Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
I come out of the bathroom pinching the neckline of my pajama top together with my fingertips. Danny sits propped up on the couch, glasses perched on his nose as he reads. He’s wearing a heather-gray T-shirt over pajama bottoms, the modesty likely for my benefit.
It’s the right move, sleeping on the shitty air mattress.
I’m not sure I even know how to share a bed platonically.
It’s not something Casey and I ever did.
We’ve fallen asleep on the couch together countless times, but never crossed that threshold of walking upstairs and into his bedroom.
Their bedroom. Maybe that was the problem.
My eyes flick to the cover of the book he’s reading, and I muffle a laugh. “You’re reading a romance novel?”
“I’m into happy endings. With my books, I mean,” he says, turning the page.
I climb onto my air mattress, my own book and a dictionary on my lap. I open the Russian-to-English translated tome about some orphan’s dreary life. It’s never-ending, but I’m powering through.
Danny peeks over at me. “Are you studying for something?”
“No.”
“So you’re reading a book that necessitates a dictionary and highlighter for pleasure?”
I close my book. “Yes. I like learning. It’s not that weird.”
“Or you’re reading it for another purpose.”
“And what would that be?”
“To impress.”
I scoff. “I am not trying to impress you.”
“Not me. Strangers. You want people in the world to see you reading these types of books so you can control the opinion they form of you.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.”
Danny raises one eyebrow. “Want to prove it to me?”
There’s that word again. Suddenly, I’m back in the bar, with Danny promising to prove to me that I’m not alone in the world. I swallow hard.
“Sure. Whatever.”
“OK. Tomorrow night’s hedonism lesson will focus on how not to care what people think. We’ll head out right after practice. Wear something pink.” Danny closes his book, getting up from the couch. “Night, Theranos.”
He pads off to his bedroom where sleep will probably find him almost immediately in his massive, comfortable Tempur-Pedic bed. Bastard.
I lie back, my hips aching on the air mattress, and stare at the ceiling for hours, feeling somewhat stripped down.
How had he known that I read difficult books partly for the impressed glances of others?
Of Casey, in particular, teasing me about my big brain, deferring to me at every trivia night, bragging to the girls about how smart I am.
But what good did it do? He still chose the fun girl. They always do. It’s why you’ll be alone forever. Because who would ever want to be with you?
My heart throbs in my throat at the thought, flip-flopping unnaturally but familiarly. Sweat pricks at my pores. The chest tightening comes next. I close my eyes, picturing the glowing square that has gotten me through so many tough times, and breathe.
My phone buzzes next to me. There’s only one person who would try me this late. But one glance at the text shows it isn’t Maya. I sit straight up and grab the phone with both hands.
Casey: There’s no way you’re up, right?
Me: Actually, you caught me mid-panic attack.
Casey: Oh good. Room for one more?
Me: Since when do you panic?
Casey: Since I’m moving in with a woman I just met for the summer. I’m seriously spiraling. Do you think I’m doing the right thing?
God. Leave it to Casey to expect me to make him feel better about breaking my heart.
Me: Do *you* think you’re doing the right thing?
Casey: I need you to tell me. You’re the professional.
I could do it. I could tell him this is an impulsive, damaging thing to do.
That dragging the girls along for this fling will harm them irreparably.
And honestly, it might. What do we even know about this Helena woman?
She could be one of those almond moms, putting padlocks on the pantry. She could be a proponent of spanking.
I stare at the blinking cursor. Just a few taps of my fingers, and I can hit send. No one will know and it will be like it never happened. And maybe he’ll stay.
Me: I think it’s very sudden.
Three blinking dots bounce and then stop. Like he’s thinking of whether he should hit send. Then the message flies in.
Casey: Well … I couldn’t wait around for you forever.
Oh, shit! My heart pounds faster and I hug the phone to my chest.
But wait … is he being serious? This is the problem with texting—it’s impossible to decipher tone.
I don’t know what to write back. If it’s normal, jokey Casey, then har har would be the appropriate answer.
If it’s romantic, pull your rain hood up and stare at your lips Casey, then I should reply, Not forever … but can you wait eighteen more days?
