19. “You Might Think”
Chapter 19
“You Might Think”
Sascha - Age 18, 1988
N ope. No way. This is not happening. I hold the garish cheetah print bikini briefs between my thumb and forefinger, away from my body like they might bite.
I innocently gathered some things from the dryer this evening and found this ridiculous underwear. Unless my dad has taken up some kinky shit (pause to gag for a moment), these belong to Michael. He can’t be serious with this. What possible use could these serve? Do the women he hooks up with like these? Maybe they trade panties after the deed is done?
It’s bad enough that he brings his hockey clothes home once per week to be washed. They stink up the entire house. I’ve never smelled anything so bad in my life. It’s like a sloth crawled out of a dead man’s ass, got sprayed by a skunk, and then started rotting on the floor. And don’t get me started on his cup. I’m not sure what the hell he was doing with that thing the other night, but it was on the floor in the bathroom. I kicked it across the floor into his room, cursing him and his ball protector the entire time.
But back to these ludicrous underwear. I wonder if he cares about them at all. I guess we’re about to find out.
“Where are my cheets, Sascha?” he says, standing in the doorway of my room holding the ransom note I placed on his pillow earlier. It reads:
GIVE ME $5.00 IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR BANANA HAMMOCKS AGAIN.
I thought it was pretty funny. Apparently, he does not.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a laugh. “Your what ?”
“My cheets,” he replies. “Those are my lucky game day underwear.”
A guffaw rumbles from my chest.
“Shut up! Hockey players are very superstitious,” he argues.
“So you wear that underwear every single game?” I ask, barely holding it together.
“Haven’t we covered this?” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “They’re lucky, and they’re comfortable. Where are they?”
“You didn’t pay the ransom,” I reply off-handedly.
“This isn’t funny, Sascha,” he says as he marches toward my closet.
“Hey! You can’t go in there.”
“You took my lucky underwear. All rules are off the table,” he growls, his hands rifling through my neatly folded clothes, tossing them aside without care.
“Get away from my closet!” I demand, trying to assert some authority and failing miserably.
“What are you afraid of? That I’ll see some of your black clothes? Or purple clothes? Or navy clothes?”
“Stop!” I say with more force, grabbing his arm and tugging him back with all my strength. But he easily breaks free, determined to find what he wants.
His fingers delve into the depths of an old, worn hat box, filled to the brim with a jumbled mess of forgotten memories. There are letters, drawings, and even some dusty tapes I had received from Columbia House for only one penny, which I never intended to pay for.
Curiosity piqued, he pulls out a stack of drawings from kindergarten.
“What’s this?” he asks with a small smirk playing on his lips.
I scoff. “Just some silly drawings.”
He takes one and studies it intently. It’s a crude drawing of us sitting side by side on a playground slide. Though not my best work, it’s clear that it is meant to represent a boy and a girl.
He holds me back with one arm while I jump and smack at his chest like an energetic Corgi dog. I stop fighting him when I realize it’s useless. I won’t be able to wrestle the contents away from him.
I fall back onto the bed and flop my arm over my eyes. I’m expecting him to make fun of me or make some sort of dig at me for keeping them. What he says next surprises me.
“I can’t believe you still have this,” he says, his eyes gleaming with nostalgia.
I uncover my eyes to see if he’s being serious or not.
“Can I have this drawing?” he asks eagerly.
I blink in surprise. “Are you messing with me?”
He looks appalled at the suggestion. “No!” he insists, his expression sincere. “I don’t have anything from this time. We packed up and moved so fast.”
“So you admit that you remember knowing me?” I shout excitedly, unable to contain my emotions any longer.
“Of course, I remember,” he replies.
“Then why did you act like you didn’t?” I ask as my chest cracks open with a question that’s been festering in my heart like an open wound for years.
A deep, heavy sigh escapes his lips as he settles onto the bed next to me. “I don’t know.”
My frustration boils up inside me as I respond sharply. “You don’t know? That’s all you have to say?”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking away from me. “I wish I could tell you more. But everything was so messy. I had just moved back after my dad got out of prison. It was overwhelming to adjust to living with him, missing my grandma, and practicing to make the Mavericks team. And I didn’t want to think about life before that. Didn’t want people to know.”
