Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee

by Jeff Zentner

  I’m stunned for a second, but I recover. “Hey. Oh. Hey, hey.” I go to him, take the plate from his hands, and set it on the desk. Both hands now free, he presses his palms to his eyes. I sit beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. He has nice shoulders. I pull him toward me, until he rests his head between my cheek and my shoulder. His hair smells coconutty, like shampoo that comes in a huge bottle your mom buys on sale. He keeps trying to collect himself, but more spills, like when you attempt to pick up a bunch of stuff you’ve dropped, but every time you get a grip on one thing, something else falls.

  “Hey,” I murmur. I’m definitely in uncharted waters here. I don’t know what to say. “It’s okay. It’s cool,” I say over and over. It’s legit like that scene in Good Will Hunting where Will starts flipping out and Robin Williams’s character is like, “It’s not your fault.” I stroke his hair. He has nice hair. Maybe I don’t need to say anything to fix this. Maybe I can’t. Still, I try saying It’s not your fault once. Nope.

  I stretch out and gently kick the door shut with my toe. My read of the Vargas family dynamics is that it would be best if Lawson’s brothers didn’t see him crying. I hold him until his sobs subside.

  He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and draws a stuttering breath. “If I weren’t already embarrassed enough.”

  “Dude. No. I get it.”

  “Men don’t cry.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “I’ve never lost before.”

  “I’m not surprised. You fight like someone who seldom loses.”

  “I dreamed of going undefeated for my whole career. Now that’s never going to happen. I can never get that back.” He starts to fold back into himself.

  “Honestly, I don’t think I’d even wanna root for a fighter who had never lost.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like, Ohhhhhh, look at me, I’m little Mr. Perfect. I never lose. I’m really boring because all I do is drink fancy milkshakes made out of horses and punch trees. Ohhhhhh, I’m so cool.”

  A pale glimmer of a smile flickers across Lawson’s face. An ember of light returns to his eyes. “I should’ve punched more trees and drunk more horse shakes.”

  “How many horse shakes were you knocking back a week?”

  “One or two.”

  “Oh.”

  “On a good week.”

  “Yeah, that’s not enough.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “What was your tree-punching regimen like?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Talk numbers.”

  “Maybe an hour a day.”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Obviously.” He’s unambiguously smiling now.

  “You need motivation.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m going to give you some motivational sayings to remember.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  “Ready?”

  “I think so.”

  “Because these are going to be very motivational.”

  “I think I’m ready.”

  “Should I put something in front of the window so you don’t accidentally jump out in excitement?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see. Okay, hit me.” He pounds his chest a few times with a bruised fist.

  “Ready? Pain…”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Is the feeling…of winning…entering your body.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Right? I know. Next. Those who don’t work hard…for a long time…will have…a hard time…for a long…time.”

  “That’s deep.”

  “Yeah. I’m literally just inventing these right now.”

  “I would never know that.”

  “One more?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “How are your motivation levels?”

  “On the charts, but barely. Almost off.”

  “Get ready, then, because this next one will send them flying off.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Weakness…is the strength…of the weak man who loves to lose…but strength…is the strength of the strong man who hates to lose….”

  “Wow. Wow.”

  I hold up a finger. “Not finished. And winning…is the strength of the winning man who loves to win…”

  “Amazing.”

  I hold up a finger. “Still not done…And loves to crush the weak man and the strong man in his mighty fists. For though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

  Lawson slowly stands, grimly assumes a fighting stance, and does a high kick. He manages to play it straight for a couple of seconds before cracking up.

  “Your pancakes are getting cold.” I retrieve his plate off the desk and hand it to him.

  “I cannot believe you made me pancakes.”

  “I truly struggled with affirming your gooniness.”

  He takes a bite. His eyes roll back. “Mmmmmmmmm.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s involved in cutting weight for a fight?”

  “Eating lots of celery?”

  “I wish I got to eat lots of anything. Celery is a decadent treat when you’re cutting weight. No lie, these pancakes taste like heaven. And I just ate dinner too.”

  “Let me try one bite.”

  He holds out a piece on the end of his fork, and I gently grab it off with my teeth. It’s not terrible. Good job, plastic-squeeze-bottle batter. I watch, pleased with myself, as Lawson digs in.

  He pauses between bites. “I did everything right.” His voice is abruptly forlorn again. “I suffered to make weight. I trained hard. I was mentally ready, you know? I could see myself winning. I couldn’t see anything but winning.”

  I grab for the rope with which he’s lowering himself down the well. “At least you didn’t lose in a blatantly cartoonish way, right?”

  He looks at me.

  I continue. “I mean, what if you’d gotten hit and you flew into the air and did two backflips and then landed in such a way that your nose went right up your butt.”

  “I don’t think that can happen. I’ve never once seen that happen.”

  “Oh, I have. Last week, in fact.”

  He peeks out over the edge of the well. “Oh, really?”

  “Last week I was at another MMA fight and that exact thing happened.”

  “Wow. It seems like I would’ve heard about that.”