If only he used emojis. The phone buzzes again before I have time to write anything.
Casey: You still there?
I stare at the phone, completely frozen. Then I panic-type something—anything.
Me: I’m going to Oregon with my client this weekend.
Casey: Oh. OK. Sleep tight and we’ll catch up when you get back I guess.
The sun is up but the apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
“Danny?” I knock on his bedroom door until it opens and find his swath of bedsheets empty. A wave of stomach acid tips up my throat. He’s not here.
Oh god—the multitude of calamities that could be occurring right now. He could be at a bar or getting into a fight. Or being arrested for a bar fight.
I need to find him. I tie my sneakers, not bothering to change out of my pajamas, and jog to the elevator. The brunch spot downstairs has bottomless mimosas. I’ll check there first.
As soon as I enter the lobby, Danny breezes in, two coffees and a pastry box in hand.
“Pajamas in public? You’re learning. That was supposed to be lesson number three.”
“I woke up, and you were gone,” I say, patting my hair, which I’m sure is a hot mess.
Danny lifts the box. “Croissants the size of dinner plates, the ones I was telling you about.” He tilts his head, looking at me properly. “Are you OK?”
“I thought you escaped.”
“Escaped to where? I live here.”
I let him shepherd me through to the elevator, his hand on my lower back, guiding me like he did when we left Climate Pledge Arena together, drunk on kisses.
“What time is it?”
“Early enough. You were still snoring when I woke up, so I tried your First Waking Thought thing on my own. Turns out my first waking thought was about croissants.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “I do not snore.”
Danny smirks. “Afraid you do. Like a lumberjack.”
“I know for a fact that I am an eerily silent sleeper. People have even worried I’ve died, that’s how quietly I sleep. They’ve put mirrors under my nose to see if I’m still breathing.”
Danny holds his cellphone up, and a deep rhythmic roar fills the elevator, rising and falling like waves. My eyes widen.
“You recorded me?”
Danny shrugs. “It was soothing. Like one of those nature albums. I kind of like it.”
I push my way out of the elevator and stomp to his apartment red-cheeked. How long did he let me carry on like that? Was he watching me sleep? The thought is unnerving … and, OK, fine, mildly thrilling.
Danny opens the box of pastries, and I let out a deep sigh.
“You can’t even eat one, so I don’t understand why you bothered buying them.”
“I bought them,” he says, locating a plate, “because I want you to try one. And Topher too. Because sharing things you enjoy with other people adds a tick mark to the pleasure column. And that is always the goal.”
“I thought you were at a six AM bar or something. I mean, I was hired to keep you out of trouble, but so far the only thing you’re in danger of is type two diabetes.
” I settle at the kitchen island and place a napkin on my lap.
“I don’t fully understand why I’m here, which makes it hard to do my job properly. ”
“Believe me. You’re doing it.”
He pushes the plate toward me, and I take a tentative bite. The flakey crust gives way to a chewy, buttery center, then the chocolate ganache hits, melting on my tongue. “Oh, wow.”
“Told you. Now take a sip of your coffee.”
The lush, creamy finish of my latte mixes with the chocolate, creating a whole new world of texture and taste. Danny tilts his head, observing me, knowing the pleasure that’s swirling inside of me.
But is he enjoying this too much? Yeah, it’s definitely getting weird. I drop the croissant with a thump.
“We’d better start our day now,” I say, touching a napkin to my lips. “Mornings are for discipline.”
“Whatever you say, Theranos.”
A few minutes later, we’re positioned on his rooftop, yoga mats underfoot as the city awakens below. He follows me through my asanas, surprisingly flexible and rhythmic for a fighter.
“You practice?” I ask, peering at him from under my triangle pose.
“Tai chi, but not for years.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“I guess life got in the way.”
“Does that happen to you a lot?” I smile. “Life getting in the way?”
“A touch more than it should.”
“Yoga practice is great for improving self-discipline. It teaches you to breathe through discomfort, to make space for humbleness, especially in the poses that feel damn near impossible.” I drop to my knees and reach back for both ankles, displaying a camel pose I’d worked on for years.
