Tell Me Something Real

  “My dad isn’t warm.” Ford clears his throat and looks over at me. “The night you were describing Colt’s dad, I was thinking about mine, and I guess I’m lucky he’s not warm because everything is very systematic, very clinical in the way he approaches it, like he can solve it by rearranging some parts or adjusting the blue print. Not being able to fix something never crosses his mind.”

  “Is that why he sent you here—to fix you?”

  Now, it’s his turn to laugh. But it’s not sarcastic; it’s more nervous, uncertain, shy. And so unlike Ford that I’m riveted waiting for his answer.

  “I thought so. At first, I thought he just wanted to get rid of me because I embarrassed him and cost him money. But then…” he trails off, and we lock eyes. The air changes, something heavy that settles over both of us, making it difficult to breathe at the same time that it fills me with life. “But then, I got here, and even though I hated it, I saw it for what it was.”

  I have to swallow before I can speak. “What is it?”

  The silence is charged, and I hold my breath until he speaks. “The place that changed my blueprint; that changed me and what’s important.”

  He doesn’t say it—I don’t ask him to. But we both feel it, this thing that has rearranged both of our lives until finally, they feel right. This us that has made sitting in the dark, speaking our truths easy.

  “Come on, it’s late. Let me drive you home.”

  I nod, letting him help me down from the trunk. He releases me the minute my feet hit the ground, and I stop myself from taking a step forward and into him. Instead, we both walk to separate sides of the car and open our doors.

  “Hey, Lincoln?”

  I pause, looking at him over the top of the car. “Yes?”

  “You’re part of what’s important now.”

  Neither of us understands how to deal with this revelation. So we don’t. I get in the car, and so does he. Driving back toward town, I watch him from the corner of my eye, noticing the white of his knuckles as they grip the steering wheel, the set of his jaw.

  The only time he speaks is when he asks for directions to my house.

  When we pull up outside, we both sit there, staring at the broken-down home that stands as a symbol for all of the people inside of it. I’m embarrassed that this is where I live, especially when I remember Ford’s probably been to Jacqueline’s house a few times. Though I never have, I can guess it doesn’t have peeling paint, broken gutters, and a constant ebb and flow of people entering and exiting.

  “Guest room is still free.”

  I jump a little when Ford speaks, looking to him and then my hands. His jaw is still set, and I can only imagine what he must be thinking. But this is my reality—I’ve never shied away from it before, and I won’t now. Not even for him.

  “I’ve got a room, but thanks.”

  “Lincoln,” he starts. I just shake my head.

  “I don’t take advantage of Maggie and Beau, Ford. Staying there after an episode, that’s one thing. But on just a random night?” I shake my head.

  “Are you safe here?”

  “Sure—besides, it’s late enough most everyone in that building is too high to notice me even if they wanted to.”

  Ford whips his head to me. “I’m serious.”

  “Fortunately, so am I.” But I soften because, for someone like him—wealthy, secluded in a different reality—things like drug addicts and run down houses without proper plumbing will always be shocking. “This is where I live, Ford. Hiding out somewhere else won’t change that. And I have too much pride to ask other people for any more than they’ve already given me. I’m fine.”

  He looks like he wants to argue, and I cut him off because no matter what I say, if he offers Colt’s room again, I might be tempted to say yes—and not because I’m scared to go home, but because it means being closer to him. “Do you want to take my car? I can walk to work tomorrow.”

  “No,” he says after a second. “Thanks. I’ll walk to the school, text Colt and have him come get me. Or someone else.”

  I don’t ask, but he must see that I wonder if that someone else is Jacqueline because he just shakes his head. “Not her. After tonight… not her anymore.”

  I nod. And then I lean over and kiss his cheek, taking an extra breath so I can keep the scent of him with me even when he’s gone, and I’m inside with the smell of rotting food and spoiled garbage. “Thank you.”

  When I lean away, he reaches out like he’s going to take my hand, but at the last minute he just holds out the keys. “Call me—if you need anything.”

  I nod, and then we both get out. He stands by my car, almost as run down as the place I live, and motions his head. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He just stands there. “I’ll wait.”

  Nodding, I turn to go inside. When I get to the front door, he says my name and I look over my shoulder at him. “Yeah?”

  “For anything. I mean it—call me. I’m here.”

  When I disappear inside, he’s still standing there, waiting like he promised.

  The gym is empty when I come out of the locker room after practice. But the lights are on, and there’s a rack of basketballs against the wall, tempting me.

  Never one to hold out, I drop my school bag and dirty football clothes and pick one up, my hand automatically spreading, fingers working to take up the most space on the ball, to control it, protect it, own it. I dribble twice before pulling up and shooting. The motion is smooth, something I’ve done thousands of times in my life; it still feels different.

  There’s no one watching me today, no one critiquing, no one cheering, no girls fawning over me, or giggling while they moon over my last name and the idea that I could take them with me when I go—whether that means to my car in the parking lot for a quick hook up, or to college where they only ever have to worry about being Ford Slaughter’s girl.

