Chapter 33 Rachel
The ice cream shop, which I’ll forever think of as Tom and Jerry’s too, is not as awkward as I thought it would be. Perhaps a skosh more tense than the last time, but more relaxed than the first time when Tyler accused me of being a stalker and his brothers sat on him.
It seems like a normal night. There’s talk of the game, most of which I tune out, instead thinking about the kiss after the game.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Tyler took advantage of the situation just to kiss me, like he wants more.
But that’s nuts. Why would he want more with me?
It’d be death to his image. Not to mention, it’s me.
No, it must be in my head that he’s hinting at more. I drank those ciders a while ago, but maybe I’m still a little tipsy.
Tyler orders a chocolate chip sundae, which looks almost as delectable as the man eating it. I opt for a single scoop of birthday cake ice cream.
"That’s it? A single scoop?" TJ asks me.
"Don’t hate on my birthday cake ice cream. Not everyone needs a monstrosity of a dessert." Defiantly, I stab at my ice cream with my spoon.
TJ leans in, our shoulders touching. "Is that your favorite flavor?"
I shrug. "It’s what I was in the mood for. It’s pretty good."
TJ takes that as an invitation to reach over and spoon out a scoop.
I watch him bring it to his mouth. The same mouth that was on mine after the game.
The same mouth I’m not supposed to be thinking about.
Then, just as he did in Vegas, he turns the spoon over in his mouth, dragging it out through his teeth and lips.
"So you’re still looking to have your cake and eat it too?
Insatiable little appetite there." Then he winks.
Lord help me.
I press my thighs together as warmth floods my body. Why is he teasing me like this? What does he want from me? Would it be conspicuous if I started fanning myself?
We’re with his family, for Pete’s sake.
"So Rachel." Maureen leans in, tenting her hands beneath her chin. "Is soccer growing on you at all? This is what—the third game in a row you’ve been to?"
"Um, I think it’s the fourth. I don’t know that it’s growing on me, but I don’t dread it like I did the first game, so I’d say that’s an improvement. I had a lot of fun tonight."
"The game or the sucking face after the game?" Joey certainly likes to stir the pot.
"I didn’t want to get in trouble for sitting in the wife and girlfriend section, so we thought we had to make it believable." I don’t know why I’m telling his parents, of all people, this.
You see? This is why I do better staying in my apartment by myself. It’s nearly—but not totally—impossible to open yourself up to humiliation when you’re at home.
Even as I think that, two thoughts race through my head.
I referred to my apartment as my home, and I’m happy I went out tonight.
Sure, I’ll have to recharge my social battery for a solid five days after this, but it was much better than staying in.
Even if Tyler hadn’t kissed me, tonight at the game was still better than staying in all alone.
You know on all those medical TV shows, when the character flatlines, and all the doctors are working on the dead person?
There’s the sound of the flatline on the monitor, and people are yelling, "Clear!" and shocking the person over and over. And just when you think that person is dead and gone, there’s a miraculous beep and the person sucks in a huge gasp and sits up, and everything’s wonderful?
I think I’ve been coding for most of my life.
I was "circling the drain" as they like to say on all those TV shows, and once Richie died, I flatlined too.
Every item on her bucket list was like a shock from the paddles.
Clear. Fly on a plane by myself. Charge the paddles to 100.
Clear. Go to a casino. Charge the paddles to 200.
Clear. Meet TJ Doyle. Charge the paddles to 300. Clear. Have a one-night stand.
That’s all I needed. I’m alive, gasping for breath, ready to live again.
Is it clichéd to say I was brought back to life by a magic penis? It’s the stuff of legends in my romance books. The best part of this realization? Knowing that I’m ready to live again, and I don’t even have to forgive my mother.
And for the record, it wasn’t the magic penis itself, but the connection to the owner of the magic penis.
It’s not like it’s just an organ (God, I hate that term) free floating throughout the universe.
No, it’s the man attached to the penis. Though, for the record, and keep in mind I have nothing to compare it with, it was pretty magical.
And then, by extension, the connection to Ophelia and her friends. Maybe they’re going to be my friends, too. I can see the four of us hanging out, even when it’s not at a game. I don’t know the last time I wanted to go out and be social. I don’t know the last time I laughed this much.
The rest of the time at the ice cream parlor passes by in a blur.
The Doyles are talking, mostly about soccer, I think, but my brain will not stay focused.
The weight of my entire life has started to lift from my shoulders.
If I weren’t in public—and with other people—I’d yell to the ceiling, "Richie, I’m free! "
I hope heaven has granted her this same feeling.
My elation lasts until we’re in Tyler’s SUV, driving home. He glances over at me. "I know I’m a great kisser and all, but I don’t think my powers are enough to make you this … happy?"
He has no idea.
"I had a really great time tonight."
"I’m glad," he says.
"No, you don’t understand. I went out. With people.
People I didn’t even know. I went out in a crowd.
I didn’t worry about whether people were going to like me, or if people were going to laugh at my family business.
" I stop, thinking back. "No, wait, I did worry about that. I think I’ll always worry about that. Comes with the nature of the business. But what I do for work didn’t matter.
It was fun. And flirting with you was fun.
And kissing you was super fun. Before I met you, I never had any fun. At least not since my sister got sick."
"That’s over a year at this point, right?"
