Love's Illusion

by Priya Grey

  “This is a really amazing house,” I say.

  “I know, right,” replies Selena with a nod.

  I still can’t believe I’ll be calling this place home for the next six months. When I saw the ad to rent a room in such an impressive house, I was surprised by how cheap the rent was. I applied – thinking it was too good to be true. Then I was shocked to discover I was accepted as a roommate. Selena said she liked my taste in music. That’s all it took.

  “It’s pretty cool that your uncle is okay with having so many people live in his house while he’s gone,” I comment as we walk through the sleek kitchen and into the living room.

  Selena shoots me a mischievous look and shakes her head. “He doesn’t have a clue! He’d kill me if he knew I was doing this. So that’s why, under absolutely no circumstances, are you to answer the house line.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “Good. And the only other rule is this: no smoking. And I mean cigarettes. I don’t care if you smoke pot in the house. Everybody smokes pot, except Nash.”

  “Whose Nash?” I ask. I was under the impression that it was just Selena, and some other girl, staying in the house. Not that I cared if I lived with a guy. But if my dad found out, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

  “Nash moved in two months ago,” says Selena. “He’s a fitness freak. Keeps to himself. So, as I was saying, pot is fine but cigarettes are a no-no.”

  I nod again. “I don’t smoke either one.”

  “I guess you and Nash have something in common,” Selena replies. “Now, let me show you the pool and the backyard.”

  Selena and I turn a corner. My jaw drops. A rectangular shaped infinity pool takes up most of the backyard. Then I marvel at the Los Angeles skyline and ocean view.

  “Pretty impressive, huh?” Selena asks, knowing the answer is obvious.

  “It looks even more beautiful than the pictures you put online,” I say in awe.

  “Yeah. I’m from Cleveland. We sure as fuck don’t have views like this in Cleveland.”

  Selena opens the sliding door, and we both step outside.

  The sunlight makes the pool sparkle like it contains a million tiny diamonds. “Do you guys use the pool often?” I ask her.

  “Sometimes Nash does these weird water training drills in the pool. And Juliette likes to sunbathe in between her sessions. You definitely should take a dip once you’re settled in. It’s heated.”

  “I will,” I blatantly lie.

  I didn’t pack a bathing suit – on purpose because I’ve never felt comfortable wearing one. And considering how slim Selena is, I most definitely won’t be swimming in her company. I’ll look like a whale next to her.

  “Ready to see what I did with your room?” Selena’s voice peaks with enthusiasm.

  We step back inside and walk up the flight of stairs to the second floor. As we walk down the hall, we pass a closed door.

  The sound of someone moaning with pleasure emanates from inside the room. Selena leans her head against the door and listens.

  Suddenly, a woman shouts in a heavy accent, “Oh my gosh, you get me so hot! I think I’m going to come, Roger. Oh my gosh, I never felt like this before. I’m going to come so hard. I wish you were here so I could come all over your cock. Are you going to come too, Roger?”

  With a smirk, Selena shakes her head and looks at me. “Juliette’s finishing up her session,” she whispers. “You’ll meet her later.”

  “Session?” I ask with a look of bewilderment.

  I wonder if one of my roommates is a prostitute. Did I mistakenly find lodging in a brothel? Is that why the rent is so cheap?

  Selena senses my concern.

  “Don’t worry, she’s not a prostitute. She’s a webcam girl. That’s how she makes her money. And she’s French. So she’s very popular.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. “Good for her,” I reply awkwardly with a nervous smile.

  We continue walking down the hallway until we pass the bathroom. Selena opens the adjacent door. It looks like the room was probably a walk-in linen closet before it was converted into a small bedroom. It’s incredibly tiny. The full size mattress on the floor takes up much of the space.

  As we both stare into the cramped space, Selena remarks, “I still haven’t found someone to take the other bedroom. It’s only $200 more, but it’s a lot bigger. You can have it, if you want.”

