27. The Fuck It Stage #2
I wish restraint wasn’t my strong suit. Sometimes, I wish it were easier to throw caution to the wind.
But Miles has worked too hard to take this kind of chance.
I’ve worked too hard as well. My dad’s not an unreasonable man, but at the same time, this thing with Miles is too uncertain.
It’s not something I want to bring up to my father, so really, this thing is best left in the friend zone.
“We’ve mostly behaved. Though, not to sound full of myself, I think if it were up to him, we’d have broken all the rules. ”
Maeve’s eyes widen. “So he has it bad for you?”
I shrug. “I think so. He’s pretty upfront about it.” My chest flutters from memories of his intensity—saying he can’t stop thinking about me, that I’m the only one. It’s heady to be the object of his longing, but risky too.
“Sometimes, I feel like I have to be the one who remembers what’s at stake. Like he’d be willing to throw caution to the wind, even though he has a lot on the line too.”
Everly sighs knowingly. “He’s in the fuck-it stage, isn’t he? I’ve seen how he looks at you during photo shoots.”
I can’t resist asking, “How does he look at me?”
“Like he can’t help himself,” she says, smiling.
I fight a grin, fizzy inside. I like that his feelings are obvious to her, even if they can’t go anywhere. “Nothing can happen, though,” I say heavily. A wicked smile creeps in. “But is it terrible that I love that it’s obvious?”
They laugh, shaking their heads.
“I just hope it’s not obvious to my father,” I say, wincing.
Everly shakes her head. “Men don’t usually pick up on that stuff.”
We lift our glasses in a toast to that truth.
As the clock ticks to ten, I wish I could slow time. I don’t want to go home to my roomies, especially since this night has been exactly what I needed.
All good things must end though.
After we say goodnight, I head home, terribly hopeful that my roomies will be asleep when I crack open the door.
A girl can dream after all.
But the universe gives, and the universe taketh away. When I unlock the apartment with a quiet snick, I step right into the alligator pit. The two of them are perched on the living room couch, facing each other, with Indigo’s hands folded into a prayer.
“I do understand that because you have a penis, you pee standing up and you lift the lid. But when you don’t put the lid down, I inherently feel like I’m being punished for having a vagina.”
I would like her to be punished for having vocal cords.
Keeping my head down, I smile blandly, and point to my ears, signaling that I’m listening to something. But Indigo pops up, grabbing my arm before I can reach my room.
“What’s going on?” I ask innocently.
Indigo turns to her guy. “Please ask Leighton if your behavior is okay.”
Kill me now.
Ezra shoots me a helpless look as he mumbles, “If you walked into the bathroom and you saw that the toilet seat was up, what would you do?”
I’m so annoyed that they’re actually asking me to intervene that words fly out of my irritated mouth before I can hold back. “I’d kick it down.”
But that’s the exact wrong answer because Indigo gasps. “Where is the female solidarity?”
Not the point, but for the sake of keeping the peace, I backpedal. “What I meant is I would solve the immediate problem and then I would ask the offender to please put it down next time.”
Indigo frowns, her expression saying I’ve failed the test. “And you don’t think him leaving it up is a sign of the patriarchy?”
For fuck’s sake there are bigger battles to fight than toilet lids. “It isn’t my place to intervene,” I say, trying once more to head straight for my room and learn to love rock music to drown out the sounds of them for all eternity.
“Please, Leighton. Please help us,” she says, her lower lip quivering.
I groan privately, then give in since it’ll just be easier. “Maybe give him a consequence if he leaves it up and a reward if he puts it down. K, thanks, bye.”
I hustle into my bedroom and slam the door, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
But five minutes later, the sound of the flushing toilet, a theatrically loud snap of the closed lid, and a squeal from Indigo filters under my door.
Seconds later, she’s saying—no, shouting, “That makes me so hot.”
He brays right back. “I knew it would, babe. Let’s both enjoy the reward…of passionate sexual intercourse.”
That’s it.
I groan, exasperated, but as I slip into bed and tuck my hearing aids into their charger, I revel in the blissful quiet.
Sometimes, it’s a blessing to have this kind of control over the noise. The hum of the refrigerator dims, the noise of the street fades, and the distant sound of voices drifts away.
Except…
“Oh god, yes! Play with my balls, baby.”
I wither inside. They must be having a really good time if he’s not saying “touch my testicles.”
“Fuck me harder, honey,” she shouts.
Somehow, some way, they’re louder than my loss.
* * *
In the morning, when I trudge, bleary-eyed and yawning, toward the shower, they’re already in the kitchen, arms crossed, arguing by the coffee maker.
“I feel that when you make coffee, you should make enough for me.” Ezra adjusts his man bun like it’s a crown before crossing his arms.
Indigo flicks her sleep-mussed braid off her shoulder. “I feel you should ask me to.”
“I feel you should know.”
“I feel we should ask Leighton,” she says.
They both brighten, snapping attention to me like I’m the solution to all their woes.
I hold up my hands, and shake my head as I sidestep them on my way into the bathroom since I feel I should get new roommates.
* * *
I slump down on the players’ bench at the Sea Dogs arena as my father flops down next to me, skates still on. He reaches for the coffee I brought him.
He works out there in the mornings, still snagging ice time for himself.
Perks of being a pro coach, I suppose.
I down another thirsty gulp of my tea, then sigh. “I think the tea is working—finally,” I say, but my voice sounds dead tired to me.
That’s no good.
“Rough night?” Dad asks.
“I barely slept, but the guys and I have a shoot today with senior dogs from Little Friends. It’s for the rescue’s campaign to highlight overlooked older pups. Worth it, but whew, I need more caffeine.”
“Is it the futon? Those things are the devil’s work,” he says.
I crack my neck, shifting it side to side. “I wish it were the futon.”
He shoots me a sympathetic look. “What is it then?”
After a semi-truck-size yawn seizes me, I blurt out all my frustration. “I’ve become their mediator,” I say, then tell him all about my roommates’ constant bickering.
I leave out the dirty details.
When I’m done, there’s a serious look in his dark blue eyes.
He’s quiet for a beat, and I can tell he’s devising a plan.
His coach mindset runs deep in him. His strategic mind never rests.
He takes a fortifying drink of the coffee, then sets it down on the bench.
“I know you want to make it on your own, and I respect that, but this situation sounds miserable. What if I helped with rent? You could find a place you actually like.”
My heart tugs. His offer is so ridiculously tempting. “Thanks, Dad. Let me think about it, but at first blush, I still think I need to do this whole life thing on my own.”
I switch to sign language because this feels intensely personal. Know what I mean?
His smile is kind, a touch sad. I do know.
He taught me how to navigate the world. He gave me the skills and the faith. Now it’s up to me to show that I can do that—carve out a life for myself. I don’t know what the future holds; no one does of course. But I know I need to be independent. And I know, too, that he respects that.
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. I set my head on his shoulder, feeling safe for the moment, like I did growing up.
But even though I know deeply that I can always count on him, I need to be certain, too, that I can always count on myself.