by Meghan Quinn
“Be honest, you’re totally drooling over the idea.”
“Hell yeah, I am.” I fill a glass with water and bring it to the couch where I slouch down in my seat, resting my head against the cushion. “Long shot though. I can’t waste time thinking about it. What’s going on with you and Rory?”
“Wanted to call and tell you we’re uh, we’re actually pregnant.”
That makes me sit right up and set my drink on the coffee table. “Pregnant?”
“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “Doctor said it’s a honeymoon baby.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.” I swallow hard. “Congrats, man. I’m happy for you guys.”
“Really?” He sounds hopeful. “I was a little nervous telling you.”
I chuckle and run my hand through my hair. “Stryder, you married her, this was bound to happen.”
“I know.” He’s silent for a second, and I would bet a thousand dollars I know what’s going on in his head right now. He’s freaking out about being a dad. Growing up, Stryder not only didn’t have a good relationship with his dad, but his dad was a tyrant, practically a dictator in their household.
To ease his mind, I say, “You’re going to be such a good dad, man.”
“Christ, I don’t know. I didn’t have a good example—”
“You don’t need a good example in order to be a loving and caring parent. What matters is that you don’t want your child to have the same childhood you had, so you’re going to make sure that never happens.”
“But what if it’s in my genes?”
I clear my throat, being as honest as I can be. “I’ve known you since you were eighteen. I can tell you right now, the apple has fallen incredibly far from the tree. You are nothing like your father, never will be.” I add, “Plus you have Rory by your side, so if you do mess up she’ll kick your ass.”
He chuckles into the phone. “Isn’t that the fucking truth. Her parents are really excited.”
“I bet they are. And Rory?”
He pauses, taking a minute. “She’s . . . fuck. She’s glowing, Colby.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. Just as I would have expected her to be. There is no doubt in my mind she was meant to be a mom, and she’ll be wonderful at it too.
Both of them are meant to be parents. Not to be a cheese dick, but Stryder might put on a front, act like he’s a tough son of a bitch, but he’s not. He has a giant heart that’s made to love. Both him and Rory.
My stomach feels a little hollow as I think about the family they’ll be starting soon. I’m happy for them, I really am, but fuck if I’m not jealous. When I decided at age ten I wanted to become a fighter pilot, I told myself to allow no distractions, which meant no relationships. When I was a teenager, I dabbled here and there and fucked around in college the first three years but never took any of it seriously, because I knew I couldn’t afford to give time to a relationship.
And then Rory came along and showed me the possibility of having both—my dream and love.
Once I went to flight school and started flying fighters, I never really gave having a relationship another thought, because I was so consumed with flying. But I’m going to be fucking honest, and I hate to admit it, but it sucks coming home to an empty house after a long day at work, or a three-month temporary duty. It sucks not having someone to greet you when you come home, wives and kids on the tarmac, waving in their loved ones with signs and balloons.
At first it didn’t bother me, because I had my plane.
But it bothers me now.
“I can—” There’s a knock at my door, cutting me off. I look toward the entryway as I stand, my muscles aching from my early morning workout. “Uh, hey, there’s someone at my door. Can I give you a call back?”
“Sure.”
I hang up with Stryder, tie the sleeves of my flight suit in front of me so the entire thing doesn’t fall down, and open the door.
Spinning around on a pair of ankle boots is a familiar face.
“Sage?” I ask, a little startled that the watermelon girl from the commissary is standing at my front door.
Taken back, she blinks a few times before adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses and saying, “Cody?”
“Colby,” I correct while wearing a gentle smile.
Immediately her face flames red. “Of course, Colby. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said Cody. That was dumb of me.” She holds up a few pieces of mail. “It says Colby right here on your mail. I had a patient today named Cody, and I think I can’t get him out of my head, had a terrible case of conjunctivitis.” She cringes. “Uh, you don’t want to hear about that.”
I grip the casing of my door, my other hand on the knob and shake my head. “Yeah, I don’t.”
Briefly, I watch her eyes scan my torso, taking in the way my shirt is stretched across my chest, pulling at my pecs.
Shaking her head, she shoves the mail into my unsuspecting hand and takes a step back, eyes cast toward the sidewalk. “Uh, some of your mail came to my place, so thought I would drop it off. Didn’t know it was you who lived here.”
“Thanks,” I awkwardly say. “You live around here? I didn’t think civilians could live on base.”
“Oh”—she scratches behind her ear—“my brother flies in the sixteenth weapons squadron.”
“Really? That’s why you know so much about fighters.” She shrugs. “I’m in the four hundred thirty-third squadron.”
“I figured.” She digs her toe into the sidewalk. “Since you fly Raptors and all.”
Good Christ, this girl is speaking plane geek with me right now, and I’m kind of turned on.
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“Rocky Guthrie. Do you know him?”
A smile passes over my lips. “Balboa is your brother?” She nods, a sense of pride filling her chest. “You two look nothing alike,” I joke. Because, they really don’t. Balboa has olive skin, dark hair, and green eyes. Sage has fair skin, platinum-blonde hair, and brown eyes. He’s also a bulky guy, especially for a pilot, and Sage is tiny.
