As I walk through the apartment each trip, I take in a little bit more of the space and the décor and I’m grateful for what I see. Nothing is overly girly or fussy, and the color scheme appears to be neutral with bold slashes of royal blue and some lighter grays in fabrics and paint. There’s an overstuffed chair with its back to the door, with a couch parallel and facing a wall where I assume the television will go (my television, as Cora’s is only thirty inches. Please, my computer screen is bigger). Both are oversized and done in some light fabric back cushion with a leather seat.
I saw them in the picture Blue sent me, and I’m grateful to see now that they’re as big in person as they looked on the phone. Dainty furniture doesn’t really fit me, literally or figuratively.
After my last trip, I close the door to my room, knowing that until I get to unloading the boxes and putting it to rights, Blue will probably appreciate not staring at the mess. Stripping off my wet jacket, I set it on the coat rack near the door and head into the kitchen where Yogi is digging into his dinner. Cora’s standing at the stove stirring something that smells suspiciously healthy.
“If I’d known you cooked, too, I’d have been here ages ago. Ryan makes fun of his mama, but he’s no wiz in the kitchen.”
I open the fridge and take out a beer I crammed in there earlier. When I offer one to her, she shakes her head and I close the door, popping the top and draining half before I turn and lean against the counter.
“What’s in the pot?”
“Kale, white bean, and carrots with some rosemary and onion.”
“No meat?”
“When you cook, we can have meat, though I should warn you, I only eat happy meat.”
I smile. “Who doesn’t? Every cow deserves to have a smile on his face.”
“Organic, grass fed, that sort of thing. I don’t eat meat from farms or slaughterhouses that abuse or mistreat their animals or inject them with hormones.”
“Does it say that on the packaging?”
“It’ll say if the animal was humanely treated.”
I sip from my beer and try to hide my smile. Can’t, I just can’t. “Aren’t they slaughtered and eaten no matter if they see a cage or a field?”
Her eyes flash fire and I hold out my hands. “Never mind. Happy meat. Got it. Anything else I should know before we get too far into this relationship?”
“It’s not a relationship, it’s a lease.”
“Semantics again. We’re roommates, Blue, which means we’re going to get to know each other, whether you want to or not. Living in the same space is intimate no matter who it’s with.”
She releases a breath and turns away from the stove to face me. “You’re right, and I’m sorry, I know I’m being a bitch but I can’t seem to help myself. You scare me, Handsome Jake, because you make me feel things I don’t want to feel.”
I grin. “Tell me where you feel them, maybe I can make it better.”
“Interested,” she says on a laugh. “You make me feel interested in whatever it is you’re offering me, and I don’t want to be interested.”
I cross my feet at the ankles to keep my stance relaxed and non-threatening, but my body is humming. My feelings shot past interested the first time I saw her, but it’s nice to know she’s catching up. “Interest isn’t a bad thing, especially when it’s reciprocated.”
She shakes her head. “It is when you’re me. Interest often leads to intent, which leads to action, action I’m not ready to take.”
Not ready. That’s a whole lot different than not willing, but I don’t call her on it. Instead, I nod. “Well, why don’t we try this? Let’s get to know each other, not because we’re roommates, but because I want to be friends too.”
She watches me for a minute and then inclines her chin. “I can live with that. Where do we start?”
Chapter Twelve
Cora
“I’m not answering that.”
“Blue, the game is questions, you can’t pass on every one I ask or it’s not a game, just a replay of my seventh grade year.”
I laugh and stand up from the small table at the window to take our bowls to the sink. He grabs the rest of the dishes from the table and follows me. “Were you an awkward thirteen-year-old, Jake?”
“I was smart and nice and I actually read the Harry Potter books instead of just seeing the movies and making fun of them, so it’s more like I was an oddity. If it wasn’t for baseball, I would have gotten my ass kicked regularly; instead, I was just shot down a lot. Mostly by your kind.”