I nod. It seems like forever ago and yesterday all at the same time. "And I didn’t cry today. I didn’t even want to. Not even when I wanted to talk to Richie. I feel like a huge weight has started to lift off of me."
Admitting it to Tyler boosts my confidence. It swells inside my chest like an overinflated balloon. I said it, and nothing bad happened. For the first time in my life, I start to think that maybe I’m good enough. Maybe, just maybe, Tyler wants more than just friendship.
He certainly acts like he wants more.
I know what Richie would say. She’d tell me I only live once, and that I’d better climb him like a tree before she does. I have the advantage, being corporeal and all, while she’s, at best, a spirit, but nonetheless, I take her advice.
Safe in the dark vehicle, as we’re zipping up 495, I do something very un-Rachel-like.
I channel my inner Richie. "I don’t want to be friends.
I want more. I want my cake." There it is. I drop it like a bomb—and then immediately want to vomit. He’s made his feelings about my upchucking in his car very clear, so I know it would be a dealbreaker.
Tyler stares straight ahead, his fingers tightening on the wheel. The SUV swerves, almost imperceptibly, which is his only tell that this has thrown him. Oh shit. What have I done? He doesn’t want more. I promised him, and now I’m breaking my promise. I’m no better than my mother.
Shit.
My good mood is instantly gone as I quickly descend into the shame spiral. Hello darkness, my old friend.
I have to fix this. Quickly, I say, "I’ll get over it.
Don’t worry. Forget I ever said anything.
I’d be horrible for your image. Your views and traction would tank because of me and my job.
I couldn’t do that to you. We can just be friends, but you can’t kiss me anymore then.
Not even for show. I’ll pay for regular tickets.
I can’t handle the flirting and the touching and the kissing.
It makes me want more, and I’m okay if you don’t want more. I’ll get over you. Just give me time."
Why, why, why did I think blurting something like that would be a good idea? I’m not impulsive. This is a terrible time to develop the trait that so irritated me about my sister. Jesus, what if she’s possessing me? Or, more likely, what if I have a brain tumor too?
I know neither is true, and it’s simply me, making a disaster of my life after I finally felt happiness for all of thirty seconds.
You don’t get yourself into these kinds of messes when you are home, by yourself, with a good book. You can cringe with second-hand embarrassment from the character’s idiotic actions, but you’re never the one acting like an idiot.
He pulls into my parking lot and shuts the SUV off. I wait for a moment for him to say something—anything—but he sits there, still and staring straight ahead.
"I’m sorry I said anything. I didn’t mean to fall for you. If it’s any consolation, I think my feelings would have developed even if we didn’t spend the night together. I flew across the country for you."
"You flew across the country for you," he corrects. "It was something you needed."
"And now you’re something I need." My words hang in the darkness. He doesn’t have to respond. I get the message loud and clear.
My hand is on the handle, I’m a millisecond away from jumping out of the vehicle and never looking back when he says, "It’s not you, it’s me."
His words confirm my deepest, darkest fear.
It’s what one says when it is most definitely you.
My initial instincts to never leave my house again were the right ones.
Putting myself out there only leads to rejection.
Again. When will I learn that no one will stay with me?
There’s something inherently lacking in me that’s completely unlovable.
I wish someday someone would tell me what it is.
My eyes burn with tears, and the lump in my throat is so thick I feel as if I can barely breathe.
He puts his hand on my arm, as if he knows I’m going to run away and never look back. "Rach, I mean that. I … I’m not ready to give you what you need. I’m too messed up still. I want to, but I don’t want to hurt you because I’m a train wreck."
"You’re the train wreck? Your life is perfect," I spit at him. No wonder he doesn’t want me. He has impossible standards that I must fall quite short of. Silly me for dreaming.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, slamming his head back against the headrest. "Rachel, there’s no such thing as perfect.
I live every day with the thought that the next practice or game could be my last, and then what?
I have no marketable skills. It’s not like I have what it takes to work in the front office.
I’m not polished or smooth enough to be on air for one of the networks, plus, do you know how steep the competition is for that?
All I can do is take my shirt off and pretend to know how to cook.
But when it’s not my job to be physically fit, I doubt people will still tune in.
Then what? What do I do? There’s an expiration date on both my looks and my skill, and we all know it’s sooner rather than later.
You see what Joey looks like, and he’s only five years older than I am.
When I don’t have those things, what am I good for?
How am I going to provide a life for you? "
My mouth opens and then closes. I try to make sense of his words. "I never asked you to provide a life for me." The tears that have been stinging the backs of my eyes make their way forward and spill down my face.
"It’s tempting to want more. Because I do.
But I’m not ready yet. And, frankly, neither are you.
Because when this happens, I will never ever want to let you go.
So, when this happens, I want the best version of myself to be there for you.
And don’t take this the wrong way, but I want the best version of you for me.
So let’s slow this down, work on ourselves, and get our shit together before we do anything stupid. "
I want to tell him his words make sense. I want to reassure him he’s not stupid. I want to beg him to reconsider so we can grow together. Instead, I hop out of the SUV and run inside, never once looking back.
Once safely behind the door of my apartment, I slide to the floor, the tears flowing freely. I yell at the ceiling, "This is all your fault!" Once again, my sister doesn’t answer.
I’m right back to where I started.