Even now, it makes me work for it. I focus on my breath, leaning into the discomfort, finding my edge.
Danny tries to mimic the pose, but can’t reach back far enough to grab his ankles and ends up a tumbled heap on his mat.
“Try again,” I say, using my abs to rise back up. “Not so far back this time. Only to the threshold of discomfort, then hold. You there?”
Danny grunts. “Yeah.”
“Good. Stay with it. You can get through anything for five breaths.”
“This counts as five ticks in the pain column, Theranos. We’re balancing it tonight.”
“Almost there. One more breath. Good.”
Danny buckles and releases into child pose. “That was terrible. Terrible. I promise to start doing tai chi again if you never, ever make me do that camel thingy again.”
“Deal.”
At the fight gym, Topher eats his massive chocolate croissant in two bites. Danny hands one to Gracie, who sneers and promptly drops it in the trash bin.
“In the ring,” she says, clapping her hands. “Today, we are doing something different. I’m going to force your defense. With this.” She pulls a pocket knife from her hip and flips open the silver switchblade with a flash. It glints in the overhead lights.
Topher and Danny look at each other. Topher shrugs.
Gracie cocks her head, and I can see the whites of her eyes. “Run.”
Danny hesitates, and Gracie lunges at him with the knife, slashing the hem of his shorts, leaving them bifurcated and flapping above his thick thigh muscle. Topher yanks Danny out of the way at the last second as they both dodge another stab.
“Gracie, what the fuck?”
“You need defense,” she says, leaping toward him blade first like a fencer. Danny dips, and leans out of the way with millimeters to spare.
I flip up my turtleneck and press my hands onto my face. Shit, what do I do? She won’t actually cut them, right?
Topher makes a chopping motion with his hands—“Stop!” in ASL—but Gracie slashes at him wildly and nicks his finger. A thin line of blood appears on his pinky.
“Offense may win fights in the streets of Lahaina, but it’s not enough to win the belt.” Her eyes have gone feral, and a sickly smile spreads across her face as she chases them with her blade.
Danny faces her in a defensive pose, ready to grab her arm. She lunges at him, a wide, high swipe aiming for his face. He ducks and bats her arm out of the way.
“Good. Again.” She swipes in the opposite direction this time, and he is able to avoid it. “Respect every strike from your opponent as if he’s holding a blade.”
Gracie bounces back on one foot before springing full-force toward Danny.
He steps forward into her, colliding and knocking her arms free of him, hard.
The knife goes skittering across the mat, where Topher falls to his knees to capture it.
He snaps the blade back into its sheath, heaving hard for air.
Gracie stands up straight, no longer possessed. Danny watches her uneasily, glistening with sweat.
“Now that I have your attention, things can get serious.” Her voice is back to normal now, calmly dictatorial, as if she didn’t just go on a stabbing spree. “See you at weight training.”
Danny and Topher towel off and drink water in the corner, Topher’s finger dripping blood onto the mat. Danny pulls out his first aid kit from his backpack and fastens a Spider-Man bandage on him, for which Topher signs, “Thanks.”
“I know UFC coaches are supposed to be tough, but chasing people around with a knife?” I stage-whisper. Danny translates for me without losing eye contact. “At what point do we call Bill and demand a new trainer?”
Topher shakes his head, signing to Danny.
“Topher is saying she’s my best shot to win the fight. Although his judgment is clouded because he really wants to sleep with her.”
Topher grins.
“That was pretty crazy,” Danny admits, dragging his eyes up to mine. “But she made her point. I’ve always been able to take a punch, so I don’t always defend strikes like I should. Imagining each strike comes with the slash of a blade was an effective lesson. It might actually help.”
“Fine. But there has to be a better way of making that point other than literal assault with a deadly weapon.”
Topher stands, turning to Danny, signing, “But we’re tough. We can take it, right?”
Danny looks from Topher to me, then stands and grips Topher’s waiting hand. “Yeah, we can take it, man.”
I blow air out, resigned. “OK, so you’re both insane.”