I laugh again and turn on the water to rinse, unsurprised when I feel him next to me, opening the dishwasher and holding out his hand for the dishes I’ve just cleaned. “How did you go from being rejected all of the time to raking them in?” I ask, and his smile is slow and satisfied.
“By realizing early on that girls thought they wanted a bad boy when really what they wanted was a boy who knew how to talk to them, to make them laugh and actually hear the things they said while still being a bit of a badass. The whole voice-cracking thing quit by sophomore year — praise Jesus — and my dad got me into karate to help me control my limbs that were growing pretty rapidly. By my junior year, I was coordinated and weighed a hundred and sixty-five pounds instead of the hundred and twenty I had arrived at high school weighing. I made varsity as a sophomore and threw the ball just over eighty miles an hour. The fact that I could quote poetry and remember what a girl said was really just icing on the cake.”
“And so the legend was born.”
He wiggles his eyebrows and I can’t help but laugh. When I opened the door and saw him standing on the other side of it earlier, my heart actually leapt, which was probably why I didn’t see his move coming until our lips were fused — or why I didn’t reject it even when I did see it. I’d missed him, which is insane and the reason for the cold shoulder I then doled out.
Jake Ferrari is everything I shouldn’t want, mostly because he’s everything I’ve convinced myself is no longer a part of my life. He’s fun, appears frivolous, though in the past hour he’s proven not only to be intelligent, but motivated, as he explained he’s only got four classes left to take in order to graduate with a BA in English Literature, a degree he promised himself he’d get, no matter where his future led him. He’s laid back, but I’ve seen the serious side a few times, enough to know that when Jake cares, he cares with all of himself.
His words from our conversation after the rehearsal dinner flit though my brain as they have multiple times in the past month. When I’m with a girl, she’s the only one I think about. It’s not hard to see that whoever he is, Jake isn’t careless with people’s feelings, especially those he considers important. I can’t explain why I already feel important to him, any more than I can explain the absolute elation that thought brings.
“Seriously, where do you get your pants?”
I’m shaken out of my reverie when he repeats his asinine question. “What is this fixation with my pants?”
“You have a mirror, right?”
I raise my brow at him, both impressed and a little irritated that he can deliver lines like that and not sound like an asshole. “Lululemon.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Is that another question? Tell me, does this game ever end or do we just continue asking questions willy-nilly the entire time we’re roommates?”
“Never ending, though it’s not really willy-nilly. I’m building up here, making you comfortable. The purpose is to get the easy stuff out of the way so we can eventually get to the hard stuff that requires more than the name of a grocery store.”
“It’s a clothing store. What if I don’t want to answer the hard stuff?”
In the past hour we’ve talked about everything, asked silly questions, answered them, shared silly stories. Being with Jake has reminded me of everything I missed out on the first time around — the conversations, the jokes, the comfort. And it’s reminded me just how lonely I was before he walked thr
ough that door today.
A year ago I was a wreck, a shattered mass of bad choices and even worse outcomes, and when I stopped being that person, when I learned how to make better decisions and actually think about what my choices would do to me and others, I promised myself I would never lose myself to my need for intimacy and connection again.
Standing in the small kitchen with Jake while the late January rain continues to pelt the windows and the city lights illuminate the streets outside, I know he’s someone who could make me go back on my promise. And as much as I want to just let go and enjoy this time with him, whatever it brings, I don’t ever want to fall back into the person I was, the one that latched onto a boy and a marriage because she was too lonely and insecure to find something for herself. I don’t know if there’s a balance here, but I do know that something about Jake makes me want to look for one.
“Well, I don’t believe I’ve asked you anything hard yet so you’re safe.”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” I mumble and turn off the water. Drying my hands on the towel that hangs over the oven, I take a deep breath and remind myself I’m in charge of my actions. No one can make me do things I don’t want.
“I think I’m going to head to bed. Welcome to Oregon, Handsome Jake.”