We’ve hung out a few times because he shares a house with Rowdy, so I actually know the guy pretty well. Didn’t know he had a sister . . . a sister who knows about planes.
“We get that all the time. I look like my mom and he looks like my dad.” She shrugs casually. “He was the one who helped me get the job on base actually. He was also nice enough to let me move in with him until I get my feet on the ground. Anyway”—she eyes the mail in my hand—“we’re four houses down.”
“Yeah, you live with my friend Rowdy. I’m kind of surprised he didn’t say anything about a new roommate.”
“Oh. I just moved in. I’m sure he’s still in shock. I won’t be there for long. When I ran into you the other day, I was actually getting off from my first day; the watermelon was for an after-work welcome party.”
“Nice.” I nod my head. “Welcome to the neighborhood. It’s pretty quiet here, besides Rowdy, which I’m sure you’ve noticed already.”
“He does enjoy making noise.” She quietly cringes and takes another step back. This girl is almost painfully shy. “On that note, I’m going to head back. I guess I’ll see you around.”
For a split second, I think to wave and say goodbye, but a lonelier side of me steps up and says, “I can show you around, if you want.”
“Huh?” she asks, taking another step back.
Shit, I’m so bad at this crap. It was easy with Rory, because she did all the work, but it looks like I might have to step up my game.
“A date.” I swallow hard. “I can take you out and show you around Vegas, if you’re interested.”
Hiding a smile, she adjusts her glasses and says, “That would be nice.”
Trying not to show how relieved I am, I nod to the inside of my house and say, “Come in for a second. Let me grab your number.”
“Okay.” She takes a step forward and says, “My brother knows I’m down here, so no funny business.”
That makes me laugh, especially since she’s pointing her little finger at me, pure warning in that fingernail.
“Don’t worry, Balboa terrifies everyone on base.” Did I mention the guy is huge?
“He terrifies just about anyone he runs into.”
Sage follows me but stays inside the entryway when I snag my phone from the coffee table. When I turn to face her, I catch her taking in my very empty place.
White walls, tan carpet, brown leather furniture, and a picture of an F-22 above the fireplace. There is nothing special about my home, but it works for me.
“Here,” I hand her my phone. “Type in your number.”
As she enters her name and phone number, I take her in. She seems so delicate, like she’s meant to sit on a shelf under a glass dome rather than walk around in the real world, let alone Las Vegas. Hell, I’m nervous this city is going to eat her alive.
She hands me my phone. “There, all set. I sent myself a text from your phone so I have your number too.”
“Cool, thanks.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be going. Enjoy your mail.” She cringes again and takes a step outside.
“Yeah, thanks.” I give her a curt wave and shut the door.
She’s awkward, I’m not much of a talker, but we both like planes, so there could be something there, right?
At least I’m hoping so, as it would be nice to hang out with someone who doesn’t smell like jet fuel every damn day.
Chapter Nine
RYAN
Eleven years old . . .
I adjust my purple JanSport backpack on my shoulder and look around the campus I’ll call home for the next three years. Pikes Peak is the backdrop for the red-brick building in front of me, giving me hope for the person I can finally be.
I pull up my pants, situating them on my hips as best as possible, wiggling a little to make sure they’re all the way up, and make my way through the doors.
The halls are bustling already, everyone wearing their finest first day outfits, everyone trying to make an impression . . . like me.
Taking in a deep breath, I work my way around the other kids to my locker. My dad and I came here the other day to make sure I knew where I was going and how to get into my locker properly. He made me unlock it a few times for practice so I wasn’t fidgeting with it on my first day. I’m glad my dad still helps me with things like this.
I make my way to locker sixty-seven, on the right hand side and spot it immediately. It’s the lower locker, which apparently is for the sixth graders. The eighth graders get the high lockers, but I’m not going to complain, because this is my first locker ever.
Lockers slam, kids laugh, footsteps squeak across the freshly polished floors, the sounds of school for once making me excited. This is my fresh start.
“Move out of the way, tub-o,” a boy says, startling me from the side.
“What?” I ask, a little confused while adjusting the top of my track suit, making sure none of my skin is showing.
The boy standing next to me looks me up and down, his hair blond, his teeth yellow, and his eyes almost pitch-black.
Grinning like the Grinch, he scoots in closer, the smell of cheese on his breath. “I said move out of the way . . . lard-ass.”
Lard-ass? Did he really just call me that? I adjust my clothing again and suck in my stomach.
“That’s not very nice.”
He looks at me, a slimy smile crossing his chapped lips. “This isn’t your TV show, Barney. We’re not all nice to each other here.” Just as he insults me by calling me a giant purple dinosaur, his friend comes up beside him and pats him on the back, clearly appreciating his dig at the new girl.
Trying to muster all the pride I have, I smooth down the velour of my coat and say, “This is Juicy Couture.”
“And you look like an oversized whale in it.”
Okay, there are only so many times a girl can hear another person call her fat. I’m at my limit.
