4. Rhodes
4
Rhodes
I ’m pathetic.
Paige only left this morning, and I’m already at a loss for what to do with myself.
I worked out for a bit before I got distracted thinking about Paige and almost dropped a weight on my foot, missed a call from Mom after I told her to reach out at that time, and forgot my keys on the rung of my locker, forcing me to walk all the way back to get them in order to get into my apartment. I also haven’t made it to the grocery store in a few days, so it looks like I’m going to go hungry this week.
Flat on my back, I’m staring at the ceiling and thinking about the good old days when I’d be picking up Paige from Upstairs Closet Thrift in an hour, hearing about her day, and offering her an apple or granola bar since she likely forgot to eat lunch.
She’s probably well into her journey, playing music that’s too loud to hear anything else, and eating Gushers. I can say this for certain since I saw them on the front seat before she left, and I helped curate her playlist.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to handle this for the next few weeks or however long it will take. That might be the worst part—a vague understanding of time. If I knew it was only a week or two, I might be able to manage. But, just like with Dad’s recovery, I don’t know how long I’m in this for. I don’t like the instability of it all.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t said I love you ?
Or maybe there’s just no hope for me.
I’m gone for this woman. Always have been.
I sit up and start to pace my living room. There’s got to be something else I can do that will keep me from following her in my car.
I pick up my phone and stare at my last texts to Paige:
Me:
I slipped a gas card in the cupholder. Don’t forget to use it!
Me:
Have a great time.
Me:
I miss you already.
Yeah. There’s probably a really good reason why Paige feels like she needs to take this solo trip, and it likely has to do with the fact we’re always around each other. How else is she supposed to figure out what she really wants and whether that includes me when I’m breathing down her neck? I’m channeling a lost dog on the streets right now without my best friend. What does that say about me?
That I need a hobby. ASAP.
I scroll down to Amber’s contact and click on it, tapping my fingers on the window sill in time with every ring.
“Are you bored yet?” Amber asks when she answers on the fifth ring.
“I’m…contemplating.”
She sighs. “You have to let her go, Rhodes.”
“I did!” I protest. “We both watched her drive off, didn’t we? After hitting the mailbox and causing Machete Lady to spear the Rhododendron, but she’s gone, Amber, and I didn’t chase after her.”
But I wanted to.
“Yes, but how many times have you almost decided to get in your wee little car and follow her down I-90?”
More than half a dozen in the last hour, at least.
“Enough to know I need a hobby,” I state, tracing the window lock. I sigh heavily. “I need something to take my mind off Paige.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“Is that still a thing?”
The milk frother picks up in the background. “It was a hot hobby there for a while. You could likely find all of the supplies at Upstairs Closet.”
“Pass.”
“How about video games?”
I’ve never been good at sitting for long periods of time. “That sounds like mental and physical suffering I don’t want. It needs to be active. Preferably something that involves hitting, punching, or throwing.”
“Have you ever tried pickleball?” she asks. “It’s basically all three of those things.”
“Punching?”
She scoffs. “Only if you lose.”
I’ve never been a big sports guy. I played soccer when I was younger and warmed the bench for the other basketball players in middle school before deciding cameras were a lot more interesting to me.
“Is pickleball the one with the table?” I ask, leaning against the wall.
“That’s ping pong. Or maybe it’s called table tennis?” Something drops on her end until I realize it was her phone since it sounds like she fumbles around for it. “Sorry. I’m at work and need to put you on speakerphone while I make this iced latte.”
Now I’m thirsty.
“Don’t be fooled, Rhodes. Pickleball has gained more popularity in recent years, and it’s an Olympic sport.”
I laugh. “So is break dancing, apparently. That doesn’t mean a whole lot, Amber. I just need to know if it will take my mind off Paige.”
The espresso grinder roars to life on her end, and when it stops, I know she’s tamping down the shots. I’ve seen the process enough times since Paige would normally ask me to swing by the stand before or after work, usually both.
Damn it. Paige .
I really can’t stop thinking about her.
I shake my head, pushing off the wall to shuffle through my dresser drawer for shorts. “Teach me how to play pickleball today after work.”
She laughs as a straw squeaks being shoved into the cup. “Just because I know what pickleball is—thank you for coming!—doesn’t mean I know how to play.”
“We’ll figure it out together then. I’m sure my gym has what we need, but I’ll call to confirm and let you know.”
“Rhodes, I fully support you wanting to do something productive to keep you from going insane over Paige leaving and not returning your feelings—”
“To be determined, Amber! She never said she didn’t like me. AND she kissed me back.” It was the best kiss of my life, in fact.
“Yes, she kissed you. But she’s also confused right now, hence the birthday crises she’s experiencing.”
I shove my drawer closed when I get what I need. “You think she’s doing this because she’s about to turn thirty?”
When I turned thirty, I went to an Italian restaurant with Amber and Paige and was home and in bed by 8:30 p.m. No big revelations and definitely no fleeing the state.