  I shake my head. I can barely afford the rent on this closet, much less a “real” bedroom.

  “Thanks, but this is fine. I don’t need much space.”

  Selena checks the time on her phone.

  “Shit. I got to run. I’ve got a gig in Valencia.”

  She quickly hands me a set of keys for the house and front gate. She also gives me the Wi-Fi password. She then tells me to call her if I have any questions or to ask Juliette, when she finishes her session. Then she jets down the hall before I can even say thank you.

  After the front door closes, I hear Juliette loudly groan from her room.

  “Roger, you’re insatiable. I thought three orgasms was enough. But I think I’m going to have one more! Mon Dieu!”

  Well, so far this is a lot more interesting than my dorm room experience in college. Although my room back then was substantially larger than where I’ll be sleeping now.

  I step into my closet (aka bedroom) and begin to unpack. From my suitcase, I remove my poster of Prince and pin it to the wall.

  “So, what do you think of my new bedroom, Prince? I know, it’s tiny. But when you’re chasing your dream, you have to make sacrifices, right?”

  As I stare at Prince’s poster, my cellphone rings.

  I answer and see my mom and dad on FaceTime. My mom peers into her phone and waves at me.

  “Flo, sweetie, it’s mom and dad.”

  “I know, Mom. That’s the whole point of FaceTime. I can see who it is.”

  My mom rolls her eyes. “Stop being Miss smarty-pants. Now tell us, how was your flight? Are you settling in? What are your roommates like?”

  “My flight was fine, Mom. And the house is amazing.”

  My dad moves into the frame.

  “Flo, honey, it’s your father.”

  “I know. I can see you, remember?”

  He ignores my comment.

  “Make sure none of your roommates are drug addicts. If there are any drugs in that house, I want you out of there immediately. And all those roommates better be girls, or you’re in big trouble, young lady.”

  “Dad, they’re all women,” I fib. “You guys don’t have to worry so much. I’m going to be fine. Now, can I call you later? I still have to unpack my things.”

  “All right, sweetie,” says my mom. “Why don’t you call us tomorrow, after your first day of work.”

  “Have a great first day, honey,” says my dad. “And remember – ”

  “I know. I know. You only get one chance to make a first impression.”

  “That’s right. Knock them dead tomorrow,” says my dad with a grin. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I end the call. As I continue unpacking, my phone bleeps with another notification. I huff, assuming it’s my mom reminding me of something. But it’s actually a message from the video game app – a message from Beowulf845.

  “Can you meet in the blue room?”

  I hesitate and then reply, “Sure. Just give me ten minutes.”

  I unzip my book bag and take out my laptop. I start up my computer. I feel weird not telling Beowulf845 that I’m in LA. After all, we’re both living in the same city now. But that would mean meeting face-to-face. I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

  Chapter 7

  The last thing Nash felt like doing was meeting his dad for dinner. But his father happened to be visiting Los Angeles on business and wanted to discuss his son’s next move.

  “I set up a tryout with the Buccaneers on Wednesday of next week. Walter Michigan, the GM, is a buddy of mine from my 49er days
. He said he’s willing to give you a shot to see what you got.”

  Nash is starting to think that everyone who works in the NFL is his dad’s buddy. He looks down at his plate, clearly despondent.

  “I really don’t see the point, Dad. I’ve already tried out for three teams this year. They all passed.”

  “Well, maybe the Buccaneers will be the team that put you on their roster,” says his father. He takes a sip from his whiskey.

  “Don’t bet on it,” Nash responds with a sigh. He then slices his steak with a knife.

  “So, you’re just gonna give up. Is that it?”

  Nash sighs again. Then he puts down his fork and knife.

  “You don’t get it, Dad. I can’t throw anymore. Every time I throw a football, my shoulder kills.”

  His father nods. “I played through pain. I know.”

  Nash stares at his father, annoyed.

  “So, are you saying I’m not tough enough?”

  His father shrugs. “Maybe you need to work a little harder at your rehab.”