I’m halfway out of the kitchen when he says my name and stops me. I turn my head and look at him, and for a second we’re both staring at one another and I feel that familiar pulse begin.
“Being with you, it’s the only thing I’ve thought about in the past month.” He says the words simply, and still, I feel the world change around me. I want to deny them, to ask him to stop and think of what he could do to me, but that feels weak, and that’s one thing I don’t want to be anymore. Since I can’t think of any way to respond, I do nothing. He acknowledges this with a jut of his chin. “You might not be the one to ask the questions, Cora, and you might be able to convince yourself you’re better alone, but we both know I’m here because the idea of being alone isn’t as appealing as it once was. Not for either of us since the night we met.”
I nod once and then turn and walk away, hardly breathing until the door to my bedroom is safely shut behind me. Only then do I let out an expulsion of air and sink down onto my bed, breathing through the trembles that prove I’m anything but immune to him, anything but strong. Jake Ferrari wants me, and he just insinuated that I want him back. Closing my eyes, I cradle my head in my hands, thinking he’s exactly right.
Chapter Thirteen
Jake
I’m relearning my throwing motion and I feel like a fucking toddler.
This is when rehab feels like too much work, like a lost cause and a heartache waiting to happen. I want to rage, I want to smash things, I want to punch someone. And then I remember that I’d be more likely to break my goddamn arm than actually hurt anyone or anything, which just pisses me off more.
I’m a couple of weeks behind on my rehab program, though the doc I’m seeing here (along with the one I was seeing in Arizona) swears that the estimate they give after surgery is rough. Some players heal within the allotted twelve months, some take longer. He also swears that healing slower doesn’t mean anything different. Healing is healing, he says, but I can’t help but want to call him on his shit. Healing? I’m five months in and I’ve just gone from practicing (so not actually releasing) my throwing motion with a fucking one pound medicine ball, to what’s termed a soft toss from less than fifty feet away from my target. The fact that it’s actually pretty difficult to reach the target is where my rage is coming from.
Underhanded tossing, that’s what I’m doing, and that’s what I’m struggling with. How the fuck am I ever going to throw a ninety mile an hour fastball from sixty plus feet away?
Baseball players in general are considered arrogant, and for good reason. There’s a certain amount of arrogance needed to go one on one with someone in front of your team and theirs, knowing that the victor earns points (be they actual points or just emotional points, which are just as important sometimes), while the other has to continue the rest of the game with the loss in the back of his mind. Baseball isn’t just about the end score; it’s about runs stolen, bases stolen, pitches snuck through, and those forced through. Sometimes it’s about luck.
I analyze my batters, their percentages, their weaknesses, and I go through them systematically with everything I’ve got. When what I know doesn’t help me, I use what I am and I work to make every batter’s life a living hell when he steps up to that plate. Until seven months ago, I was renowned for facing down batters and taking away their confidence, so when I heard that today was the day I got to start my throwing program, I ran through my morning workout with the knowledge that the minute I picked up the baseball, my life would fall back in line. Which makes me an idiot. Or an asshole. Quite possibly both.
Not only did nothing fall back in line, I think I may have regressed a couple of steps emotionally, and the doc was more than happy to point out that counseling was recommended since I’m so far away from my team, something that isn’t recommended.
Counsel this, I think and swing through the outside door and down the hall to our apartment. The sight that greets me when I unlock it and enter is one that improves my mood significantly faster than any medical interference could.
Christ, is there anything greater than yoga pants and the women who wear them to actually do yoga?
Cora’s pushed the low, refurbished yellow table that usually sits in the center of the small space off to the side. In its place, she’s rolled out a mat that she’s currently twisting away on, in a position I’m pretty confident has the word dog in it. Thank you, Jesus.