  They didn’t care where I took them, so long as I did. I didn’t care who they were, so long as they were always there, ready to say my name and remind me I was the best.

  It took one move, one Podunk town—shit, one girl—to realize that we’re all just people. Rich, poor, talented, awkward—we’re all just people, trying to survive the world that seems hell bent on trying to ruin us before we can find our place.

  It took one month here for me to realize that I needed those girls saying my name because, without them, I was afraid I would slowly fade away, go from being the kid that nobody wanted to the man that nobody needed.

  Now, I don’t need just anyone to say my name—just the one. And I don’t know if that’s better or worse.

  I dribble again, playing shadow basketball for a few minutes while I cut and turn, pivot and take my shots, winning in an empty gym with no one around to tell me I’m right or wrong.

  “You might try getting an opponent next time, and actually challenging yourself.”

  I pause, gripping the ball in one hand while I look over at Lincoln. She’s standing just inside the gym entrance, hair pulled back in one long ponytail, smooth skin on display in her off-brand lime green running shorts and plain white V-neck that looks like it came from the tween boys section at Walmart.

  Her feet are sporting mismatched ankle socks—one showing pink above her Nike sneaker, another showing blue. She stays still while I take stock of her, that familiar pull beneath my heart occurring when I meet her eyes again. It’s Monday—this is the first time we’ve spoken since Friday night when it was me getting her home instead of Colt. In an unspoken agreement, neither of us has mentioned it all day—me because I wanted her to have time to process what I said, her because…I don’t know. I wonder if she will now.

  Instead, she raises a brow, and I clear my throat.

  “You know, I heard somewhere that this game was played against people.”

  She smiles, walking further into the gym. When she stops in front of
me, I offer her the ball, and she just shakes her head and laughs. “No, thanks, I’m terrible. Like, aim for the basket and hit the hanging lights terrible.”

  “Yikes.” I shift my eyes high in the two-story gym, and then back to the basket. “That is bad.”

  She elbows me, and I feign fear. “If you’re so good, why don’t you show me what you’ve got?” Opening her body, so I have a free lane, she gestures to the hoop. “Let’s see it, rich boy superstar. This is your sport, isn’t it?”

  “Stalking again?”

  She smiles, and it does all sorts of things to my chest. “The Internet is a powerful voice for those who don’t share.”

  I look at her for a second, assessing how serious she is. When her right eyebrow raises in a challenge, I silently accept.

  Switching the ball to both hands, I glance at the basket, judging my distance, and then I raise my shooting hand and flip the ball in a smooth arc, dropping it in front of the basket, so when I make my move, it’s bouncing to the perfect height for me to grab, and then dunk.

  I hang on the rim a little longer than necessary, because, well, sometimes it feels good to show off.

  When I drop down, Lincoln is staring, brow still raised, but I know her well enough that the fact that she’s still watching means she was impressed—or at least interested.

  “So, there’s that.” I laugh at her comment, grabbing the ball and holding it between my hands, maybe a tiny bit embarrassed. And pleased. “Obviously, you’re going to play in college.”

  I glance at her, then away, walking the few steps toward the lone row that’s pulled out in the bleachers and sitting. When she joins me, I’m dribbling again, legs moving in a reserved scissor motion while I dribble the ball between them. It’s soothing—something I’ve been doing since I was eight and went to my first NBA game.

  The same day I decided I was going to be the best—but that was before I realized that I was nobody.

  “We’ll see,” I say, when she repeats her question.

  “We’ll see?” she repeats. “Don’t rich boys like you—pretty faces, great hair, and an important last name or seven, with all sorts of talent—always go to college and get what they want? Isn’t that kind of a given?”

  Her words prick a little, not like they once did, but I still feel their sting. I was a rich boy—am, I guess. And I’m not a person whose worked for very much in my life, but this one thing—basketball—before I got to Albany, I worked for it. But I also did a lot of other shit that counteracted that work, and right now I’m realizing that wanting something might not be enough to get it. Not the way I want it at least.

  I look at Lincoln and realize I feel the same about her.

  That thought is heavy, but I keep my voice light, and add a smirk. “If only this were a movie.”

  She smiles back, but it turns serious the longer we sit there, me dribbling, the steady bounce of the ball echoing around us while we stay next to each other and wonder.

  “Kind of feels like one,” she finally says. “A movie.”

  I stop dribbling to look at her, and she clears her throat, resting her hands on the bench on either side of her hips so her shoulders rise protectively.

  “You know—gorgeous rich boy, stranded in a country bumpkin town with his grandparents, slowly befriending the resident crack-whore’s daughter after she literally fell into bed with him.” I can’t help my smile, but it disappears when she speaks again. “Even when she knows she’s not pretty enough or smart enough or worldly enough… God, even when she just knows that somehow, nothing about her is enough for him.”

  My heart is thumping—slamming against my ribs and revving like a Formula One car—ready to race, or to do some damage.

  If I know anything, it’s that always—always—damage is the default when I’m involved. This once I hope that’s not true—because I don’t want to wreak havoc on Lincoln’s life. I just want to be a part of it.

