Squeeze Play

by Aven Ellis

  “I don’t understand her,” Katie says, shaking her head. “How can she be so out of touch with how people communicate? Why doesn’t she want to understand it? And why is she so tightly controlling the message?”

  “You know, I’ve really thought about this,” I say. “I think part of her is afraid of social media. She doesn’t understand it and is overwhelmed by the idea of using it. I think the other part of her is afraid that she will be replaced by it.”

  “Hmm,” Katie says. “That makes sense, but it’s sad. If she learned it and used it, she would make herself more valuable.”

  “Sometimes people fear change,” I say, “or don’t believe in their abilities to take on a new challenge. Some people just plain hate social media. Brody doesn’t like it. He only posts stuff now for me.”

  “AJ seems to like it,” Katie says. “He’s always posting stuff on Instagram and Snapchat.”

  I stalked AJ right after the episode where Katie fainted on him, and his pics are all of him and “bros.” If girls are in the picture, it’s always a group picture. According to gossip on Tumblr, he makes sure he’s never photographed with girls but is rumored to be a player.

  I glance at Katie, who has picked up a magazine off a table to flick through. She hasn’t mentioned AJ since that next morning of mortified texting. While I thought they had some electricity-charged banter going on, AJ was going out with a girl that night. Yes, AJ did text Brody to make sure she was okay, but other than that, nothing.

  Which is probably good. AJ isn’t anything like Brody. That doesn’t mean he’s bad, but I don’t see him as the serious, commitment-type guy that Brody is. AJ is all about hanging with the bros and having fun. He’s not the type to give Katie the romance and happily-ever-after that has been so elusive for her.

  It’s an ending I think I can write with Brody, if things continue down this same path we’re walking together now.

  I let my thoughts drift to him, of how wonderful it is to have him back home. To be in his arms, laugh with him, share a late-night meal with him. Make love and fall asleep in his bed, the scent of him lingering on the sheets around me.

  Being with Brody makes me happy. I’m truly happy being in his presence, sharing things with him, and knowing he cares about me in the way he does. I feel supported by him; he is my biggest fan and pushes me to want more. He makes me think about things in a new way, to dig deeper.

  Like with the gadgets.

  I cringe as I remember the pile of boxes in my living room. He was right. I didn’t need all those things, but having them made me feel more confident. Happier.

  After that conversation, I know Brody would notice if I made him a grilled cheese and appreciate it for the action. Brody wouldn’t care if it was an impeccably melted, toasted brown, appliance-perfected grilled cheese. He would be happy that I made him a sandwich, period.

  He doesn’t know this yet, but I’ve started going through them and sorting them into two piles. Keep and sell. I won’t lie, trying to decide what to sell hasn’t been easy, but I did put the grilled cheese maker in that stack.

  I wouldn’t have been able to do that a month ago, but with Brody, I see a life beyond making the perfect sushi roll or having evenly sliced eggs.

  I see a life with a man who will appreciate and acknowledge the things I do. One who is going with me to an art gallery opening on a precious day off because it means something to me.

  I’m so falling in love with you, Brody, I think as I sink back into my cushy chair.

  And I hope with all my heart you are falling in love with me, too.

  ***

  The Ultimate Modern Girl’s Guide to Self-Motivation, Zen, and Being the Absolute Best You Now!

  Today’s Question: How do you define love?

  “You look beautiful,” Brody says, taking my hand in his as we walk up the steps to the art gallery in Dupont Circle on Monday night.

  I glance up at him and see nothing but admiration in his pale-denim eyes.

  “And you, sir, are gorgeous,” I say, drinking in Brody. He has on a gray suit with a crisp white dress shirt, casually unbuttoned with no tie. His tanned skin appears even darker against the stark white of the shirt, and he looks effortlessly sexy this evening.

  “I love how you never wear a black dress,” Brody says, his eyes flickering appreciatively over my cream and navy floral dress, the one with a neckline that shows off my shoulders.

