.
But yeah, I saw it. I couldn't not see it.
Now I just have to pretend to be cool about it. Like I didn't see it. Like it doesn't matter, because it shouldn't. He needs my help, and my friendship. Maybe my protection. Not my sick personal interest.
"Only the cute ones."
Fuck. Shit. Really Isaac?
Tyler's eyes widen.
Deflecting, I snort a laugh. "Wow, that came out wrong."
He chuckles, but it doesn't feel or sound genuine. Ugh, way to go, asshole.
The shrill ring of my phone breaks the awkward silence between us. "Ah, food's here. Your meds are in that paper bag over there," I say, pointing to the counter where I stacked all his discharge stuff.
Grateful for the escape, I run to the front door and grab the bags of food I ordered less than ten minutes ago when we were leaving the showers. Luckily, The Nook was more than happy to accommodate me when I texted Mac and Anders.
"I'm going to warn you now, I have no idea what's in this bag, but whatever it is will probably be delicious."
"You don't know what you ordered?"
"Nope," I say, shaking my head as I unload the bag on the small kitchen counter. "I've become friends with the owners at The Nook , and they know I'll eat just about anything. Since they're the closest and I thought you might want something light, I just told them that I had a sick friend, and they took care of the rest." I hand him his drink and pull out the few dishes I have—two plates, two bowls, and two sets of silverware.
"Okay, looks like we have some soup and a few different sandwich options. Fruit salad. And enough baked goods to get us through a week," I say, laughing. Opening the container with the soup, I take a whiff and groan. "Fuck, that smells good, do you want?—"
I stop short at the look on his face.
"Are you okay? Maybe we should have waited until your stomach wasn’t empty to take the meds.”
"You got me an iced chai latte."
"I did." Was that the wrong move?
"With oat milk."
"Yeah…"
"And extra cinnamon."
"Did I get it wrong?"
"No, that's not it. It's exactly right."
I deflate a little. At least I got the order right. Although I'm still confused. "Are you upset?"
"No." He doesn't sound sure about that. "It's just…"
Then it occurs to me how fucking weird it probably is that some guy he ran into once knows his exact drink order.
"I'm not a stalker or anything, if that's what you're worried about."
He scoffs. "It hadn't occurred to me. Although now that you mention it…"
My shoulders shake with silent laughter. "Okay, okay. I maybe asked Brenna what your order was. I wanted to replace your drink after I ran into you that day, but then every time I saw you again, you bolted. Last night was the first time you didn't split as soon as you saw me."
Tyler blanches, and I mentally kick myself for bringing it up. As if he could forget it, being in as much pain as I'm sure he's in. A few moments of tense silence pass, but Tyler rallies.
"What kind of soup?" he says, offering us a distraction.
I hold up the two containers. Brenna has labeled them in her loopy handwriting. "Looks like Zuppa Toscana, and lemon chicken and rice."
"Do they know I'm the 'sick friend'?"
"No, why?"
"Everything is dairy free."
Huh. I wouldn't have noticed. The cheese for the sandwiches is even packaged separately. He gestures for the lemon chicken and rice, so I pour some in a bowl for him, setting the bowl on the plate while he dishes out some fruit for both of us.
"Could just be a coincidence. Or wishful thinking on their part."
"What do you mean?" He says, taking half a sandwich. I watch him carefully, making a mental note of the way he picks the onion off a chicken sandwich.
“I’ve never ordered a chai latte before, so they might be hopeful that you’re the friend I’m taking care of.”
He looks confused. Chuckling, I add a club sandwich with extra cheese to my plate, and lead him over to the couch. "You mean they don't badger you for details about your personal life and try to set you up with anyone that you look at twice?"
"Uh, no. But I haven't been going there long. The day I spilled my drink all over you was the first time, and was nearly the last."
I want to say I'm glad it wasn't, but stop myself at the last minute. It might come off insensitive, since it was where he was the night he was attacked. I'm also coming on very strong and need to calm down before I scare him off.
"They're good people," I say instead. "So, you don’t eat dairy, then?"
"Yeah, it upsets my stomach." He blushes and looks down into his bowl, like having dietary needs is embarrassing. Is that why he didn't tell me when I asked about ordering dinner?
