Chapter 19
A LOW SOUND COMES FROM the gym, and I look up from the phone, waiting for a follow-up. Nope. Nothing. I get back to the screen, trying to find my place in the short story, and my eyes land on the time—Oh, snap! It’s been twenty minutes since I clocked out.
I shove my phone into my bag and stand, my butt smarting from sitting on the slatted locker room bench for so long.
I’d only meant to scan the list of “approved” short stories the district in Georgia had sent me, but I started looking up the plot summaries of the ones I didn’t know, which quickly turned into finding them online.
Bradbury’s “The Veldt” is wonderfully macabre, but I don’t know where I can use it.
I push open the door and step into the hallway. Maybe for an inference activity?
I’m at the drinking fountain when I hear Ian’s voice.
“What do you mean, you’ve spent your dining-out budget for the week?” he’s asking. “It’s only Tuesday.”
“Dude, I just got so hungry, and I wasn’t thinking about it!” It’s Grant.
“How tight a leash are you on—” Ian’s quiet for a moment, then says, “That’s a pretty reasonable amount, Grant.”
“Come on, man. Please?”
I emerge from the hallway, ready to play bad cop before Ian has to, but I don’t see him, just Grant. I have to look past my roommate to spot Ian, who is, oddly, kneeling in the center of the room. He sees me, and hastens to rise, and I notice him wince, favoring his right leg.
I start for him without thinking. I’m about ask if he’s okay when I see his right knee. It’s scummed up, covered in the black that always transfers from the floor surface, and beneath that, clearly abraded, shiny and pink. Did he trip? How—
Ah! I look at the floor. Sure enough, the uneven square is sticking up more than usual. When I return to Ian, he is committed to avoiding my eyes. “So, it finally happened.”
“I’m sure you’re loving this,” he says, with an audible edge.
I frown, stung that he’d think that. “No, actually. I prefer victories without bloodshed.” I turn to Grant, who is also focusing anywhere but me. “What’s up?”
“Nothing!” he says, too loud to be natural. I wait; short of red hands, unnecessary volume is the ultimate indicator of guilt.
He cracks in seconds. “I was thinking about going for tacos.”
I cross my arms, feigning confusion. “Weren’t you lamenting earlier that you’d blown your entire dining-out budget on that spread at the food truck park last night?”
Grant continues to study the floor. “Yes.”
“Then, that’s on you. You can’t just hit up your brother.”
“Yes, he can,” says Ian.
I blink up at him. Really? “Well, yes, literally, but that’s not exactly in the spirit of our arrangement.” I nod at Grant. “We have a fridge full of leftovers and premade meals at home. If you’re already going out, just go home.”
“But…” Grant’s brow pleats, lower lip protruding like a petulant toddler. “I want tacos.”
“Then make them at home,” I singsong with a pout of my own. I look to Ian for backup.
His expression has taken on the hardness I glimpsed when he showed up to mess with Cole. Without the shading of concern, it is chilling. This can’t be about tacos. Is he hanging on to the flooring thing?
Ian reaches into his back pocket, producing his wallet.
“Hey, Grant, would you mind going to Torchy’s?
” he says, pointedly naming the Austin-native taco chain.
“I feel like a Brushfire. And, you know what?” he adds, smile so saccharine, I’m sure his teeth hurt.
“How about you get something for yourself? As a thank-you, for running this errand.”
“Um… sure? It’s what I was about to do anyway—”
“Thank you!” Ian gives me a superior look as he hands his brother a twenty. I glare back.
“That’s probably not gonna cover it,” says Grant, interrupting our stand-off. “I was thinking I’d do queso, and that’s already, like, seven bucks, then at least four tacos—”
“You can eat the Brushfire yourself. Just take the money,” says Ian, and returns to me.
“But dude!” Grant insists. “That’s yours!”
“Grant!” Ian digs in the wallet again and hands off a ten. “Go get your lunch!”
“Sweet!” Grant snags the second bill and heads for the door. “Thanks, Ian!”
We watch him go. When the door clatters shut, Ian lifts his chin.
Unbelievable. “You’re looking pretty smug for a guy who’s out thirty bucks.” I shake my head. “Did that feel like a victory in some way?”
“You didn’t win.”
“And neither did Grant,” I say, ignoring the fresh sting at the pleasure he’s taking in undermining me. Where is this coming from? “How is that helping him? That’s not what he needs, Ian. It’s not what any of them need—”
“And you would know, after playing house with them for a few weeks.”