  “Everyone wears a little black dress. I want to be different.”

  Brody stops me right before we step into the doors of the gallery. “You are different, Hayley, and that is what makes you so damn attractive to me.”

  Ooh!

  Brody opens the doors, and we’re greeted as soon as we enter by a woman holding a stack of glossy information cards.

  “Welcome to the opening of Limited View,” she says, handing information cards to us. “Enjoy your evening.”

  We step inside, and large pieces of sculpture fill the open space. People are milling around, sipping on cocktails and discussing the works of Jeremy Woodland in quiet tones.

  “Paulina and David Jones, the gallery owners, are due to speak in a few minutes,” I say as I read my card. “Then Jeremy will speak. I’ll pull my quotes from their comments before the official show opening.”

  I open my clutch and take out my phone so I can record both their greetings and be accurate in my quotes.

  I notice Brody is staring at the sculpture to his left, and he moves closer to study it. It’s one of a boy reading a book, but the letters come out of the pages, incorrectly jumbled up and hard to read. I know this is what a dyslexic sees when he or she reads, and a lump forms in my throat as I think of Ethan.

  “Is this what it looks like to a dyslexic?” Brody asks me, shock resonating in his voice.

  “Yes. There are different ways a dyslexic can see things, but for Jeremy, this is what he sees when he tries to read.”

  Brody is silent for a moment. “I’m speechless. I had no idea what they saw, but this—this gives me a whole new understanding of what they face every day.”

  An idea hits me. “Brody, you’ve just given me a brilliant thought for work!” I say excitedly.

  “What?”

  “I want to create a section on the website dedicated to art,” I say, my enthusiasm growing as I speak, “showcasing different sculptures, paintings, music—anything that expresses the dyslexic world. It could really help parents understand their children’s world through new eyes. It will be amazing!”

  Then I stop speaking, and defeat washes over me.

  “What? What are you thinking?” Brody asks.

  “How do you always know the second something has come to a screeching halt in my mind?” I ask.

  “I can see it in those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”

  Oh, I love how observant he is.

  “They’ll never let me do it,” I say, reality punching my dreams into dust. “It’s too progressive. They’ll say parents want to know about the latest research, not art. They don’t understand people can have both.”

  “Why are you quitting before beginning?”

  “Brody, you know why. I’ve only been there a month. They aren’t going to listen.”

  “So that means you should stop speaking? You know what I think about that.”

  I smile. “That I should be a grown-ass woman and keep speaking up for my ideas.”

  “Actually, I was going to say dial up your Mary Richards and fight.”

  I stare up at him, emotions swirling in me. I’m touched by how Brody believes in and challenges me. Remembers my story about Mary Tyler Moore because it relates to me.

  I feel nothing but gratefulness in my heart for this man and that I found my way into his life, and him into mine.

  “Excuse me, if I could have your attention,” a well-heeled woman says. “I’m Paulina Jones, and I’d like to welcome you to the opening of Limited View, a look at dyslexia through art by Jeremy Woodland.”


  Everyone moves around her as she speaks, clapping after her announcement.

  She goes on to speak about why they chose to display Jeremy’s art, how the pieces speak to his struggle and achievements, and how anyone interested in pieces tonight can speak to her or her husband, David, during the reception tonight.

  “Now I’d like to introduce Jeremy Woodland, the artist who is bringing his personal challenge with dyslexia to light with sculpture. We are honored to display his work here tonight. Jeremy, if you can come up here and say a few words?”

  We all clap again as Jeremy steps forward. He’s young, in his early thirties I’d guess, and he seems embarrassed to be the center of attention.

  “Wow, after that introduction, all I can say is that I’m truly humbled to be here tonight. The fact that all of you have come out in support of my work is incredible. Thank you.”

  Another round of applause breaks out.