  “I’ve been rehabbing my shoulder for over two years,” Nash snaps back. “It’s shot. I’ve lost my accuracy. It’s not coming back.”

  “You sound like a quitter,” his father mutters.

  Nash picks up his steak knife. He clenches it, takes a deep breath, then sets it back down on the table.

  “Why are you even in LA, Dad?”

  His father has another sip of whiskey and eyes him.

  “I told you, I had a meeting with Fox Sports. They want me to audition for a football analyst job.”

  Nash laughs bitterly to himself. “The great Chuck Davis, Hall of Fame quarterback, now another talking head on TV.”

  Nash reaches for his whiskey and takes a sip.

  “At least I’m making moves,” his father insists. Then he leans back in his chair and stares at his son. “I don’t understand why you’re giving me an attitude when all I’m trying to do is help you out. If I hadn’t put a call into the GM myself, there wouldn’t have been a try-out for the Rams. Same thing goes for the Buccaneers. You’re getting these second chances because of me. So be a little fucking grateful.”

  Nash stares at his father, shocked.

  “Grateful?” Nash repeats.

  “That’s right, grateful,” says his father with a nod. “You’re the one who fucked up your future by getting in that car.”

  Nash, now visibly upset, leans forward. “It’s not like when I got in the car, I knew there was going to be an accident, Dad.”

  “But you should have had enough common sense to know your buddy, Tommy, was too drunk to drive. Nothing happened to him, not a scratch. But because of your poor judgement, you fucked-up your career. What were you doing out in the first place? You had the Michigan game that weekend.”

  Nash leans back and closes his eyes. He sighs deeply and shakes his head. “I’m not going over this again,” he mumbles. He opens his eyes and stares back at his dad. “It happened three years ago. It was a mistake. I guess you never made a mistake, Dad.”

  “Not one that cost me millions and millions of dollars,” replies his father. Chuck Davis then leans forward and points his finger at his son. “You threw away everything we’d been working toward when you got into that car. So, don’t give me an attitude because I’m trying to get you back on the football field. You’re going to Florida next week for that tryout with the Buccaneers. End of discussion.”

  Nash’s father then looks down at his plate and picks up his fork and knife. Nash watches quietly as his dad cuts his steak and takes a bite.

  Nash knows another tryout isn’t going to change the outcome. His football days are over. It’s time he – and his father – accept it.

  Nash gets up from his chair and throws his napkin on the table.

  “Where are you going?” asks his father, glaring at him.

  “You know what I always found rather strange, Dad?”

  His father takes another sip of whiskey as he looks at him. “Enlighten me.”

  Nash places his hands on the table and leans forward.

  “After the accident, when I was in the hospital for over a month, you never told me how grateful you were that I was still alive. You just started criticizing me for getting in that car.”

  Nash’s father shakes his head. “Give me a break. Of course I was grateful. Now, sit down.” He points to Nash’s chair.

  Nash shakes his head. “I’m not sitting down. The truth is: After the accident, the only thing that you were concerned about was my football career and carrying on the Davis’ legacy.”

  Nash can’t believe he’s finally verbalized something he’s been feeling for years. He’s always idolized – yet been slightly intimidated by – his father. Now he’s finally had enough. It’s time he spoke his mind.

  “Are you finished?” his dad asks.

  Not yet, Nash tells himself. He leans in closer, so his face is only inches from his father’s.

  “Dad, tell the Buccaneers to fuck themselves. I’m done playing football.”

  After seeing the look of shock on his dad’s face, Nash walks away from the table and leaves the restaurant.

  As Nash waits for the valet to bring his car around, his father steps out of the restaurant and approaches him.

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Nash tells him.

  His dad throws up his hands. “What’s the big plan here, Nash?”

  Nash doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have a plan. And it freaks him out. But one thing he knows for sure: football is no longer part of it.

  “Your arm just needs more repetition. It will get back to normal.”

