by Haley Pierce
“God, that was his life,” Abby says, shaking her head. “He must be devastated.”
One would have thought, I think. But remarkably, he hadn’t spoken about football at all. He’d thrown himself right into fixing up the auto shop, almost as if the part of his life that had consumed him for so long never existed at all. It’s enough to make me think that maybe he was serious when he said that if he had me, football didn’t matter. “He’s okay.”
Abby raises an eyebrow. “And so are you two together?”
I swallow. In high school, we’d made out in his car and behind the bleachers for months and months before we’d come out as a couple. Mostly because we were both young, and cautious, and afraid to admit to anyone else that we cared about each other. That’s why it probably feels easier for me to keep it on the down low. I feel like admitting it will be jinxing the whole thing. “We’re just friends,” I say.
God, I do sound so high school.
“So you’re not tapping that again?” Her eyebrows do a suggestive wiggle. “What the hell is wrong with you, girl?”
As close to me as Abby is, I’ve never told her about my virginal status. Abby just assumed Silas and I were physical. It seemed like something she wouldn’t understand, since she’s been having sex since at least her sophomore year of high school. I’ve always had to listen to her talk about things I couldn’t understand, nodding dumbly at all the right times. Now, I want to tell her about Silas, about all the sex we’ve been having, but it feels like betraying him.
And we’ve been having a lot of sex. Making up for lost time, I guess. But god, I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed. Whenever I try to talk about the future, though, Silas just corners me, putting his mouth on mine, making me forget my own name.
“No,” I say, and repeat, for emphasis, “Just friends.”
She shakes her head. “That is an awful waste of a perfectly god-like man.”
After the lunch rush, as I stop over at the auto shop on my way home. Truthfully, for the past week, I’ve only planned on a pit stop but end up staying there all night, then only going back to my apartment in the morning for a fresh change of clothes. Silas always jumped into things without looking, and sometimes, it got him burned, but this time, he’s taking his time with fixing up the place. When I look around, the house is a sty, and he hasn’t even really gotten to the auto shop yet.
He’s not there when I arrive. There’s a note on the door. “Went to the hardware store. Be back soon.”
That’s good. There’s a busted window in the living room he’s been saying he’d fix. I take the note off and push open the door. Bradys Bend has always been a place you can live without worrying about locking up, and it seems Silas hasn’t forgotten that.
The kitchen is much cleaner now, and with my help, I’ve added some homey touches. I put a lot of my parents’ things in storage, so a couple days ago, we’d gone through it and taken what he needed, replacing the old kitchenette set with our nice pine table and chairs. Silas felt bad about taking too much, even though I told him he could have it all. The cabinets are still in bad shape, the linoleum still crusted with dirt from years of use, but it’s starting to look like a home.
There is an envelope on top of the table. It has one word on the front: Genevieve, written in Silas’s sloppy block print.
I open the flap and pull a yellow post-it note out first. It says, I know you wouldn’t do this on your own, so I sent some of your articles in to the editor of the Brady Times.
My jaw drops. My face starts to heat.
I read further:
Your first column is due Monday. You’re welcome. - S
I stand there, frozen, for what seems like forever. Then I reach into the envelope and pull out a piece of paper, folded in thirds. It’s written on the Brady Times’ stationery, and says:
Dear Ms. Wilson:
We very much enjoyed the pieces you sent over. You have a good sense of humor and we enjoyed your perspective of life in the Bend very much. Would you be willing to write a weekly column for us of 3,000 words? If so, we can pay you $200 each.
My eyes scan down to the signature at the bottom: Edward Morton, Editor.
Oh, my god. I think, over and over again. Silas had shown my work to someone. I don’t even know what pieces, but it must have been some of the articles I’d written at UPenn, the ones my journalism professor had hated. That should have mortified me, but . . . this person, this Edward Morton, liked it. Someone actually liked what I wrote.
I clutch the paper to my chest, planning to frame it. Then I look at it again. And again. No matter how many times I read it, I can’t believe it. I don’t know how long it is before Silas’s truck pulls up behind my car, and I hear him climbing the steps.
I explode out of the screen door and launch myself into his arms, kissing him hard. “Whoa, tiger,” he says, catching me. “Or should I say, esteemed columnist of the Brady Times?”
When I back up, I punch him, hard, in the massive muscle of his bicep. I think it hurts my knuckles more than it does him. “That’s for taking my articles without my permission.”
He shrugs. “Well, you’re so fucking stubborn.”
I go back into the kitchen and study the letter again. “And you know that paper’s a rag.”
“You’ll make it Pulitzer worthy, I’m sure.” He leans against the wall and studies me. “So you’re not pissed at me?”
“No. I owe you one.”
He rubs his stubble-covered chin. “I can think of ways you can pay me back.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Not that.”
Ever since our first time, it’s been a constant back and forth. Him wanting to go down on me, me making up excuses why he can’t. And yes, I’m afraid of all the other women he’s been with. Sex is one thing, but that seems all the more personal. As much as he begs me, I can’t possibly understand how he could enjoy it. I can’t imagine that he would get anything out of it.
