by Holly Kerr
This thing with Colton is only going to help me as well. The more of an online presence I have, the better my chance of the producers of Revolving Roommates realizing they can’t live without me on their show.
I like the pictures on Instagram, commenting on several of them to reinforce the story. Then I send him a quick text full of pretend remorse for leaving yesterday, adding plenty of emojis.
The clench of unease relaxes as I untangle myself from my burrow of blankets on Flora’s guest bed and head down to the kitchen to find something to eat.
The doorbell rings as I’m searching for the leftover snacks. There were half-eaten bowls of chips on the counter after the party guests left, but the kitchen is now pretty clean. Dean must have done the clean-up after I collapsed in bed.
I know it was Dean because Flora has never been the clean-up type. She would have left it to the morning, same as me.
Flora’s bulldog, Cappie, barks and looks to me with an expression like I’m supposed to answer the door.
“No one’s coming to see me,” I grumble. There’s no sound from upstairs so Flora and Dean must be still sleeping. Cappie paces by the front door.
Another knock on the door, this time with some force behind it. I unlock the deadbolt with a grimace, my scowl deepening as I pull it open.
Trev stands there, bundled in a black jacket and scarf with an annoyed expression on his face.
“Oh. You.” The icy air swirls around my bare legs and I step back. Trev takes this as an invitation to come in. “What are you doing?”
He shuts the door behind him, leaving us in the dimly lit front hall with a hopping bulldog that keeps landing on my toes. “Coming inside. It’s cold outside. And you’re—” His gaze flicks at my boxer shorts and T-shirt. “Not exactly dressed for the weather.”
“You’re lucky I’m awake. I wasn’t expecting company this early.” I fold my arms across my chest. The last thing I want is another lecture from this guy.
“I can see that.” Trev pulls off his gloves and leans over to pet the dog without an apology or explanation for the visit. His hair flops over his forehead, hiding his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, more abruptly than I mean to. “Dean’s still asleep.”
“Actually, he’s at the store with Flora. I’ve already talked to him. He said you’d be here and would be more than helpful if I came to pick up my sweater.” Trev stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “You remember my sweater from last night? The one you dumped wine over? It’s only my favourite.”
Now that I can see his eyes, I notice how cool they are.
Cool as in cold.
Also cool, as in a nice colour. It’s an odd shade of bluish-gray with thick, dark lashes that would be great for a mascara ad.
“Your sweater.” I’m embarrassed to admit I draw a blank for a moment, but then it all comes back to me in a flood of memories; the ruined cream sweater, seeing Trev standing shirtless in the bathroom. How he looked in Dean’s V-neck. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this,” Trev mocks. “I want to see if it can be saved.”
“Did you bring back Dean’s sweater?” I demand. “Since you’re all bent out of shape because of yours, I’m a little worried about his. I wouldn’t want you to take out your mood on Dean’s favourite sweater.”
Trev’s eyes narrow from my sarcasm. “It wasn’t Dean who dumped the wine on me, so his clothes are perfectly safe.” From that look, if Trev had a bottle of wine near him, it’d be dumped over my head right now. “I was planning on washing it first. Today, actually. While I’m trying to salvage mine.”
“It’s just a shirt,” I mutter, turning to the basement stairs. “I’ll go get it.” After letting Trev’s oh-so special sweater soak for a few hours in the vinegar and dish soap mix, I’m proud that I had the presence of mind to throw it in the washing machine last night after the guests left.
Unfortunately, that’s where I find it this morning, stuck to the side of the barrel. I squeeze it out as best I can and take it upstairs. “It’s a little wet still,” I say, shaking it out.
Trev frowns. “A little? It’s soaking wet.”
“That’s because I washed it for you. Look,” I hold it up. “No stain.”
“But still wet.”
“I didn’t know you would be here so awfully early,” I complain. “If I did, I might have dried it. At least I might have put on some clothes.” For the first time I realize my red, too small satin boxers that show most of my leg and some of my bum.
I thrust the sweater in his hands.
Trev looks at me like he’s only realized what I’m wearing as well. Or what I’m not wearing. “You’re very Christmas-y,” he says politely.
“I’m very sleep deprived,” I grumble. Cappie whines by the door. “And the dog has to go out. Come, dog.” I head for the back door off the kitchen, but Cappie doesn’t budge.
“You can’t go out like that,” Trev calls. “You’ll freeze.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. He can do his business in the back yard.”
“He clearly doesn’t want that. Where’s his leash?”
“Why?”
“So I can take him for a walk. The poor guy is crossing his legs.”
“Why?” I say, handing him the leash.
“Why is he crossing his legs?”
“Why are you taking him out for me?”
“I like Cappie,” he says, leaning over to snap on the leash, leaving no doubt that he does not like me. “I’ll pick up the sweater when he’s finished.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left holding the sweater, water dripping on the floor.
With a shake of my head, I stomp back to the basement and throw it into the dryer. I don’t know how long Cappie takes, but at least the sweater won’t be dripping all over the floor while I wait. I put it on high heat just to make sure it dries in time.
And then I go find a robe.
I brush my teeth as well.