A sense of understanding washes over me in a strange way. While I’m more of a “hit the problem straight on” kind of chick, I understand how he might feel embarrassed and prefer to avoid the memories altogether. Unfortunately, it doesn’t hurt any less.
“You acted like you didn’t know who I was,” I say with a vulnerability I rarely allow myself to show.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice filled with guilt and regret. “You were a part of a life I didn’t want to acknowledge. I thought things would be easier if I tried to start over completely.”
“And spin the bottle?” I ask, my eyes narrowing in suspicion.
He hangs his head, a shadow crossing his features. “Spin the bottle was...fucked up,” he starts, his words heavy with shame. “I didn’t want to steal your first kiss like that,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “It seemed wrong.”
I can feel my heart lurch at his admission, wondering how he could have known it would have been my first kiss. The memory of our game of spin the bottle floods back to me, and I can’t help but feel a mix of anger and sadness at the thought of what could have been.
“You didn’t know that would’ve been my first kiss,” I state, my voice choking with emotion.
The air around us feels heavy and charged as he looks at me, his eyes searching for something. “Was I wrong?” he asks softly.
I shake my head, unable to form words.
“I don’t know,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I suggest you try if you ever want to wear Cheets again.” Jesus, now I’m using nicknames for them too.
He looks taken aback but quickly tries to cover it up. “What about the five dollars?”
“The terms have changed,” I say firmly.
He rubs his hand over his face as if this memory is also difficult for him. “We’re sitting there, and the bottle lands on you. My friends had been talking shit the whole party, making bets on hooking up with different girls. Saying anyone we kissed would be fair game for the rest of the guys to try to bang. I wasn’t about to put you in that situation.”
“You hurt me,” I admit. “I was so embarrassed.”
“I know. I couldn’t stand the thought of cheapening you to a conquest.”
“You should’ve stood up for me,” I say, tears welling in my eyes.
He looks down in shame before meeting my gaze again. “You’re right. I should have told them to fuck off. But I was young and stupid, afraid to stand up for anyone, including myself.”
I bite my lip, the salty taste on my tongue.
“At the time, I wasn’t sure if you cared about me at all," he admits.
A wave of disbelief washes over me. “How could you say that?”
He takes a deep breath before continuing, “A lot of time had passed. We didn’t know each other anymore. We had both changed so much. And let’s face it...you wear your ‘I don’t give a shit about you’ attitude like a crown.”
His words sting, but I try to brush them off, knowing deep down that they are true.
“I waited for even the slightest hint from you, Michael. A measly crumb that showed you remembered me. That you still cared. But all I got was radio silence for the entire eighth-grade year. It was like I never existed.”
He meets my gaze and holds it, his eyes filled with hurt as he confesses, “And I’ve been feeling the same with you ever since.”
My heart sinks at his words. It’s not just about who said what first anymore; it’s about the missed opportunities and unspoken feelings that have lingered for far too long.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been watching you from afar,” he admits, his voice low and hesitant. “I knew who you were spending time with, what you were doing. And all the while, I couldn’t stop caring about you.”
My head feels like it’s about to explode. Why couldn't we have just been honest with each other? But then again, we were only thirteen at the time. A mess of hormones and confusion.“What would you do differently today?” I finally ask, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice.
His face softens with sincerity as he answers, “Today? I wouldn’t let anyone get between us. I’d make it clear to the guys that if they tried to come near you, I’d fucking kill them.”
My mouth hangs open in shock at his declaration.
Then he adds with a sly grin, “And then I'd kiss you so good, no one would ever be able to compete.”
My heart pounds like a drum in my chest, its rhythm erratic and unsteady. The air around us crackles with something electric, a tension that leaves me breathless. I’ve never been spoken to like this before, and the words that fall from his lips are like fire on my skin. My cheeks flush, and my palms grow clammy as I struggle to maintain composure. “Your lucky undies are in the bathroom,” I manage to blurt out, trying to ease the moment's intensity.
A sly smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, causing a flutter in my stomach. “Thank you,” he responds, his voice low and smooth like honey. In that moment, time seems to slow as we lock eyes and the world fades into oblivion.
A sly grin tugs at the corner of his lips as he leans in close, speaking in a low voice. “And Sash, if you ever want to see my underwear, just say the word.” His eyes twinkle mischievously before he turns and saunters out, gently shutting the door behind him with a soft click.