FIVE Get My Shit Together
ZACHARY
I can’t believe I spent dinner regaling Sadie with the finer points of red cabbage coleslaw. Sure, it’s amazingly nutritious. But even nutritious food isn’t all that sexy. I think I just got a little up in my head about things which isn’t helpful. When a dancer—or any athlete—can’t stay present, it leads to not only fucking up our timing, it can even cause catastrophic, career-ending injuries.
That’s something I already know.
And coleslaw? Yeah, I’m an idiot.
I don’t think I’ve FUBARed it totally, but still. I’ve gotta get my shit together. I peer around to see that the other two guys have wandered off without me, which is probably good. I need to concentrate, to determine what my game plan will be once I’m on my own with Sadie again.
I have ninety days to convince her I’m worth keeping, but that doesn’t mean she can’t kick me out prior to then. I know this because I checked the contract. While she’d have to pay me any time earned, that doesn’t mean it’s not her prerogative to cut my visit short. So, no more running off at the mouth.
I can’t fail at this.
I can’t fail my parents. Especially not Mom.
I think of that final weekend that I spent in their company. Dad putting on his brave face as Mom teetered around from one piece of furniture to another.
We bought her this crazy four-footed cane a few months back. One painted with pink, blue, and purple pinstripes that swirl around it like a candy cane. Then, there’s the glitter. She makes jokes about the thing and even claims to love it.
Dad and I always laugh, too, even if there’s nothing funny about MS. If I could bash that disease’s head in, I would. But fighting multiple sclerosis doesn’t work that way, much as I wish it did.
My family’s strategy for her mental health has been to downplay what’s happening. To not make a big deal of it. To stay cheerful and positive while offering her whatever diversions we can. And last but not least, never allowing ourselves to fall apart. Not in front of her.
We’ve managed to stay consistent so far.
To that end, I grab my phone and send her a meme of a cat. I collect these under my photo app and send them to her at least daily. The woman loves her felines. Always has. We even had one most of the time I was growing up. But Fluffles, our last one, passed right after Mom received her diagnosis, and the docs recommended that she not have anything underfoot that might be a trip hazard.
I think she cried harder about her inability to have a furry friend than she did about the ailment itself.
I plug one of my newest images in and click send. It’s a pic of an orange tabby with its round stomach protruding like a beer belly, its legs all akimbo as it sits like a human. The text says, “When you get home and can finally be yourself.”
I receive her text response nearly five minutes later. I hope the delay didn’t come from her lack of fine motor control, but it probably did.
Mom: LOL, Zachary. Are you trying to tell me I need to lose a few?
Zach: Hardly. You’d look cute like this, though.
If anything, she’s too thin.
Mom: Bake up some of those apple cider donuts, then. I’ll be over to pick them up.
Zach: Will do.
This is one of our many schticks. She knows where I am, just like she knows I’m shit as a cook. There’s been a lot of microwavable foods, frozen dinners, and take-out for our family since standing in front of the stove became dangerous for her.
Then, the take-out disappeared. Another indication, along with our moves to worse and worse neighborhoods, that the money from their savings was being siphoned away. Like a gas thief sucking a hose from your car’s tank.
Her medical bills aren’t going anywhere but up. Even with pulling out her 401K early due to the hardship of her illness, their money is still dwindling. Being professors means they’ve never been part of the one percent, even if I thought we were always just fine. And we were, until the cost of her various doctors and medications escalated.
But I don’t want to focus on that.
I turn myself to face the window, but I block out the nighttime views. Instead, I fall back on my training and close my eyes, utilizing a technique that centered me before every recital, audition, or performance.
Breathe in for a count of four. Breathe out for a count of six. And again.
By the time I reopen my lids, I have the presence of mind to study each of these rooms and envision Sadie within them. I imagine her playing darts and pool. Watching a movie and taking some downtime at the spa. Not that we could do all that on a single date without rushing.
Which of these would she enjoy the most?
Every woman appreciates their spa time. Don’t they?
Outside, there’s a ski lift as well as an entertainment area complete with a firepit, but I remember what Sadie said. An indoor date. Maybe we’ll try out the exterior stuff at some future time, but not yet. Not until she gives us access. So, what I need is something fun, special, and extraordinarily memorable.