It’s a long twenty minutes before Trev is back with the dog, and I’m making myself a second cup of coffee as the door opens.
“You don’t knock?” I ask as Trev follows Cappie into the kitchen. Trev’s cheeks are red from the cold but he still unzips his coat.
“You don’t offer coffee? It’s Cappie’s home, I figured he’d just walk in.”
His tone seems more relaxed, and well, nicer now and I find myself pulling a second mug out of the cupboard. “I don’t know if you noticed that dogs don’t have hands,” I point out.
“That’s an important observation,” Trev says, glancing around the kitchen until his gaze lands on me. His eyes are more blue than gray now with a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
Cappie must have special powers if he’s put Trev in this much of a better mood.
“I’m good at observing,” I say.
“You’re not good at coffee,” he says, gesturing to the still empty cup.
I thrust the cup at him. “Help yourself.” I watch as Trev pours the fragrant brew and opens the fridge for milk. “No sugar?”
“I’m sweet enough,” he jokes.
“I beg to differ,” I say sarcastically.
“You don’t think I’m sweet?” He puts a hand to his chest in mock amazement.
“Everyone thinks I’m sweet.”
“It’s hard to tell because you’ve been yelling at me since I met you.”
“Because you did something that deserved yelling.”
“It’s a shirt! I’m sure you have another one. Look.” I poke at the T-shirt he’s wearing, feeling the hardness of muscular pectorals that I got a glimpse of last night.
Did I poke him on purpose? Maybe.
“That was my favourite sweater,” Trev argues. “My mother got it for me for Christmas two years ago, and I take good care of it.”
“Oh.” Setting my cup on the counter, I head for the basement stairs in a quick trot. If it’s so special, maybe the dryer wasn’t a good idea.
/> “Please tell me you didn’t put it in the dryer?” Trev says, when I return. He holds out his hand with a fearful expression. “I’ve never put it in the dryer because it’ll shrink.”
“It’s only been in there for a few minutes,” I bluff, holding up the sweater. It’s dry, but also seems a size or two smaller than when Trev had it on last night. Then it hugged his shoulders nicely, laying flat against his chest. Now…
“It shrunk,” he says flatly.
“Maybe it will still fit.” I push it into his hands, the sinking feeling in my stomach growing at his obvious irritation.
“The dog could wear it.” Angrily, he tosses the sweater onto the table. “That’s all it’s good for now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with difficulty. Apologies aren’t my strong suit, but this time it feels necessary. He looks truly upset. “For everything.”
“Forget it. Like you said, it’s just a shirt.” He puts his cup on the counter, still with steam rising.
“You should at least finish your coffee. It’s good.”
“Because you made it?”
“Because Flora made it. And it’s not just a shirt. It’s obviously important to you. You said your mother gave it to you. Is she—?” I don’t want to ask, but can’t help but wonder at his reaction.
“Is she what? Alive? Yes, she’s still alive.”
“I didn’t know. You’re so upset…”
“My mother has multiple sclerosis and has been in a wheelchair for almost twenty years. She doesn’t get to go shopping very often.”
I catch my breath. “I’m sorry.”
Trev shrugs. “It’s a fact of life. It’s a degenerate disease but luckily it doesn’t slow her down completely. We thought she was in remission, but there are little things—” he cuts off abruptly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because I’m a good listener?” I suggest.
“Why?”
“That’s my line. I asked. I’m interested…in your mother,” I check myself. I am not interested in Trev, even though his chest is fine, he has nice eyes, and his hair is perfect.
Even this morning it looks like he stepped out of the salon. I have a feeling he doesn’t do much for it to fall into place like that.
“That’s nice to say,” he admits grudgingly. “I don’t talk about it much.”
“I don’t talk about my mother much either,” I confess. “But mainly because she’s mean.”
He barks a surprised laugh. “She can’t be mean.”
“Oh, she’s mean. Not like mean, mean, but she’s not really a nice person. Not to me, anyway. But my dad still likes her.”
“But you don’t?”
I shrug. “She’s my mother. I sort of have to. But we’re talking about your mother.”
“No, we were talking about how you ruined my sweater. And now I’ll go.”
Trev
“Suit yourself,” Ruthie says, her tone dismissive, a far cry from the vulnerability I heard when she mentioned her mother.
I don’t understand this woman. I don’t understand many women—clearly, from the epic failures of my many relationships— but I really don’t understand Ruthie. “I will.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
I stalk to the door, Cappie following at my heels like I’m about to take him out for another walk. Why can’t Ruthie do a simple task like the let the dog out? Now that she’s got something covering her…
I blink away the image of her legs in those satin shorts. She’s an attractive woman—
But that doesn’t mean I have to like her. A woman who looks like Ruthie can only mean one thing—trouble.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I say formally. “Or thank Flora, since she was the one who made it.”
“You can thank her yourself.”
“I will, next time I see her.” I take a last glance behind me. Ruthie leans against the wall, now covered by the thick robe. Her feet are still bare and her ankles look oddly defenseless.
I straighten. This woman is not in the least bit defenseless. With her sharp tongue and her smile that says come hither almost as effectively as if she crooked her finger at me. “Goodbye,” I stammer, and yank open the door.