But I’d already been well into my “career” at this point, making stop-motion video clips that not only made people smile from worlds away but also paid the bills. I know Paige feels like she’s never had a serious grown-up job before, and that makes her feel aimless, but what even is that? Do I have a grown-up job? Is it something corporate with suits and ties, slacks and pumps? I don't think so…
“Maybe. Probably,” Amber says, though her voice sounds as if she’s in the stock room grabbing more supplies. “But while she’s on her journey, you need to go on yours. Preferably alone. As in, without me .”
“Six o’clock. My gym unless I text you otherwise.” My words are stern and commanding, which leaves me little hope she’s going to agree.
“Rhodes,” she whines.
“Please, Amber. I need this. I need to forget. I’m calling in my friend card.”
She laughs. “You mean the slips of paper we wrote on and gave to each other in case something ever came up where we needed the others to step in?”
“Yes, that one,” I confirm, tossing a shirt on the bed.
“You still have yours? We were like ten.”
“Thirteen, actually, and I don’t know where the card is, but I never used mine. You and Paige had already handed yours over by the end of the day.”
There’s a deep sigh on her end while I hold my breath.
“Make it 6:30. I need to go home and grab my clothes for sweating.”
“IT’S THE POLO shirt, I swear. It’s a curse.” Amber huffs, bracing her hands on her knees. “When did you even buy that?”
I pluck at the collar of my shirt, which also happens to be plastered to my body like a second skin from sweat. “I honestly can’t remember.”
My gym, located below my apartment, had all the necessary gear for pickleball. Amber was right. It really is an up-and-coming sport. They also had two rowdy players—Jim and Agnes—eager to play us. At first, I didn’t think it would be an issue to pair up since they looked as if they had AARP memberships and maybe a cup beside their beds for dentures.
Is that even a thing? Seems unhygienic.
Turns out they’re retired, which isn’t all that surprising. What is a shocker is how well they play. All the extra time has given them more opportunity to practice.
Amber falls to her knees on the court. “I need…water…stat.”
I smile at Jim and Agnes, signaling a time-out so I can get my partner more water. She’s already finished off her bottle and is halfway through mine. We’re both going to need plenty of electrolytes after this game. Jim and Agnes have a mean backhand while we’ve spent most of the time running after the ball rather than hitting it.
Unscrewing the cap, I chug some water and then offer it to Amber, who is now flat on her back. She opens her mouth. “Just pour it in.”
“I’m going to spill it all over you and the court if I do that,” I say, sticking out my hand. “Let me help you up. We can take five on the bench.”
“Can’t. Move.”
I roll my eyes and cap the water bottle again so I can peel my teammate off the floor. She groans when I lift under her arms and force her to her feet.
“Are my legs still attached?” she asks, peering down, even though she’s slowly shuffling toward the bench seat.
“Yes,” I confirm while massaging my upper thighs. I wildly underestimated the physical output this sport would require of us.
Amber sits on the bench and leans against the wall, sticking out her hand for the water bottle. I oblige and hand it over. “They’re trying to kill us, I think,” Amber says, dark hair plastered to the sides of her face.
I look over my shoulder. Jim is holding Agnes’ hand so she can balance on one leg while stretching her quad. “God, they’re like…bionic.”
“You’re right about that.” Amber gulps the rest of the water. “Agnes had her hip replaced and both knees within the last five years.”
“How do you know?” I ask, brows furrowed.
“Before the game in the bathroom. She seemed so sweet back then.”
“Well, good news…” I open my palms in a wide gesture. “I haven’t thought about Paige in the last thirty minutes we’ve been playing!”
Amber goes still. “We’ve only been playing for thirty minutes?”
I check the clock. “Sorry. Thirty-five minutes.”
She groans and sinks further into the wall, widening her knees. “How are you not dying right now?”
“I eat well and work out every day?”
“I hate you.”
“You can come to the gym with me this week, hit the weights before we take on Jim and Agnes again—”
“Again?!” Amber yells, and I have to smile at the elderly couple over my shoulder so they know we’re good. Well, mostly.
“Didn’t you hear the part about how I haven’t been thinking about Paige?”
“You are now!”
I glare at her. “Because we’ve stopped playing. Come on, Amber. This is good for me. It’s helping. And after the shit couple weeks I’ve had, I feel unstoppable .”
Mentally, I haven’t been in the best place. I know I haven’t been dealing with the rejection or the lack of control well. I held everything I’d ever wanted for a few short seconds before she shoved me into limbo. It was a huge hit, plus it’s cold and dark and lonely here. And there is only so much cleaning one person can take under this kind of stress. I’m positive I’ve reached that limit.
I even tried making candles like Paige always does when she’s in a slump. Now my kitchen rug has melted wax all over it, and I’ve got a burn shaped like Mickey Mouse on my forearm.
“Please, Amber. I just need to play for the next however long Paige is gone, and then when she’s back, I’ll know if I need to join a league or not.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “You can’t be serious.”
Oh, but I am.
If Paige wants nothing more to do with me, I’ll likely need to start preparing for the Olympics.
My expression softens, but I don’t break eye contact.
“Oh shit. You are,” she whispers.
“Please?”
She huffs. “Fine. But you owe me a weekly massage at the fancy spa here.”
“I’ll make your first appointment when we leave.”
Her gaze tracks to Jim and Agnes, jogging in place. “Okay then. Help me up. I think my feet have been chopped off.”