I’ve worked really hard this summer trying to lose weight. I drank those SlimFast drinks and everything. I even rode my dad’s exercise bike while watching TV. I know I look better than I did at the beginning of the summer. I might not be as skinny as I wish I was, and I might not have the boobs I wish I had, or the designer makeup Mom won’t get me, but when I left the house today, I actually felt . . . pretty.
My lip trembles, and I try to hold back the tears as the two boys point and laugh at me, making fun of my outfit, saying how I look like an overcompensating gym teacher, whatever that means.
Do not get upset, Ryan, that’s exactly what these jerks want you to do. Forget your locker for now, just pick up your bag and ignore them.
I can ask for a different locker later.
Not giving them the time of day, I turn away from their rude laughs and bend to pick up my backpack just as I hear a loud rip echo in the hallways. And then I feel it, a light breeze.
“Holy shit, she split her pants,” one of the guys says.
“And she is wearing granny panties. Ugh, gross!”
As fast as I can, I stand straight, backpack slung over my shoulder, and hand covering the giant tear in my pants. With their laughter trailing behind me, I make a beeline for the nurse’s office, hoping and praying those two boys were the only ones who noticed.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asks. Tears well in my eyes.
I lean forward, wanting to be as quiet as possible. “I, um, I split my pants and was hoping I could call my dad to bring me a new pair.”
“Oh dear, not a very good first day, huh?” I shake my head, allowing a tear to fall down my cheek. “Come in, dear. You can use my office phone for some privacy. Why don’t you take your sweatshirt off and wrap it around your waist to cover you up for now.”
I nod, knowing that’s a good idea since I can feel that the rip is . . . the entire backside of my pants.
Giving me some space, the nurse quietly shuts the door, and I take her advice and wrap my jacket around my waist. I pick up the phone and dial my dad’s office number.
“Mr. Collier’s office, Glinda speaking.”
With a shaky voice, I say, “Glinda, it’s Ryan. Can I . . . Can I talk to my dad please?”
“Ryan, is everything okay?”
“No,” I answer, my throat tight, my tears ready to spill over.
Move over, tub-o.
Barney, Barney, Barney.
You look like an oversized whale.
The taunts sting, breaking my heart and every positive thought I had of myself.
One single boy destroyed every last ounce of confidence I gathered over the summer, leaving me with nothing but a split pair of pants and tears. Why me? Why did they have to rip? Today? Ever?
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” my dad asks.
Just hearing the sound of his voice pushes me over the edge. Tears start to fall rapidly, cascading into my lap, my embarrassment pooling at the base of my spine.
“Dad, I . . . I . . .” My voice catches in my throat. “My pants ripped,” I finally say.
“Oh Ryan, I’m so sorry. They must have been a faulty pair. I can get you a new set. How bad is it?”
“Re-really bad, Dad.” My voice hitches. “I need new pants for today. Do you think you can bring me some?”
“Oh sweetie, you know I would, but I have meeting after meeting lined up. Call your mother. She’s home and can bring you a pair.”
The mention of my mom tightens my throat all over again, sending another wave of tears down my cheeks.
“She’s going to be so mean, Dad. She didn’t even want me to wear this outfit.” I don’t bother mentioning the boys who made fun of me, because I don’t want my dad thinking I’m a loser. He thinks so highly of me, and I can’t imagine what he’d think if learned some boy called me fat.
“She won’t, I promise. I’ll give her a call and let her know the situation. Just hang tight; we’ll get you some pants.”
“Okay,” I sniff. “Thanks, Dad.�
�
“Love you, boo bear.” He hangs up the phone, and I let the nurse know what’s happening.
The nurse asks if I want to go class since technically I’m covered up, but I beg her to let me stay until I can get my new pants. Thankfully she lets me.
It only takes Mom twenty minutes to arrive at school and when she does, she doesn’t look happy. Please don’t yell at me here, Mom . . .
I must have interrupted her yoga class. She looks me up and down, shakes her head, and thrusts a pair of pants at me, shame in her eyes.
Head held down, I take the pants and unfold them. Oh no. It’s a pair of jeans I absolutely hate because they’re boxy-looking.
Just when I think my mom is about to leave and not say anything to me, she quietly whispers, “I told you not to eat all those cookies this summer. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.”
She pats my shoulder and then takes off, and like normal I feel cold and awful. Why do you hate me so much, Mom? Why?
Chapter Ten
RYAN
Squeezing my eyes tightly, I step onto the scale and take a few deep breaths before opening my eyes. I tell myself not to look down, to ignore the number, that I only step on this scale every day to prove that what the number is doesn’t matter.
But it’s all a lie.
Because it matters. It matters so much.
Don’t look down. Just step off.
I grind my teeth together, my arms wrapped around my stomach, my fingers playing with my bare skin and the ripple in my ribcage.
You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You don’t need to change anything.
I tell myself that over and over again but it never registers. I’m never good enough. Never will be.
Giving in, I glance at the scale.
One fifteen. A little lower than what my doctor said was appropriate for my body type. It’s okay. A little low is okay. A little high is not.
I step off the scale and look at myself in the mirror, tilting my head to the side, examining my waist. I pinch my side, a flashback of my mom doing the same thing, reprimanding me for eating too many potato chips. I’ll do crunches tonight before bed.