"Well, I'm glad I didn't end up ordering pizza," I say, smiling, so he knows I'm only teasing. I'm hoping he'll tell me why he didn't say anything, but I'm not going to press him.
He shuffles on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position.
"I'm sorry I don't have a table yet."
"No, it's okay. I don't even use the table at my place. I’m just sore and having trouble getting comfortable."
I curse to myself, looking around for a solution. "Here, let's try this." I take his plate and set it on the coffee table, gathering everything off to the side so there's enough room. Then I take the back cushions off the couch and set them on the ground in front of the table and gesture for him to sit. I take his arm to ease him down on the cushion, then wait to see if he's more comfortable before sitting across from him. "Better?"
"Much. Thank you." He watches me inhale my meal while taking much smaller, slower bites. By the time I've made it through a second entire sandwich and am refilling my bowl with the second soup option, he's managed to finish his soup and fruit, but only half his portion of a sandwich. He watches me with an almost amused expression. It’s kind of hard to tell with the swelling and bruising.
"You know," he says, in what is definitely an amused tone, "you aren't as intimidating as you seem."
"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment. So, thanks."
Every time I make him smile or laugh, even a little, feels like a huge win.
"Well, I certainly didn't mean it as an insult. I just meant that you're, uh…" he waves his hand, vaguely gesturing to all of me.
Lifting an eyebrow, I do my best not to crack a smile. "I’m what?"
His eyes widen comically, and he stammers. "Uh—yeah. That. Right there. When you're not actively smiling, you come across a little…"
"Stoic?"
"I was going to go with surly."
"Ooh, good one. I haven’t heard that one yet. My mom says I'm broody."
"Yes! That. You're definitely that."
"I am not," I mutter into my drink.
He. Fucking. Giggles.
Giggles.
He catches himself, slapping his hands over his mouth after the sound escapes. Then I can't help it, I'm rolling with laughter.
"That was cute."
"Was not!"
"Yeah, and I'm not broody."
He tightens his lips and tries not to do it again. But I desperately want him to. I have an insatiable need to lean over and see if he's ticklish. And what the fuck is that? I've never tickled another grown man in my life.
"Let's just blame whatever that was on the drugs."
"Yeah, okay." I laugh. "Feeling okay, though?" I didn't notice how glassy his eyes had gotten until just now.
"So much better," he admits with a sigh. I feel a pang of regret and sadness. That any of this happened in the first place, obviously, but also that I didn't notice just how much pain he was in.
"Probably should have taken it before the shower. Sorry, I didn't think of it."
"You're not my keeper. Besides, I didn't actually plan to take a shower, but I took one look at myself in your mirror and felt desperate. Thank you again. You didn't have to do any of this."
"It's no trouble," I say, hoping he hears the truth in my voice. For someone who likes his space, I don’t hate having him here. I like knowing he's safe.
"I'll get out of your hair now. I just need to borrow your phone to call for a ride."
"You don't have to. Leave, I mean. Unless you want to. And if that's the case, I'll take you home whenever you're ready."
"I don't want to overstay my welcome. I've put you out too much as it is."
"You really haven't, Tyler. I promise. You're welcome to stay another night, or two or three or however many you like. At least until you're steady on your feet. Concussions are no joke."
He nods slowly, and for a moment I'm afraid he might cry again. Not because I don't want him to let those feelings out or feel ashamed for it, but because I might cry with him. Maybe it's because of the way I found him. That image that will forever be burned into my memories, the fear I felt.
I feel like I need to keep him close, keep him safe. Like he's mine to protect, even though he's practically a stranger. He’s just some guy I ran into at a coffee shop that one time, but somehow, he’s so much more. It's instinctual. I feel it in my gut.
“I should still go,” he says quietly. I don’t think he actually wants to, but he feels like it’s what he should do. Instead of taking him home right away, I delay the inevitable, just to give him time to reevaluate.
To distract him, since watching a movie isn’t really an option until his concussion is better, I start asking him questions about himself. Questions I might have asked him if he’d looked at me twice before now, if I’d taken him on a date or something.
“So, you’re a student, right?”
“Yeah. Grad school.”
“What do you study?”
“I’m working on a double master’s degree in corporate law and graphic design.”
My brow furrows in confusion. “I didn’t realize those two things are related.”