He pulls me to him, kissing me lightly. “You’re so fucking hot, and sexy, and I want to be with you completely.”
“One day,” I tell him. “If you play your cards right, I promise, one day, you will.”
I kiss him again, long, slow, sucking his lower lip into my mouth, teasing him with my tongue. Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking of it: Someone likes something I wrote. One of his hands roves under my sweatshirt, to my bra clasp, and as usual, he’s able to squeeze it and release it with one-handed, in one try, a far cry from the way he’d spent most of our Saturday nights trying to work out its mysteries when we were in high school. I groan as his warm hand moves to my front, finding my tit, the sensitive nub of my nipple, and then . . .
I freeze. “Oh, my god.”
He stops kissing me and looks into my eyes, which are now wide with terror. “What?”
I push him away and look at the letter. Sure enough, it’s there, in black and white. “My first article of three-thousand words is due Monday. Monday.”
He’s still staring at me, breathing hard. “So?”
“That’s the day after tomorrow!” I shout at him, waving the paper in his face. “How am I supposed to write three-thousand words of an article in less than two days?”
“Your big brain will figure it out.” He reaches for me. “You have all day tomorrow.”
I skirt out of his way, starting to hyperventilate. “No. I have to work all day tomorrow! Oh, god, I don’t even know what to write about.”
“Calm down,” he says, as I finally let him pull me into a hug. I need the support because my knees might give out if I don’t. “We’ll figure something out.”
I shake my head, then shake him free. “What I really need to do is go home. Now. And start writing.”
“Okay. Wait. Calm down. I have the solution,” he says. He takes my hand, leading me to the kitchen chair. He sits me down, even though every pore in my body wants me to rush home and fire up my laptop. Actually, right now, I think I might want to just climb under my bed and
hide. How can I do this?
“What?” I ask him, hoping he has the magic answer.
“I’ll cover your shift for you,” he says.
I start to stand. That won’t work on so many levels.
“No, listen. I can handle it,” he says, nudging me back into the chair. “Billy knows me. He’ll let me do it. It’ll be fine.”
“Sunday lunch is the busiest, though. Have you ever waited tables?”
He shrugs. “How hard could it be?”
I point at his boot. “But you . . . how . . .”
“Aw, fuck that. I can do anything in this. You've seen me.” He winks.
I don’t have much of a choice. And Silas is almost inhuman in his precision, and doesn’t do much wrong. Billy loves him like a son. Yes, this could work. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, girl. Don’t sweat it.”
I pop out of the chair and dodge his reaching arms, heading for the door.
He lets out a long, low breath, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Let me guess. You need to get started right away?”
I nod. Then, feeling guilty, since he’s given me so much, I rush up to him, kissing him. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, girl,” he says, as I hurry out the door.
Silas
Forget what I’d thought about waiting tables being a breeze.
By the time I get done with Genevieve’s lunch shift, I want to fucking put a bullet in my brain.
A few people recognize me and want to pose for selfies with me or get my autograph. But that’s far outweighed by the number of people who just want me to get their lunch orders right, or deliver their drinks before I bring their fucking food. I have to figure out change for a twenty in my head, and bring towers of Blastin’ Onion Rings to people while resisting the urge to eat them.
Which, fuck it, I’m not Houdini.
Also, apparently, I’m not Genevieve.
For the past week, I’ve been doing everything possible to make up for the lie. Everything. The surgery is coming up in a week, and she still has no idea I’m going back. So I sent her stuff in to the Brady Times, volunteered to work this shift for her. It doesn’t stop me from feeling anymore like shit. She keeps thinking I’m fixing up the auto shop to stay there. That that will be my life. But it can’t be. The only reason I’m here, now, is for her.
For the golden pussy.
I’m a fucking asshole. But I knew that already.
I spend most of the time limping from table to table, fielding angry glares from people whose orders I screwed up. People complain, and of course, any time they do, I know it’s because of me. How is it possible that I can do everything right on the football field but can’t do a single thing right in this shithole restaurant?
When three o’ clock rolls around, I want to get down on my knees and praise God. I rip off my apron as Genevieve comes inside, looking like an oasis I want to drink from. “Hey,” I say to her, trying to stuff all the guilt I’m feeling away. “How goes it?”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded stack of papers. “I think I’m done.”
I throw my apron down. Fuck, yes. This is a cause for celebration. And I know just how to celebrate. When I haven’t been feeling like a dirty asshole, the only other thing that’s consumed my mind is the thought of being inside her. Billy scoops the apron off the bar and says, “Boy, if you ever want to work for me again, let me know in advance. Because I’ll go out back and kill myself first.”
I grin at him and salute. “Yes, sir.”
Abby crosses her arms as I take Genevieve’s hand, ready to lead her outside. “So wait. Are you guys together then?”
Genevieve looks at me, then smiles, and nods. “Yeah.”
Inside, I feel like shit. It’s a big step for her to admit that, after what I did to her in high school, making her into the butt of a joke. When I leave, it’ll be the same thing, again. I wince, but manage a smile.
Abby smiles. “Cool. So you’re not going back to Pittsburgh?”
I shake my head and look away.
She points at my cast. “What about that?”