Hands flat on the ground, superb ass in the air, legs straight and feet planted so she’s in some sort of upside down V, Blue doesn’t notice me as she balances on one hand and reaches for her opposite ankle with the other, showcasing not just her fabulous assets, but her extreme strength and flexibility, too. There’s music pumping through the small Bose speaker that sits on the shelf perpendicular to the window. It’s more like dance music than relaxing meditation music, and it’s the throbbing bass combined with the erotic poses that have my body tensing for entirely different reasons than the one I carried in twenty seconds ago.
Christ, I want this girl.
Because my instincts are telling me to take, to walk up behind her and grab her and show her everything I want, I shove my hands in the pockets of my sweats and lean back against the door to enjoy the rest of the show from a safe distance. Yogi is sitting on the desk chair, and he slits his eyes at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. In the month that we’ve lived here, he’s taken to Blue and become her shadow when she’s home, following her from room to room, curling up in the corner and watching her while she cooks, cleans, peruses the Internet. As if he senses my jealousy at the fact that he can be close to her and I can’t, he’s always staring me down, and if a cat could talk shit, I know just which words would be coming out of his mouth as he eyes me from his seat right now.
I glare right back at him and finish the show, admiring each new pose and the fluidity with which Blue goes through them. Our relationship has been a little rocky in its beginning. Rather than feeling closer now that we live together, since that first night it feels as though Blue’s put a wall up between us, one that she stays safely behind. She’s polite, friendly even, but never forthcoming and playful, never spicy and confrontational like she was when we first met and she told me in no uncertain terms to back the hell off.
It’s been four weeks since I got here, and other than polite conversation, she’s hidden behind her imaginary wall, finding things that keep us at a safe distance, finding solace in her room or the excuse of a busy work schedule to keep her busy. I’ve let her breathe because I realized that first day that she needed to be the one to make the next move or this relationship — at least the one I want — is doomed.
She hasn’t made a move, and as I watch her roll up and out of her last pose, I
wonder if I’ve just fucked myself into wanting her even more while she’s still maintaining what she considers a safe distance. Knowing I’m close to begging, hating myself for it even though I know I can’t stop it, I clear my throat and wait for her eyes to meet mine.
She doesn’t flinch or jump, which makes me almost positive that she knew I was here while she finished. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad that she didn’t acknowledge me.
Trying for light even though my whole body is tense with this need for something, whatever it is, I smile. “I like your workout routine, Blue. And your pants. Have I mentioned before how much I like your pants?”
Her smile is slow, but it comes eventually and some of the heaviness inside of me eases.
“You know, I think you have,” she says and reaches over to lower the volume on the speaker, so the music falls to a low pulse. There’s a ray of sunshine pushing through the rain, illuminating the small spot where Yogi sits and, looking at it, I can’t help but think that’s how Blue is for me. She’s my port, my piece of sunshine when all I want to do is wallow in the darkness and sink.
Knowing I might not be good for her doesn’t change my need for her, which probably makes me a bastard, but there it is.
“Rough day?” she asks and I meet her eyes. She’s standing with her mat rolled up in her arms staring at me. The light’s still pouring in behind her, and I wonder if she knows what I was thinking, or how badly I needed her to ask.
“It wasn’t great.”
Her hesitation is minimal, just enough that I can tell she’s not one hundred percent sure of her moves. I wait, and eventually she makes her decision and takes a small step forward. “Want to tell me about it?”
My shoulders unwind instantly, and a large breath exhales from me. “Yeah, I really do.”
~
“Tell me about baseball, what it’s like to play in college, to know your career might go beyond that.”
“What do you want to know?”
She shrugs and sips from her coffee. She’s sitting in the corner of the couch with her legs curled under her and I’m sitting next to her, a beer in my hand. We’ve finished dinner and are capping off the night together, something that we haven’t done since the night I moved in. Over dinner, I told her how training is frustrating and slow, and that even though the doctors and trainers and therapists all say that people heal at different speeds, it’s making me crazy. I want to be done, to know where I stand, where my future and my baseball career stand.
The Light of Day Page 7