“Buh-bye,” she sings with a smile that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
~
After the treat that was Ruthie in the morning, I spend Sunday afternoon at home doing laundry. I try and work on my screenplay but the hockey game on the TV in the background proves to be more of a distraction than I can handle.
My mother eventually calls like she does every Sunday that I don’t show my face at home.
“How was the party?” she asks, the iPad in the protective case propped up on the table before her. From this angle, I can’t tell she’s in a wheelchair.
MS. She’s been in a wheelchair since I was fourteen, but after her legs stopped supporting her, the disease decided it was in remission. My family lives in fear of when it decides that it’s time to act again. Even though we’re all in our thirties, my life, as well as my brothers’, still revolves around her. I don’t know what we’d do without Mom.
“You make it sound like I’m still in school.” We talk more now than we did when I still lived at home. She used to be a teacher and she says it’s nice to hear what I’m doing with the kids. How things are different, and yet stay the same, she always says.
I’m sure that’s the case, but I think the ulterior motive is to keep track of my love life. My mother has always taken an interest in whom I’m dating and how long I’m dating her for. She likes to set me up with daughters of friends of friends, or someone she met at the hairdressers or the library. It was like she was my personal dating service. Freyka was one of her picks.
It’s annoying, but I put up with it because it’s Mom.
“Feels like it some days.” She grins, lines etching farther into her face. The disease has aged her but she’s still beautiful in my eyes, with her laugh and ready smile.
“It was fun. A good party,” I say, skipping over any thoughts about Ruthie.
“Did you meet anyone interesting?”
I keep my expression blank. “Not really. A few friends of Flora’s.”
“Is she the one with the flower store or the patisserie?”
I walk into the kitchen with my phone in my hand. “Flowers. M.K. has the patisserie. She was there last night with Clay.” I talk about the guys on the team so much that I forget Mom hasn’t actually met them. Or able to come to one of my games. The men’s league I play in has late night games; too late for Mom.
“Maybe one of them has a friend for you,” she says lightly. “Or will you be bringing Freyka for Christmas?”
Despite her attempts to set me up with every single woman she meets, my mother has never liked any of my girlfriends; not Suzy, who I dated through high school, or Marla, who I spent three years with, or even Annabelle, who I asked to marry me. None of them and no one in between. It’s not just me, either. She hasn’t liked anyone my brothers have brought home, not even Travis’ wife. I don’t want to say that it’s a reason for their marriage breaking up, but it didn’t help.
I’ve told her about Freyka, but haven’t introduced them yet, knowing as always, Mom will hate her and it’ll only make it awkward.
It doesn’t matter now that there’s no point in Freyka meeting anyone in my family.
“No, it’s over with Freyka,” I say without a tinge of regret. For being dumped yesterday I’ve given the relationship surprisingly little thought since then. Even now, I’m easily distracted with the thought of an empty stomach. I pull out a pot from the cupboard.
“Oh, Trevor. That’s too bad.” Mom clucks.
I chuckle. “No, it isn’t.”
“No, it isn’t,” she agrees, any pretense of sympathy wiped clean as quickly as Freyka vanishes from my life. “What are you doing this week?”
Mom would prefer me to live at home like my youngest bro
ther Travis, but it’s not going to happen. Not only am I thirty-four-years old, but Travis and I would kill each other if I were there all the time.
“Baseball Zone with Dean tomorrow night,” I report.
“Baseball.” I hear a voice from the far reaches of my parent’s living room and suddenly Travis’ face appears on the screen. “Hey, brother. Speaking of baseball, I saw that guy you like last night at the club.”
Travis is big and burly, with muscles as thick as his head. He works as a bouncer for a popular club downtown Toronto. The one time I showed up at the door with a date, he wouldn’t let me in. Said I wasn’t celeb enough.
“I like a lot of players,” I say through the water filling the pot. “You have to be more specific. Can you do that?”
“The baseball player, the new Jays guy. He’s got an accent, plays infield. Second base.”
“Pruitt? Colton Pruitt?”
“That’s him. He was there last night with a couple of the Raptors. He had this little thing on his arm. A real looker. He’s a good with a tip, too. Slipped me a couple twenties if I could get him out of the club without anyone seeing him.”
“What’s all this gossip?” Mom protests as she pulls the iPad back from Travis. “You let me talk to your brother.”
“What if I want to talk to him?” Travis jokes. I snort.
“Then you go and have a beer with him sometime. He’s your brother, not your punching bag, and it’s about time you both realize it. I’m not going to be here forever and how are you going to get along without me to play referee?”
“Stop talking like that, Mom.” I can see the distress on Travis face as well. None of us like to think of Mom succumbing to this disease, but reality is there every time we see her.
“It’s the truth,” she argues. “That’s what I want for Christmas from you boys. For you all to get along for once. No fighting at Christmas.”
“What about food fighting?” Travis wheedles. I grin at the memory of the mashed potatoes flying across the room last year to smack older brother Trace in the cheek. Travis and Trace may both be bigger and stronger than I am, but after playing ball my whole life, I definitely have the better aim.