“I have an appointment with a local orthopedic surgeon tomorrow. But it’s because I can get the cast-off.”
Now it’s Genevieve’s turn to look at me. When we step outside, she punches me in the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me about your appointment? I could go with you.”
I shrug.
“I can tell you feel bad about your ankle, Silas. But you don’t have to be embarrassed by it.”
I suck in a breath. “I’m not. I hate disappointing fans,” I say, shaking my head. “When I told Billy, he was so upset I think he really could’ve gone out in back and shot himself.”
“Well, you have a reason. The surgery is too risky. Did you tell him that?”
I shake my head. “Nah. No point.” Change the subject. “Let me read this awesome article of yours.”
We wander out back, hand in hand, to the old picnic tables, surrounded by woods. As we walk, I reach over and grab the paper from her hands.
“So this is it?”
The picnic table was once painted red, but now it’s almost completely chipped away, and nothing but splinters. She sits down carefully and nods, lounging back, elbows on the table. “I’m not sure if it’s good, though.”
I scan the first paragraph, which is about a trip to the Bend Market with her mom when she was a kid. Goddamn, this girl can write circles around anyone. I stand up on the bench, then take another step so I’m standing on the top of the table, looking down over her. “It’s good.”
“You think you could see it in the Brady Times, though?”
I crouch down so that I’m hovering just above her face. “Yeah. Don’t change a word. Send it.”
She looks up at me and smiles. “You didn’t even read the whole thing.”
“Don’t have to. You’re amazing.” Gazing at her, I tuck a stray hair behind her ear and kiss her. “And fucking hot as hell. I could do you right here.”
She looks around, embarrassed. “Keep it in your pants, please.”
It wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. There’s nothing telling me to slow down. When it comes to her, it’s all systems go. I want to dive right into this, all barrels blasting. And she wants to take her time. After four years of making me wait. I suck in a breath, trying to be thankful for the progress I’ve made so far. Even if it is all a fucking lie, I’m going to get my fill of Genevieve before I leave here next week.
“All right,” I say.
“You’ll let me come with you to the doctor tomorrow?”
Fuck it. I can’t say nowhere she’s concerned. I’ll make up an excuse to keep her in the waiting room. “Okay.”
She reaches up and taps my boot. “So you’re getting this off?”
“You’ll be able to undress me a lot faster now.” I wink at her. “I know that’s your prime concern.”
“Oh sure it is,” she says.
I hand her the paper, then do a flip off the back of the table, nailing the landing on my good foot, in the grass. I bow for applause as she raises an eyebrow at me. Of course, Genevieve is never impressed, and doesn’t offer me any applause. She just shakes her head at me.
“You’d better watch out before you break the other foot,” she says.
Geni
I smile as I look down at the email from Edward, the editor of the Brady Times. We’re in the F250, on our way to Butler, a town about twenty miles south of Bradys Bend, where the closest orthopedic surgeon in the area has an office. Silas is drumming along on the steering wheel. He has the windows cracked despite the cold October weather, and is playing a song by Luke Evans at an eardrum-bursting level, but I can’t say I hate it. The truck may be flashier, and the people inside a little older, but other than that, it’s like high school, when all the world was just waiting for us.
“He likes the column,” I say, hugging my phone to my chest. “He says it’s exactly what he was looking for. He wants
me to write more.”
“Of course he does,” Silas says as we pull into the professional office complex across the street from the Butler Hospital. We pull into a spot. “You don’t have to go in with me.”
I look at him like he has three heads. “Well, I’m not going to sit out here.”
We go to the third floor, to a door with a placard for Dr. John F. Bruges, Doctor of Orthopedic medicine. I’m not sure why that sounds familiar to me. When we get inside, the doctor calls him in at once. I start to follow him when he stops me. “Can you wait out here?”
I study him, as it dawns on me. He doesn’t want to appear weak in front of me. And if he experiences any pain, he doesn’t want to show it to me. “You don’t have to worry what I’ll think.”
He smiles, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know. I know. But I just want to do this on my own.”
“All right,” I tell him, sitting back down and grabbing a People magazine off the coffee table. “I’ll just be out here, then.”
After two hours, yes, two whole hours, of reading up on every celebrity known to man, getting a great recipe for stuffed chicken from Country Living, and discovering how to shape my eyebrows easier a la Glamour, the door finally opens, and Silas steps out.
He’s chatting with the young, pretty nurse, who’s leaning forward, batting her eyelashes. She’s laughing really hard, too, as if he’s the funniest man on earth. A flash of jealousy spikes in me. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him with another woman since he’s been in the Bend, but it is the first time since we’ve had sex. I can’t think about that last year, when I’d dumped him before he went off to UCLA. Or of Erica Lindley. It was that jealousy, that out-of-control fear that I’d lose him, that led to our demise.
I frown at the woman as I stand up, shifting my attention to Silas. The boot is off, so that’s a good sign. “Well?”
He does a smooth little spin as he comes up close to me. The damn boy could always dance better than anyone, like a damn Michael Jackson. His body has moves that could defy gravity, and then some. I cross my arms, remembering that last day. The last day I ever spoke to him, before he left town. His senior prom.