22. It’s a Thing #2
As they head to the door, Christian turns back and, like he just remembered to ask, says, “How’s the bodyguard? Is he looking out for you?”
I’m twenty-six. I don’t need looking out for. But Christian sees me as his kid sister rather than a grown woman. Considering I came to him in tears four weeks ago, begging for help, I suppose I haven’t given him a reason to see me any other way.
“He’s a great roommate,” I say as an answer, and I’m ready to rattle off all the ways we help each other to show that it’s a give and take with Wesley and me.
Maybe to show me that it’s a give and take.
But even after I rack my brain, I’ve got nothing. What are a few pieces of fruit every now and then when you have a meal planner dropping food off every day? Do I help Wesley at all? Is this whole roommate thing a one-way street, fueled by Wesley’s boundless generosity and my unlimited needs?
My stomach churns in worry as I add up our accounts.
Wesley’s made a practice of saving me from the second I met him—the plus-one to get into the gallery, the clothes to get out of my half-birthday suit, the cozy room under the stairs to give me a roof over my head.
The list of his kindness doesn’t stop there.
He volunteered to go to improv with me. He bought me a book.
He drove me to work when I jammed my toe and then even when I didn’t.
My gut sinks. What do I do for him? Tease him about video game skills? Leave him ibuprofen? That’s nothing. A dark cloud moves over my head and I frown, so lost in my own gray thoughts that I barely register Christian’s response, only keying in when he says, “He can be a great hockey player too.”
That knocks me back into sharp focus. “Can be?”
Does Christian think Wesley’s not good enough? I’m ready to fire off all the reasons why Wesley’s an excellent player. How dare my brother think otherwise?!
“Yeah. He’s good—so good I think he could be on the first line real soon,” Christian says, with obvious pride in his tone. “So good I think he could be one of the great ones. That dude busts his ass in every game.”
Oh. It wasn’t a dig. It was a compliment—one of the great ones is huge.
Stand down, Josie.
“That’s awesome,” I say, pleased that my accomplished brother is impressed by my roommate.
“He’s gonna go far,” Christian says, and I’m glad.
But his praise is another reminder why I really should stop imagining romantic possibilities with Wesley.
My brother depends on my roommate for every game.
Wesley made it clear, too, he doesn’t want to take a chance at damaging a work relationship or hurting the team chemistry.
“There is no one more disciplined than Bryant,” Christian adds.
“Did you know he works out after every game?”
Did you know I want to lick all those muscles he works? “I had no idea,” I say with a big cover-up smile as Liv pats my brother’s arm, like enough, sweetie.
“Babe, I’m pretty sure your sister doesn’t want to hear about how many reps you two do at night.”
“You two do?” I repeat, confused.
Christian nods vigorously. “Dude inspired me. I started doing these post-game workouts with him.”
Great. Now, they’re workout partners. I really need to give Wesley some space. His career is on the rise. He probably doesn’t have the time to be my list sidekick. But he’s too kind to say otherwise.
Liv rolls her eyes at her husband. “Why don’t you tell Josie about his stats too? Let’s go, babe,” she says, then to me, she adds, “you’re the best, Jay. Seriously. I appreciate you coming by tonight.”
“Anytime,” I say.
They take off, and Christian’s remarks hang over me for reasons he can’t know.
But for the next hour, I don’t wallow in my worries or think about number four on the list. I can’t think about a thing but diapers and bottles and crying newborns and pacifiers and how to hold two tiny humans at once.
It’s literally the longest hour of my life, and by the time my brother and his wife return, I’m ready to collapse into my bed.
But seeing my brother with his arm wrapped around his wife, and her shoulders lighter from the date, fills my cup. They needed this, and I’m glad I was able to help.
Even though I am so not a baby person.
When I finally make it home to a quiet house, I’m sure I’ll crash right away on my bed.
Instead, my mind fast forwards to Sunday morning.
To my plans with Wes. I wince when I finally realize why I’ve been watching the clock all day—it feels like I’m counting down to a date with him.
I’ve been letting it feel that way. I’ve been bathing in that feeling, sinking into the warm water of foolish romantic hopes.
But it’s not a date. It can’t be one. And the more I act like it could be, the more I could hurt him. He’s on the cusp of greatness while I’m only a girl trying to get out of her comfort zone.
Fact is, I’ve been trying to get out of that zone for a while.
It’s been two long years since Greta reached for my hand one rainy day in her little bungalow in our small town in Maine, more tired and frail than she’d ever been before, the days left for her on earth inevitably shrinking, and said, “My sweet girl, I’m going to give you something that I desperately want you to have. ”
“More time with you?” I croaked out, tears leaking down my face.
She smiled sadly, shaking her head, then said, “If only I could.” She squeezed my hand as hard as she could, which wasn’t hard at all, then pointed to a blank book on her nightstand. “This is for you. So you don’t spend too much time thinking about me.”
“That won’t happen,” I said.
“But maybe it should.”
Then, she handed me a sheet of paper that was on top of the book. A beautiful, handwritten list of the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted, and she said, “Think about doing it, baby. Sooner rather than later.”
It was like she knew I’d drag my feet. She was right.
I stalled out. I didn’t do it. I didn’t even try. I let it sit in the blank book, undone, untackled. Unseen for most of two years.
I could blame the grief. I could blame my master’s degree. But the blame is all mine—I’m the kind of person who takes her time before she does something.
I started the list without Wesley, and truly, I should finish it on my own. That’s the point, after all. I know how to do things solo. I know how to be invisible. I spent most of my life that way, except for when I was with my aunt.
I swallow past the uncomfortable knot in my throat then breathe out hard, past the residual pain of missing. A pain that’s lessened over time but hasn’t fully abated.
Once the emotions subside enough, I peel myself off the mattress, trudge to the bathroom, and wash my face. When I’m makeup free, I rub in vitamin C serum and night cream till my face is shiny.
I look in the mirror. Square my shoulders. Smile. There. I can do this alone, just like I read books alone. Study alone.
I return to my room and take out the list once more, unfolding it.
In the quiet of the house, I stare at the fourth item once again—eat dessert for breakfast. I can’t ask him to join me.
Wesley is Mister Discipline. True, he had ice cream the night we met.
But now that I’ve seen his meal plan and witnessed the way he treats his body like a temple, I can’t ask him to break his rules again.
Besides, the list was supposed to help me get out of my comfort zone.
Wesley doesn’t need to change. I do.
I draw a deep breath and leave him a voice memo rather than writing a letter.
“Hey! I was thinking about the list. You don’t have to do this.
Any of this. Especially number four. It’s not fair for me to ask you.
You don’t need to wake up early or anything.
I can totally do it alone! Also, you really should let me pay rent, and if you don’t, I’m going to have to donate the money to your favorite animal rescue or something.
Just watch me!” And so I don’t sound ungrateful, I add in a brighter, cheerier voice: “But seriously. Thank you for everything you’ve done so far. ”
I hit send.
That’s a start. I can do more though. Just to show him I appreciate all he’s done, I get on my laptop and I hunt for tips on Wesley’s zombie video game.
I dive into Reddit. I hunt through forums. I rappel through all sorts of tips on how to improve his gameplay.
When I’m done, I send him a list of tips in bullet-point form on how to play better.
There.
It’s a small thing, but at least it’s a thing I’ve done for him—not the other way around.