  Nash rolls his eyes in disbelief and stares at his father. “It’s been three years. Face reality, Dad. I’m never going to be like you. I’m never going to be a quarterback in the NFL.”

  There’s a long moment of silence, as both men realize a truth they’ve been trying to avoid.

  “Why’d you have to get in that car?” Nash’s dad says softly.

  Nash has heard enough. Thankfully, at that moment, the valet comes around with his car.

  “Nice seeing you again. Say hi to mom.”

  Nash gives the valet a tip he can’t afford and steps into his Porsche. His father comes around to the driver’s side and taps on the window. Nash sighs as he slides the window down.

  “What?”

  His father reaches into his pocket and hands him a roll of money.

  “Take this. I don’t even know how you’re surviving these days.”

  Nash stares at the wad of cash. He’s broke but… “I don’t want your money,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Just take the money,” his dad insists, shoving the roll at him.

  Nash shakes his head again. “No.”

  He rolls up the car window. After taking a deep breath, he drives off. In his rear-view mirror, Nash sees his father standing in the parking lot, his hand gripping the roll of money.

  When he first arrived in LA, Nash would drive the streets at night to clear his head. Listening to music, he would gun his Porsche through the city of angels searching for solace. He still hasn’t found it. But after leaving his father in that parking lot, he decides to hunt for it once again.

  Nash slams his foot on the accelerator and whizzes down the highway. He takes the next exit and darts up the coast. A cool breeze is blowing in from the ocean. With the radio blasting, Nash wipes tears from his eyes. He feels like such a fuckin’ loser. He tried to act like a big man in front of his father. But it was all a front. He feels weak and scared. He doesn’t know where he’s going with his life. It feels like he’s drowning in the ocean, and there’s no lifeboat in sight.

  Nash veers his Porsche off the Pacific Coast Highway and shoots up a canyon road. Up in the hills, he sees a turnout, and suddenly pulls his car over. He stares through his windshield at the lights of Los Angeles below him. Everything is a blur. With his heart pounding in his chest, and the music blasting from the radio,
Nash realizes there’s nowhere to go. He sees no future for himself. He grips the steering wheel with both hands. Breathing heavily, he suddenly screams, and slams his foot on the accelerator. The Porsche shoots forward, heading straight for a cliff that drops into a deep ravine. As the edge of the cliff comes closer, Nash lets out a deafening scream. This is it! Game Over!

  But then – at the last second – right before the car is about to fly into the ravine – Nash turns the steering wheel. The Porsche does a 180 degree turn. A cloud of dust envelops the car. If he had a waited a second longer to turn the steering wheel, Nash and his car would’ve flown over the edge, tumbling into the darkness below. His death a certainty.

  Breathing heavily, and visibly distraught, Nash tries to gather himself. He can’t believe what just happened. He’s never attempted suicide before. The realization shocks him to his senses.

  I’m not a quitter, he mutters to himself. But what does he do now?

  Chapter 8

  In order to be on time for my first day of work, I get up at the crack of dawn. It takes me forever to find an outfit to wear. Since video game companies predominantly employ men, I want to wear something that is a little bit more slimming. That’s easier said than done considering my wide hips and pudgy belly.

  I slide into black comfy leggings and put on an asymmetrical printed drawstring blouse. I stare at my thunder thighs and cringe. I throw off the top and replace it with a purple frock dress. I glance down at my chest. My boobs are flowing over the top. As I peel everything off and start over, my frustration grows. I grab a pair of dark blue jeans and a white boho shirt. Feeling self-conscious about wearing white, I find my favorite fringe flyaway cardigan and put that on.

  As I check my reflection in the mirror, I let out a depressing sigh. I wish it were easier to get dressed every morning. There isn’t an outfit in the world that can hide the plain truth: I’m over-weight. And I’m pretty sure I’ll be the heaviest woman at my new job. That’s usually how it goes for me. Watch out: The fat girl just walked into the room. I shrug and gather my things before heading out.