  “Almost seems too good to be true,” she finishes, voice trailing off, eyes trained across the empty court with her shoulders still pressed protectively upwards. For the first time, Lincoln appears vulnerable.

  Not sick and weak, or in need of help and protection, but vulnerable to feelings, to reality. To raw emotion that speaks directly to my own feelings.

  “Maybe that’s why she’s more.”

  The words are rough coming out of my mouth, their sound gravelly and strained, nothing like her clear, almost detached confession. But I don’t let it stop me. Instead, I drop the ball, letting it roll away, and turn so my body is angled slightly toward hers, and my eyes can trace the line of her profile that I’ve nearly memorized.

  “Maybe not thinking she’s enough—” I stop to clear my throat, noting that even though her eyes are still trained ahead, she’s barely moving, her body in the familiar frozen stance that she takes when waiting for that final insult, as if she’s braced for impact. “Maybe that’s why when he looks at her, he sees more. Sees everything.”

  My breath halts in my lungs after the words break free, my hands resting on the bench next to hers, almost white at the knuckle from gripping so hard. I don’t move, and I don’t dare speak again. I’m not a feelings guy. Part of my defense, I guess. I don’t have feelings, don’t care when someone comes and goes in my life without thinking about me. It’s how I survive—not caring, not noticing, not needing or missing.

  Except, staring at Lincoln’s frozen form, her face giving zero reaction to my bold and uncharacteristic confession, I feel a lot.

  Too much.

  And it’s scary as hell.

  Until she moves. Just the slightest bit, her eyes dropping at the same time that her hand shifts on the bench, and I fear I might hyperventilate from a racing heart and lack of breathing.

  Her fingers brush over mine, so lightly I should barely feel it—but I do. Everywhere.

  Air escapes me in one powerful surge, scaring her enough she jerks, about to whip her hand back, but I’ve got it in mine already, my much larger palm and longer fingers gripping hers with enough force to keep her close.

  Like my words a second ago, this moment is liberating, even while it has the ability to crush me. I don’t drop her hand, even when the fear of rejection seizes me. I don’t shrug and play it off with humor or sarcasm, both tried and true defenses I’ve used before. I just sit, gripping her frozen hand and watching her, willing her to respond.

  To stay here with me, and show me she feels it, too, whatever this deep-rooted thing is inside of me that only comes when I’m with her.

  Her fingers flex once, as unprepared and unfamiliar with this moment as me. For a second, we sit, hands clenched, bodies immobile, staring from them to each other, until her palm tilts just the tiniest bit, angling her hand so our fingers fan against one another, eventually threading together, where we grip tightly.

  “She sees everything, too. In him.”

  “Tell me something real.”

  We’re leaning back on the windshield of my car, looking at the dark sky. It’s almost Halloween, and despite the balmy weather of the day, the night is cold. Ford’s long sleeve covers me from head to knee, the sleeves going well past my hands.

  It feels like the most luxurious thing I’ve ever owned. Like a real twit, I inhaled deeply when we got out and he slid it over my head.

  “I’m keeping this shirt.”

  He laughs, fingers squeezing tighter against my own. Our palms have been glued together since the gym, only separating long enough to get in and out of the car, and for Ford to tug his shirt over my head.

  “You already know everything about me.”

  “Not true,” he says, turning his head so he can look at me. I do the same, and we’re nearly nose to nose My body shivers, and his eyes darken before flicking down to my lips and back. “I want to know all of you, Lincoln—not just the easy parts, the ones everyone knows.”

  I swallow, my throat and my mouth going dry. I sincerely hope
it’s because of nerves, and not because my counts are running high. Given the fact that I’m not thinking about drinking water—a usual occurrence when my levels are high—but what it would feel like to lean forward the slightest and press my lips to his, to have Ford wrap his arms around me and taste me the way I want to taste him, I’m thinking it’s definitely nerves.

  “I’ve never been anywhere further than a fifty mile radius of Albany.”

  He has a good poker face, but it’s not good enough. I see the surprise on his face, and it makes me want to hide. Embarrassment heats my cheeks, both from the admission, and the reminder that I am small like this town. Small in vision, small in stature, small in knowledge.

  I turn my head so my face is turned up to the sky. The clouds have rolled in, and the full moon is shining behind them, lighting the sky even though we can’t see it.

  “When I was in middle school, I remember taking a field trip to Salem to see the state capital. All of the other kids on the bus were complaining about how lame it was, how they didn’t want to take a bus to somewhere they’ve already been. But I was mesmerized.” I think back to stopping at the capitol building and seeing the golden statue, or to walking in groups down the street and going wherever we wanted to for lunch.

  “I bet that sounds stupid to you—going to a place that’s not even an hour away as a grand adventure. I can’t even imagine all of the places you’ve been that are so much cooler.”

  “Nothing you say sounds stupid, Lincoln.”

  He’s so intense, the words and the force behind them passionate, though Ford never raises his voice. I want to roll onto my side and lean my head on his shoulder—to soak in whatever he feels for me, because I know that even if this moment is dangerous, like these feelings, it’s one I never want to forget.

  I satisfy my need with holding his hand.