  “Especially because the dude it happened to had to go to the hospital for butt-inhalation poisoning.”

  “Man. I heard you can die from that.”

  “Oh, he did die. He was like—” I flop back on Lawson’s bed with my eyes crossed and my tongue lolling out.

  He laughs, and I lie there, fake-dead. And while I do, I realize something: I never feel pressure to be someone I’m not when I’m around him. I never feel like I need to hide any part of who I am. Being around him feels like waking up on a Saturday morning when the whole day ahead of you is free and you’ve slept the perfect amount, and your bed is the most ideal temperature, it’s like you’re part of an experiment in human comfort. It’s so easy. So effortless.

  Then, as if reading my mind: “I like you,” he says softly after his laughter subsides. “I like being around you.”

  “I like you,” I say softly. “I like being around you.” And it’s true.

  We gaze at each other for a second. “You have a piece of pancake on your mouth.” I reach up and rub a crumb from his mouth with my thumb. He has nice lips.

  “You have a piece of pancake on your mouth,” he says, and gently rubs his thumb across my top lip, letting it linger there. His touch makes a warmth bloom below my stomach, as if molten, raspberry-scented chocolate has replaced my bone marrow.
>
  All right, then. You might’ve given my brain some advance warning, body. But it’s fine.

  “Wait, you have some pancake on your face,” I murmur. I lean forward and stroke his bruised cheek with my hand and his lips with my thumb. His lip feels slightly swollen. Somehow my hand knew he would be fun to touch before my brain did, but my brain has finally caught up.

  “I do? That’s embarrassing,” Lawson murmurs. “On my face?”

  Our eyes lock.

  “All over it. I kept wanting to say something.” I continue stroking his cheek.

  He scoots a little closer. I reciprocate.

  “Wow. Get it all.”

  “Oh, I will.” Now I’m sitting so close to him, I can feel the warmth from his body. I’m having a lot of fun touching him.

  “Don’t stop until you do. I don’t want to be walking around with pancake on my face.”

  “I don’t know how that happened.”

  “Me neither.” Our faces are very close.

  And speaking of not knowing how things happen, now we’re kissing, and his hands are in my hair and on the back of my head and he’s pulling me into him. It’s fine. Friends do this. They suddenly kiss and kiss and think they’re going to stop but instead they keep going with even more intensity. It’s fine.

  He tastes sweet, like a carefree and joyous morning spent watching cartoons.

  I’m not sure how long we go at it. Kissing bends time into itself. A kissing minute is equal to years of normal life. After a while we pry our lips apart and lock eyes. He has long eyelashes. They’re quite nice.

  “Hey,” he says softly, smiling.

  “Hey,” I say, smiling.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you.” He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, and then caresses the spot between my ear and my jaw. He’s impossibly gentle for someone so strong. It’s hard to imagine him punching anyone.

  “I know.”

  “That obvious?”

  “Very obvious.”

  “I think maybe this is brightening my night more than the pancakes,” he says.

  “Dude, I better beat pancakes.”

  “One of us deserves to win a fight tonight.”

  “I dug your prefight walking-out music, by the way.”

  “I hoped you would.”

  “I liked your new combat nickname too.”

  “I hoped you would.” He reclines onto his bed and pulls me on top of him. I go very willingly.

  He kisses my neck and behind my ear, his hands on my lower back. It’s leaving me breathless, honestly, but I manage to say, “How much would it have sucked if I’d shot you down?” I sit up, cross-legged.

  He sits up and faces me. “Whatever, you started kissing me,” he whispers as he kisses me behind my ear. In his voice, there’s the swagger and confidence that make him a great fighter, and I’m lying if I say I don’t enjoy it tremendously.

  “Why are you so cool all of a sudden?” I say, playfully pushing his chest.

  He smiles with one side of his mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re this sweet guy who really loves pancakes and listens to Miranda Lambert and reads fantasy books. I didn’t expect you to kiss like a cool guy.”

  “You saying I’m not cool?”

  “I’m saying you kiss like a cool guy.”

  “What if I told you I’ve had some practice?”

  “Well, la-dee-dah, lover boy!”

  He laughs. “This’ll shock you, but there are girls who like guys who work out a lot. Even if the working out has nothing to do with impressing them.”

  I give him another lighthearted push. “You calling me an MMA groupie?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Because I’ll karate you.”

  “Don’t karate me.”

  “I know karate. I’m good at it.” I rear back. “Hiiiiiiya!” I karate-chop his chest. Listen, it’s a very nice chest.

  He laughs and catches my arm and pulls me closer. “I know kiss fu.”

  I snort-laugh involuntarily. “Good lord. That is why I’m shocked you’re good at kissing. You are a goof.” I start laughing again, but he cuts me off with a kiss. It’s a pleasant surprise.

  We pause. He goes to kiss me again, but I stop short, teasing him. “Who’s more fun to be all tangled up in? Me or Nightmare Purdue?”

  “That’s who you’re jealous of? Not the other girls?”

  I shrug.

  “You’re more fun.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No contest. First-round knockout.”

  “Second victory of the night for me!”