No problem, right?
Such a date with a woman I know might not be difficult, but conducting this with Sadie is intimidating. Despite the time we spent together back in Boston—and the spark I think ignited between us—I don’t have enough information about her to determine what she’d like.
I get the feeling I’m going to have to roll with the punches on this one.
––––––––
AFTER DISCOVERING THErudimentary lay of the land last night, I wake before everyone else the next day and aim straight for the pole. Exercise has this way of chilling me out. And since staying in shape isn’t just a routine but what used to be necessary for my bread and butter, sliding into my familiar series of warm-up stretches feels like coming home.
Once on the pole, I start with some easy spins, testing for any soreness in my knees. This morning, the level of tenderness is minimal, so I build up to more advanced moves until my core, thighs, and arms are all feeling the burn. I’m drenched with sweat as I revolve around the metal bar more slowly, and everything feels right. It’s my body reminding me I’m alive.
A body I no longer take for granted.
I return to my room to shower, and despite being up for quite a while at this point, the sun is just now cresting the forested mountains at the horizon. With its peach light frosting everything in sight, I slip through the quiet chalet toward the kitchen. I’ve just entered it, my eyes locating the massive stainless-steel fridge when I hear a gasp, and nearly jump out of my skin.
“Holy shit,” I say at the same time as an older woman with silvery gray hair hisses, “Good gracious Lord.”
She clutches her chest as if about to have a heart attack, and I swear if I’ve just killed this lady, I’ll never forgive myself. Fortunately, she recovers and leans over what I realize is a mound of raw sourdough spread over a flour-covered section of wax paper on the countertop.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she accuses, but before I can answer, she pushes on. “Look here, you can’t go sneaking up on people like that. Especially not at such an ungodly hour of the morning.”
Sneaking up on her? That’s hard to do when I didn’t even know she was here. Still, I apologize.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Which one are you, then?”
There’s the slightest of crisp accents. Like maybe British or Irish.
“I’m Zach,” I tell her, feeling like a kid who just pissed off his favorite grandma. “Zachary Neihaus. I’m uh... a friend of Sadie’s.” Or I hope to be.
I hope to be a hell of a lot more than that.
She waves a quick hand in front of her face as if batting away a mosquito.
“Yes, yes. So, I’ve heard. Breakfast isn’t ready, so you’ll have to wait. I’m not accustomed to people in the house being up yet.”
Only at that point do I spy a package of bacon and a dozen and a half eggs to go along with whatever she’s doing with that dough.
“Can I help?”
She goes all hands-on-hips. Or maybe I should say wrists because her actual hands are still dusted with flour.
“Are you applying for the position of sous chef?”
“Who, me?” I press a hand to my ribcage. “Hell no. But I can crack the eggs and provide you with some company.”
The lady shoots me a narrowed gaze with russet-colored eyes. “And did I request any such company?”
“Gotcha.” I know a rejection when I hear one, so I pivot around to return back the way I came. Her voice stops me.
“Never mind. Might as well make yourself useful. I’m Maxine.” I’ve gathered that much. “Now let’s see if you were being truthful about those eggs.”
The delightful Maxine and I spend the next half hour or so making the morning meal. Or to be more accurate, she orders me around and I obey her instructions like a teacher’s pet. But I enjoy being around her.
She’s not only the no-bullshit type, she’s patient when it comes to explaining what she’s doing. By the time the food’s ready for the table, I know how to use her special boiling pot to poach eggs plus have a rudimentary understanding of how to bake sourdough cinnamon rolls.
With thick dollops of sugary buttercream frosting over each.
As I’m helping her to bring all the dishes out, she clasps me on the shoulder briefly. I take that as her mark of approval.
The only person other than me who’s up is Jerome, though. I decide to play host as if I own the place.
“Hey Jerome, this is Maxine. Maxine, Jerome.”
“Good morning,” he greets her with that easy smile of his, while Maxine simply nods.
“Don’t mind her,” I whisper to him. “She’ll warm up once you get to know her.”