“They aren’t,” he says with an awkward chuckle. “My father wanted me to go to law school. He’s a corporate lawyer and wants me to follow in his footsteps and become a partner at his firm.”
“But you have other things in mind?”
“Not necessarily. I mean, it’s not really what I want to do, but I’m sure I’ll end up there, eventually. Going to grad school is just a way to postpone the inevitable. Once I get my masters, I’ll likely go to law school. In the meantime, I’m hoping to figure out how I can apply my abilities and talents to the firm outside of arguing in a courtroom, because I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” He wrings his hands together, like he’s thinking really hard about if he wants to share more. “There’s a part of me that hopes I can find a way to be successful at anything else so I can turn him down completely.”
“Is that what the graphic design is for?”
Tyler huffs. “Graphic design is part hobby, part my version of a rebellion.” He rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, I’m so bad.”
His self-deprecating humor is cute. “Pursuing a double master’s degree to stick it to the man? I don’t know, that’s pretty impressive.”
“It’s not,” he says, leaning back against the couch. “It’s really just an excuse to avoid interning at his office. If I keep myself busy with schoolwork and tutoring, he can’t say anything because not excelling is not an option. It’s not the Valdin way.” He pitches his voice to sound deep and snooty, which I’m assuming is meant to be an impression of his dad.
“But you actually like graphic design?”
“Yeah. The classes are enjoyable, though I like the technical aspects better than the creative ones, honestly. I’m not a very good artist, but I enjoy using various software applications to bring ideas to life. Mostly we work on ad marketing and branding, stuff like that, but 3D modeling is probably my favorite. I love that I can take an idea and create a visual representation of it, even simulating functionality.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, take your gym, for example. I could plug in the dimensions of your space, and use specs to show where equipment would be best utilized to make the most out of the available area. There are endless applications for everything from interior design, to infrastructure planning, to scientific functionality…”
In any other situation, I think this would be a boring topic. Most of it is over my head, but listening to him talk about something he’s passionate about, describing various projects he’s done or is working on in his current classes, is fascinating. I want to know everything. I want to see and fawn over every class project he’s ever done. I want to sit and watch him design and model a damn seat for an airplane. However mundane, I could sit and listen to him for hours.
I knew he looked smart. I'm not even meaning in a nerdy kind of way, although does have a preppy nerd aesthetic working for him, but there's an observant quality about him. I knew this, but finding out just how smart he is? It's truly humbling.
“Does your dad know how much you love graphic design?” I ask carefully, not wanting to cross any lines.
“He knows I was interested in making it my major for undergrad, and that I wanted to pursue it over law, but he let me know pretty early on what his expectations were for me.”
“And if you went against those expectations?”
“I’d be cut off. I know it’s super privileged of me, but everything I have—my apartment, my tuition, the clothes on my back—technically belongs to him. He’s always been quick to remind me how dependent I am on him. And he’s not wrong. So I toe the line and daydream about making my own way once I’ve graduated, but I also know him well enough to know he’ll get his way.”
“That sounds… ominous.”
Tyler chuckles. “I just mean that he has ways of making sure his interests are carried out accordingly.” A laugh bubbles out of him, one that shows just how much the painkillers affect him. “That still sounds like he’s a mobster or something. He’s not. He just knows a lot of people in high places.”
That still sounds really fucked up to me, but I don’t press the issue. I can’t imagine living under someone’s thumb like that.
“What about your mom? Is she in the picture? Does she have any say?”
“My parents divorced when I was very young, and my father got full custody. She’s… not involved.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal.
“What about you?” he asks, yawning. I wave him off when he tries to help me clean up from dinner, and he begrudgingly sits back on the couch.
“What about me?”
“Anything. All I know is that you’re fixing this place up to be a training gym, and that you take in strays.”
“I don’t know, that’s probably the most interesting thing about me.”
Tyler gives me a skeptical look. “Whatever. Your skin alone is more interesting than my rich boy sob story.”
I snort. “I wish I could say I have a deep story for every line of ink on me, but truthfully, only two of them mean anything. One of my buddies back home used me as a practice dummy during his apprenticeship.”
The wide-eyed look of astonishment on his face is hilarious. “You just let some guy practice on you with needles and permanent ink?”