  He goes to kiss me but stops. “I just want to look at you for a second. You’re beautiful.”

  “Don’t forget funny.”

  “And funny.”

  I sigh and press into him. We kiss some more.

  Lawson breaks the kiss after days (or months?). “I’m going to win a fight in front of you someday.” The joking is gone from his voice. So is the despondency of earlier.

  “I believe you.” I fix a piece of his hair knocked wayward by our rumpus.

  “I really want that. I want you to see me as a champion.”

  “I know.”

  Finally—thoroughly flushed, my hair a mess, a dull ache in my lower pelvis, and my lips swollen—I have to leave. I go to open his door. He moves behind me as nimbly as his aching muscles will allow, as though to help. But instead, he pushes me gently but firmly against the door, kissing my neck from behind, his hands on my stomach and hip. He pulls me back into him. “Come here,” he whispers. “Just stay forever.”

  I close my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder and let him keep running his lips down my neck. Then I spin to face him, and we start kissing again. He presses me into the door. I dissolve. I am unmade. Taken apart.

  “Thanks for making me pancakes.” There’s no defeat left on his face. Only purest victory.

  This whole thing rolled over me like the storm raging outside. Thunder pounding in my rib cage like something that wants to escape, that’s too small for the space it’s in. The air between us is alive with bolts of arcing blue electricity.

  •••

  Me: You awake, DeeDeeBoo?

  Delia: Yes even though I’m so tired.

  Me: You mad at me still?

  Delia: I was never mad at you ya goober. Just bummed we couldn’t do pre-pro. But I hung with my mom and she gave me a pedi and it was chill.

  Me: Ok cool because I have some kinda big news.

  Delia: Can I guess???

  Me: You’ll never guess.

  Delia: Oh I daresay I will.

  Me: OH DARE YOU SAY???

  Delia: YES I DARE. YOU AND LAW-MAN TOTALLY FRENCHED.

  Me: DEEDEE!!!!!!!!

  Delia: TELL ME I’M WRONG.

  Me: YOU ARE IN FACT NOT WRONG, CHARLOTTE HOLMES.

  Delia: SCREAMING. KNEW IT.

  Me: How????

  Delia: Um literally it was the easiest thing imaginable to guess.

  Me: WHYYYYY­YYYYY­Y.

  Delia: He’s ALWAYS looked at you with The Look and when you were watching him fight, you returned The Look.

  Me: Sigh. RIP to my chill.

  Delia: SO. HOW WAS IT???

  Me: I MEAN HE KISSES LIKE A COOL GUY.

  Delia: Do tell!!

  Me: He seems to…know how his body works.

  Delia: OOOO LALA.

  Me: And he’s good at moving around someone else’s body.

  Delia: LOL @ “someone else’s body” like whoever could that be, pray tell?

  Me: Hahahahaha. Anyhoo.

  Delia: So is this a thing now?

 
Me: I guess??? I DEF WANT MORE. DID NOT SEE THAT COMING.

  Delia: Ok but you gotta stop dryhumping long enough to do pre-pro tomorrow.

  Me: Oh 1,000%. I’m super sorry again for ditching out tonight. Law-man needed cheering up.

  Delia: “Cheering up” LOL. Loving these euphemisms.

  Me: He’s a big reader btw. Who knew?

  Delia: That’s hot.

  Me: He was reading a Bloodfall book when I got there.

  Delia: NICE. Good taste.

  Me: It was a sexy surprise.

  Delia: How awesome is this storm btw?

  Me: So awesome. This rain is bonkers.

  Delia: Even if you’d come over tonight I probably would have made you watch the storm with me and we wouldn’t have gotten any work done.

  Me: Truth.

  Delia: Wanna know what I find so romantic btw while we’re on the subject?

  Me: ???

  Delia: You know how pythons are taking over the Everglades?

  Me: EEEEEK WHAT.

  Delia: Yep. I guess people released pets or something?

  Me: That is HORRIFYING.

  Delia: I know right? So imagine someone had to release a boy python and someone had to release a girl python and somehow they found each other in that huge swamp.

  Me: AW. I hate snakes more than I hate having cramps but that is romantic.

  Delia: Is Lawson staying in Jackson after graduation?

  Me: I think so. I think he wants to keep training with his same coach or whatever.

  Delia: Nice. Well, I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open. Congrats once more on frenching.

  Me: Hey, I’m sorry again for ditching you tonight, love.

  Delia: All good. But to punish you I’m picking out a real doozy of a movie.

  Me: Haha I deserve it.

  Delia: We’re gonna do “The Werewolf vs. the Vampire Woman.”

  Me: THAT. SOUNDS. TERRIBLE.

  Delia: Yeah, it was made in 1971 and it looks like they went to a porn set and handed the actors costumes and were like “here put these on when you’re done boning and we’re gonna make another movie real quick.”

  Me: Omg.

  Delia: Yep. And the script reads like they wrote it while the actors were changing. Ok, gonna go sleep. Love you, JoJoBee.

  Me: Love you, DeeDeeBooBoo.