Jerome’s brows fly halfway up his forehead. “What, you two bosom buddies now?” Dom eases unhurriedly down the stairs behind us, yawning.
I snort. “Not quite. But... I don’t know. I like her.”
In reality, the lady sort of reminds me of Sadie. And speaking of the reason we’re all here...
While Dom seats himself at the table, Sadie descends the sweeping staircase one cautious step at a time, the way I might expect someone elderly to do it. Not that I can talk. Right after my knee surgeries, I hobbled around like I was fucking ninety.
I’d love to get into the nitty gritty about whatever she’s dealing with, not to be nosy, but to cast those burdens out into the open so they won’t fester. Maybe I can send her memes like I do my mom.
Sadie not only seems drowsy, her complexion’s a bit flushed. Still, that light brown hair of hers shines like gold as it cascades in front of her shoulders and down her back as if derived from precious metals. I know from her profile that Sadie and I are both twenty-two, but despite her lack of mobility, she seems younger than me in this particular instant.
Younger and more vulnerable than usual.
I can’t say why I’m compelled to do this, but I want to provide her with a pick-me-up. Even just a little one. Even if any smile she might deign to give me is a tiny one.
That’s why I take it upon myself to fill her plate for her, arranging the two cinnamon rolls as ears, two poached eggs as eyes, and the bacon as a meaty grin. It’s stupid. I know it is the second I’m through with my ridiculous creation. But I hand it over to her anyway, monitoring her like a hawk to measure her reaction.
When her only change in expression is to purse her lips in what might be anything from confusion to consternation, I figure I’ve lost this round. But then, she peers over at me, her head tilted quizzically.
“Pattern recognition implies that this is supposed to be a face.”
“A smiley face,” I confirm with my own smile, ignoring whatever that science-y sounding gobbledygook was at the beginning.
“With earmuffs?”
“Sure.” Why not?
“Is this like that joke?” Jerome begins, munching on a bite of eggs before continuing. “About what he’s packing? If the guy has big hands, then you know. Or big feet. Or in this case...”
“Big ears, big cock?” I catch on.
Dom’s the one who inserts, “Isn’t it kind of early for dick jokes?”
But I find the dude’s question hilarious. “What? Is there a prescribed time for dick jokes? Please enlighten me.”
Dom grumbles through the hand currently scrubbing down his eyes, nose, and bristly chin. “Chrissakes.”
Jerome deliberately glances from Dom to Sadie’s plate of edible smiley face before scrutinizing me. Maybe three beats pass, then like a motor revving up, he starts laughing. It’s the silent kind that has all the indications of levity without any of the noise until he inhales and bursts out with a higher-pitched roar of humor than I would’ve thought him capable of.
That gets me going, too, and even Dom’s moody-ass beard edges up on one side. Jerome and I are riddled with chuckles and guffaws as Dom shuts his eyes and shakes his head at us. Yet Sadie’s the one I’m invested in, and the only one not making a single sound.
Instead, she’s scanning the contents of her plate as if calculating the equations necessary for interstellar travel. Then, she lasers straight in on me, those dove-gray eyes unwavering. She picks up one of the cinnamon rolls, tears off a side section with plenty of icing, and tosses it in her mouth. Her lids flutter closed as she munches on the treat and releases an audible moan.
The three of us men are struck mute watching her. Transfixed by her. Sadie swallows, seizes the innermost remains of the coil, and proceeds to devour it. And it’s subtle, almost unnoticeable, but where her face had seemed almost feverish a moment ago, now it’s lit from within.
“I never understood the need for comparison myself,” she murmurs, us hanging on to every word. “Size doesn’t matter near as much as the ability to use what you have. You can’t control the size of your parts, but you can control the pleasure you deliver.” She pauses to look each of us in the eye. “If you’re talented enough..”
It’s a challenge, clear and simple.
There’s not so much as the hint of a smirk or grin, yet her cheeks—both scarred and unscarred—have risen by a degree or two. Her eyes are merry. Glittering. Dancing, even. It transforms an already beautiful woman into an absolute stunner.
A woman who can mesmerize any man she meets.
And there’s nothing I wouldn’t consider attempting, whether my dick is involved or not, to keep her looking that way.