“Pretty much. But I also knew how good of an artist he is, and I’d seen the work he did on practice skin.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Yeah. It’s like sheets of synthetic skin. They feel pretty real.”
Tyler scrunches his nose. “Gross. Okay, so tell me about your two meaningful tattoos. Which ones are they?”
Turning to one side, I show him the piece that takes up my entire right shoulder and arm. It’s a depiction of an oil rig burning with smoke rising into the sky.
I answer his unspoken curiosity before he has to ask. “My dad died in an oil rig explosion just before I turned fifteen.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
“That’s really young to lose your dad. That had to have been hard.”
“You lost your mom younger,” I point out.
He points to the tattoo. “My mother had zero impact on my life. It’s obvious your dad, and his death, had a big impact on yours.”
See? Observant.
“It did, yeah. My mom has a chronic health condition and couldn’t work, so my dad was the main breadwinner. We struggled after he was gone. I quit school so I could work. I hated school, so it wasn’t a big deal. My sister Chelsey, that’s who I was on the phone with earlier, she’s the brain in the family.”
“And she takes care of your mom now?”
I nod. “She got a nursing license and works at a retirement home. I still send money to help out, but Chels gets mad about it, says it’s her turn. She’s the one that pushed me to do this.” I look around the gym, or what will eventually be a gym.
As terrified as I am some days, that I’m too far away to help them, or that I’ll fail and lose everything I’ve worked so hard for, having the opportunity to pursue a dream I never imagined I’d actually see through is something I’ll forever be grateful for.
“And the other?”
Standing, I pull my shirt up to show him the script across the bottom of my left rib cage. His eyes leave mine to ghost over my exposed torso, and I feel his gaze like a physical touch. He leans in so close, I think I can feel his breath on my skin.
“Nothing to lose, everything to gain,” he reads out loud.
“It’s my fighting philosophy. I walk in the ring, or cage, knowing I have nothing to lose if I don’t win, but if I put everything I have into it, I have everything to gain. I was kind of known for being a bit of a reckless fighter.” I smile fondly and chuckle. “It’s also the philosophy my sister used against me to get me to, quote, ‘woman up and take some risks.’”
“I think I like her,” Tyler says sleepily, dragging his eyes down my abs and averting his gaze.
“She’s the best. And my mom is cool, too. She tries too hard sometimes, out of guilt for not being able to do everything for us. But we’re stronger people for it.”
“Were you close to him? Your dad?”
I nod. “Yeah. He was a good dad. Taught me the value of hard work, and that nothing is more important than family.”
“I bet he’d be proud of you,” he says, eyes growing heavy.
“I hope so. Although he’d probably be pissed to know I got a job oil rigging.”
Tyler’s eyes pop open wide, giving me a worried glare.
I shrug. “There weren’t a lot of options for a high school dropout with a family to provide for. I wanted to be a professional fighter, but there’s no money in it. I do regular rotations on the rig, construction jobs in between, and pick up fights for extra money here and there. It’s not a bad life.”
“Unless you get hurt. Or blown up,” he mutters, laying his head back on the arm of the couch.
“That doesn’t matter so much when you’ve got nothing to lose.”
* * *
It's after midnight when I startle awake, and it takes a moment to register what's happening.
After we chatted for a while longer about my mom and sister and tattoos and the gym, and he’d skirted more questions about himself, he eventually fell asleep. Bundled up in another one of my hoodies, he passed out slumped over, his head falling onto my shoulder.
At some point I dozed off too. Now I'm sprawled out on one end of the couch, and Tyler is fast asleep with his head on my thigh. He groans, and I worry he might be in pain. But then he twitches and mutters something unintelligible, except for the word, "no," which comes out clear as day.
My body tenses. The longer I sit here watching him fight an invisible fear, listening to him whimper and cry, the tighter my muscles clench. He’s reliving what that monster did to him when he should be resting. If I ever figure out who did this to him, there will be no holding me back. I’ll tear them apart, limb from limb, until they’re unrecognizable.
I don't think you're supposed to wake someone when they're having a nightmare. Or is that just for sleep walking? I don't know. I don't know what to do. But when he curls in on himself and covers his head, I can't just sit here and watch. Carefully, I scoop him up and hold him against me, doing my best to shield him from the terrors only he can see.