“Um, yeah. Given that the alternative appears to be simply enabling them—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you kidding? What am I not talking about? You are actively facilitating their slacking. Here’s money for lunch, Grant!
Diego, you scheduled a haircut at the exact same time as a class you’ve been running for the better part of a year?
I’ve got you covered?” I scowl. “Don’t worry about finding a roommate, guys!
I’ll fork over several hundred a month to cover the rent. ”
“How— Babs,” he growls, in a way that would be appealing if not for the circumstances.
“Where does it end? At some point, they’re going to have to succeed or fail on their own. If for no other reason than to give yourself a break. Even here—”
“For Christ’s sake, Hayes!” He brings both hands to his face, fingertips nudging back the rim of his cap so that when he draws his hands down, the hat perches atop his head. “What is so wrong with my business that you’re so compelled to fix it?”
“All I was going to say is that the guys can contribute more around here. Relieve you of a five a.m. or two, but if you really want me to dig in,” I continue, more than ready for this conversation, “you know that I have a list.”
“The gym is fine.”
“Don’t you want better than fine?” I ask, my voice rising.
“You’ve done something incredible with Firehouse.
The heart and soul of this thing is you.
You’re why people stay. You’re a knowledgeable, effective coach.
You care about your members and staff. You change lives!
Hell, you may have saved Tom’s. But the state of this place doesn’t reflect that. ”
“This is not why I brought you on. I needed someone who could check people in and not use fifteen exclamation points in a social post. Not Lady Bird goddamn Johnson.”
“I don’t know what that means!” I spit. “But I don’t think it’s exactly the purview of a First Lady to point out that this floor should have been fixed properly before someone”—I gesture to his still-red knee with both hands—“ate shit on it!”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His cheeks are pink.
“And while you may not have brought me on to elevate this place, a good portion of your membership thinks I should. They have a whole litany of suggestions, but they’re too afraid to bring it up with you.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Your pathological aversion to accepting help has them desperate for someone who might listen to them. They just want to contribute! The guys, too! They want to be part of it.”
“I have a way of doing things here. The guys…” He seems to consider his words for a moment, jaw flexing, his lips pressing together. “I don’t want to bog them down with any other gym stuff. They’re dudes in their early twenties. They’re fine.”
“Why can’t they be better than fine, too?
” I am at my limit. Not just with Ian’s hardheadedness, but the entire social structure that expects so little from fully capable postadolescent males.
“You have such high standards for their performance, for the performance of the athletes here, for yourself, most of all. Why don’t you expect them to be capable of keeping a toilet fit for company? ”
“You don’t need to dissect everything they do! Not everything is for you to fix.”
“I’m teaching them how to do laundry, Ian, not fundamentally changing who they are.”
“Who they are?” he echoes, incredulous. “You don’t know who they are. You’re acting like you have all the answers, when you don’t know the first thing about them.”
“I know plenty.”
“Really?” He squares up, placing his feet like he’s about to initiate a lift. “What do you know about Alistair, then? Are you aware that he’s already graduated?”
“He—what?”
“A year ago. And he was the valedictorian of his high school graduating class. Went in with a load of credits. So you probably don’t know what he majored in, either?”
I hate that I can’t deny him the pleasure of being right. But also…Alistair?
He shakes his head. “No? Of course not. Because that would require asking. Going beyond what you think you know about them, based on, what, exactly? A shitty bathroom and an empty fridge?”
Again, I have nothing.
“You’re telling me that I don’t have faith in the guys, when everything you’re doing is based on assumptions you’ve made about them!
Honestly, Hayes, what is your deal? Did that ass with the bike really turn you into this?
Is this any different from the ‘you’ you were with him? Still ‘filling in the cracks’?”
The words cut in so many ways. “This is nothing like that,” I snap. “I am not that person!”
“Yeah, well, you’re not their goddamn mother.”
The air pulls from my lungs in a rush.
Intellectually, I can see this for the revelation it is. His mom died. I’m living with his brother, filling in a lot of blanks that a mom might. This is the extension of his grief and loss and so many complicated feelings that time will never heal.
But he’s laid me out with the one-two punch of my oversights and assumptions and the reference to the role that my scarred, ravaged insides will, statistically, barring significant medical intervention, never allow me to experience.
I don’t know how to react to that.
So I don’t.
I just cross the room and walk out the door.