  “As you can imagine, school was very frustrating to me growing up. I was not diagnosed correctly right away. I was told to focus and to try harder,” Jeremy explains.

  I steal a glance at Brody. I know he relates to this. His eyes stay focused on Jeremy, as if he’s met someone who understands his struggle with school. Once again, I feel emotional, thinking two of the men that matter most to me in this world, my boyfriend and my brother, have had to endure this emotional struggle.

  “What I hope to do is bring my world to life through sculpture by showing the words I see, how I feel about books, the way I felt about school. I hope it gives you all something to discuss and reflect upon. I will be available to answer any questions about the pieces, so please don’t feel shy. Come up and talk to me. Don’t leave me standing by myself all night in the corner.”

  The audience chuckles at that.

  “So please, enjoy yourself,” Jeremy says, “and thank you for coming out tonight.”

  Everyone applauds, and the show officially opens.

  I put my phone back in my clutch, making a note to try and catch Jeremey later to tell him how incredibly powerful his work is. I want to talk to the gallery owners, too.

  I turn to ask Brody if he wants to get a drink, and I notice his expression is serious.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, putting my hand on his arm.

  He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Want to look around?”

  “Why don’t we get some wine first?” I suggest.

  “Good idea,” Brody says.

  We go up to the bar, and Brody gets us each a glass of cabernet to sip. Then we begin wandering through the gallery, stopping at each piece to study it. There are sculptures of flipped words, books under locks, and blurred words. Brody asks me questions about each piece and wonders if Ethan saw things in this way, and my heart is touched by how he wants to understand my brother.

  He’s truly a gift in my life, I think as I study his profile.

  We’re about to move to the next exhibit when I notice David, one of the gallery owners, standing alone.

  “Brody, I’m going to introduce myself to David Jones,” I say. “I want to get a quote for my blog piece.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be moving around,” he says, leaning down and kissing my cheek.

  I smile and head off to David. I introduce myself, explain where I work, and engage him in a bit of conversation, which leads to two great quotes I want to use. I take a moment to move off to the side and type my notes into my iPhone for my post. Then I drop my phone back into my clutch and head off in search of Brody.

  I wind my way through the gallery, searching for him. Finally, in a room at the back of the gallery, I find him. He’s standing alone at an exhibit, his hands at his sides as he stares at the sculpture.

  I stop breathing when I see what he’s looking at.

  It’s a young child’s desk, like those we had in school, but this time, the desk chair is covered in metal spikes, as is the top of the desk. I realize it represents the torture of sitting in school. For Jeremy, it was the torture to try and read.

  But for Brody, it was the torture of taking a quiz or test.

  “Brody,” I say softly.

  He doesn’t move.

  I lightly put my hand on his arm, and when he turns to me, I see his eyes are filled with tears.

  “Oh, Brody,” I whisper, squeezing his arm, as I know his past is washing over him like one of the big waves he loves to surf.

  Powerful and all consuming.

  “I thought I was the only one who felt this way,” he whispers, his voice thick. “Every day in that desk was torture. Every. Damn. Day.”

  He rakes a hand through his hair, staring back at the desk covered with spikes.

  Then he abruptly turns away from it. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t.”

  Brody begins to walk away, and I quickly follow him. Whatever ghosts are coming up from his past, he’s not going to run from them.

  And he’s not going to face them alone.

  He heads out a back exit that leads to a beautiful garden filled with flowers and shrubbery and more sculptures. Brody cuts through the garden, and when he reaches a dead end, he stops. He doesn’t turn around but keeps his back to me. I can see he’s breathing hard, as if he’s trying to shove all these emotions away where he doesn’t have to deal with them.

  It’s just us now in this courtyard. I can hear water bubbling quietly from a nearby fountain and the chirping of crickets on this May evening.

  “Brody, I’m here,” I say quietly. “You don’t have to face your past alone. You don’t. I’m here. I’m here.”

  Brody turns around, and his eyes are rimmed with unshed tears.

  “I’ve never talked about this,” he whispers, and I can tell he’s trying to fight down the tears.

  “You still don’t have to,” I reassure him, my own voice wobbly, “but I want you to know, no matter what you say or don’t say, I am walking with you now. I’m by your side. I’ll face it with you.”

  Brody turns away from me, and he swallows hard. It’s all I can do not to cry myself. But I can’t cry. Not now. I need to be strong for the man I love.

  I love him.

  It hits me hard, just like that sculpture hit him a few moments ago.

  But I know this is love. Love is caring with all your heart about someone. About walking with them in the hard times. About loving them through something. It’s about wanting to be their partner, in the joys and the sorrows. It’s about someone helping you be better, and you wanting to be better because of that person.

  I love you, I think as I stare at him.

  My dad always told me I would know when it was right. When it was love.

  And I do.

  My heart races as I watch him struggle in the darkness. I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his, willing him to feel all the love I have in my heart for him, and only him.

  My first love.

  My only love.

  Brody turns back to me. “I felt like a failure everywhere except on the baseball diamond,” Brody says, the words barely audible. “It was agony every time I took that seat in school. Why did I bomb every test when I knew the material? Why couldn’t I be smart like Brady? I had a teacher accuse me of copying Brady’s homework. She said she knew I didn’t understand the material from my test results, so it was obvious what was going on.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, thinking of how that accusation must have gutted him.

  “Kids at school teased me,” he whispers. “They called me dumb. It didn’t stop until I became a star on the baseball field. Then it shifted to dumb jock. Teachers would ask why I didn’t care about school like Brady did. It was easier to act like I didn’t give a shit than to admit it was eating me up alive.”

  A single tear rolls down my cheek as I hear the pain in his voice.

  “I would stare out the window wishing I could be outside. Anywhere. Anywhere but there,” he admits. Brody stops and swallows again. “I only did my homework to balance out the test scores
so I could get by and so I could play baseball. It was the only thing that mattered. It was the only thing I could do.

  “I was too stupid to go to college. I was offered scholarships despite my shit grades, but it was only because of baseball. I knew I couldn’t make it, so I went to the minors, where I could play for a living and I could escape the hell that haunted me the entire time I was in school. Seeing that sculpture brought it all back. All of it. The embarrassment. Frustration. Humiliation. The comparisons to Brady. Laughing off being called the dumb twin when it was a stab to the gut every time it was said. It all came back, and it shouldn’t have. I’m a grown ass-man. I’ve moved on. Why am I here, upset? Why?”

  “Because the art is making you face everything you’ve buried,” I say gently, letting go of his hand so I can touch his face. “You have a right to these feelings, Brody. You do. Your test anxiety wasn’t diagnosed. You weren’t given the support you needed. You didn’t have parents who advocated for you. You were told lies about yourself, and nobody believed you when you told the truth. You were sent down this path to believe you caused your own failure in school, but you didn’t. You didn’t. Brody, none of this is your fault, do you hear me? None of it.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re safe with me, I promise you that. I see an intelligent, sensitive, man with the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known standing in front of me. You can trust me with this, or anything else you want to talk about. I’m with you. You’re no longer alone. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Because I love you.

  Brody sniffles. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then when he opens them, I see he’s about to cry.

  I don’t wait another moment. I pull him into my arms and hold him tight, and he clings on to me, burying his face against my neck.

  I feel my own tears continue to fall as I comfort him, stroking my hand over and over his curly locks, willing him to feel my love surround him.

  We stay in a tight embrace for a while, until finally Brody stands straight up. He gazes at me with nothing but affection in his eyes.

  “I don’t know how I ended up with you,” he says, his voice breaking as he caresses my face with his hands, “but I’m the luckiest man alive to have you. You make me feel safe, Hayley. Safe enough to tell you things I’ve never said aloud to another person, not even Brady.”