by Lila Felix
“Thank you, Lyra.”
I waited until they left before approaching the beast. If only people could be as calm and loving in wake as they were asleep, this world would be a better place.
“Crown.” Good Lord, what a name. A spirit must’ve whispered to his mother, telling him what an entitled brat he would be so she could name him respectively. “Wake up before you get sunburned.”
The tattoo I’d thought was real on his forearm was now faded and chipped away on the edges. I rubbed my thumb over the emblem, some kind of energy drink, and it was sticky to the touch—a fake tattoo to go along with what more and more I suspected to be a fake attitude. Clutching his shoulder, I shook him again. “Crown, wake up.”
He shot up so fast I didn’t have time to move. Our foreheads collided violently and we both groaned in sync. It sounded like two bowling balls hitting each other on one of those retrieval machines.
“Shit! You hit me!”
Must he always be so loud? His voice was just naturally loud and it ground on my nerves.
“I didn’t hit you. I woke you up and you popped up out of that chair like a gator after chicken. I thought you were going to take me out.”
By this time, we were both rubbing our foreheads in pain.
“Why were you waking me up? I was fine.”
“You were going to get sunburned. It’s called help. It’s what friends do.”
The idiotitis was taking over. I’d just called myself this jerk’s friend. I couldn’t explain my way out of this corner if I wanted to. Compelled—that was the word. Something in the way he looked down after he said deplorable things—that moment of dissatisfaction I saw cross over his features when he looked out in daydream earlier.
Three blips of time I’d shared with Crown Sterling, and already I knew that his antics were a façade.
There’s more to Crown than just his shine.
“Crown Sterling doesn’t have friends. I have teammates and I have people who work for me. Which one of those are you?”
Scratch that, he was an asshole of magnanimous proportions. It was all I could do to quell the urge to flick him dead in the forehead I’d already managed to maim.
“Neither. Come to think of it, the best thing for you and I is to pretend the other doesn’t even exist.”
I smiled and almost cheered at myself for finally finding the right words to retaliate when someone said something nasty to me. Usually, I found them hours after the confrontation.
Except, the one time I found the words, it turned out I had really met my match. Crown braced his arms on either side of the chair and leaned forward. The wind carried his smell towards me. Yeah, he’d definitely had a shower. His ego probably wouldn’t let him admit how much better he felt.
I guessed most women would hold that against him, but I’d been in the same boat. Except, the people in my life loved me enough to carry me to the bathtub, strip me down and throw me in. They weren’t gentle or polite about it either.
The smell of just not giving a damn was one I knew well.
Now, he smelled and looked divine—too good.
And my burning curiosity about who he was beneath all that gleam was just too intriguing.
I didn’t know if it was the sun beating down on us or just the fact that a hot guy was in my kissing zone, but I was about to pass out from the heat. As a fresh wave of goose bumps broke along my arms as I studied his lips, those perfect, disproportionate lips.
“Yeah, Halo, like you could pretend I don’t exist. Let me know how that works out for you.”
On instinct, I tugged on the hem of my dress, making sure it wasn’t riding up. Seriously, the way everyone catered to him, I half expected it to rise up my thigh, beckoning to his call, the way the rest of the world did.
So far, it wasn’t working out well at all.
No, no, no!! I had to save face! He was a giant douche canoe who was paddling his way upstream to asshatland. This was unacceptable.
“It will work out fine.”
I got up, ignoring my dishes on the table and went into my apartment, slamming the door behind me.
Crown Sterling could kiss my ass.
~~
“What is Halo? I mean other than the angel thing?” Tippi was at my house the next day shaving carrots with the vegetable peeler.
“Halo? Like Master Chief?”
“What?”
She set the peeler down like explaining something to me was such an undertaking that she had to stop everything and take care of it.
“He kills aliens.”
“Halo is an Indian Chief who kills aliens? Where?”
“No, halos are the places where the Sentient life lives.”
Now I had to put down my knife. This was ridiculous.
“What in the actual heck are you talking about?”
I used heck. Our bet was still on and I wasn’t losing.
“You started it. You started talking about Halo and I explained. Since when do you play video games?”
She couldn’t be serious.
“Tippi, I don’t even own a television. Someone called me Halo and I asked what it was. Why are you talking about video games now? Focus!”
“I am focusing!” We had both been reduced to hysterical laughter by this point in the conversation and at that rate, I was sure dinner wouldn’t be done on time. “Halo is the name of a video game where this guy kills aliens!”
I looked down, searching for a reason Crown would call me an alien. The entire conversation was being held beneath labored laughing. Tippi was trying in desperation to speak clearly, but it came out all jumbled.
“I don’t look like an alien.”
“Who said you look like an alien? I’ll kick their as…butt ten ways to Sunday.”
I went back to cutting simply to have the rhythm of the knife pacify my frazzle. He thought I looked like an alien. Well, that’s just effing peachy because he looked like crooked royalty on a stick.
Crown—stupid assed name.
“Nobody. Talk about something else.”
“Let’s talk about Houston.”
I faltered in cutting for a split second. “So, these aliens…”
“No. You only get one subject change per conversation. He called me, you know.”
Shrugging was the only answer I was obliged to give to such a blatantly disgusting notion.
“He wanted to know what he did wrong.”
Houston had been fine. We’d dated for a couple of months but there was no spark. And call me crazy, but when a guy says and does all the right things, I didn’t find it attractive—I found it creepy. That probably made me deranged, but it was true.
He wasn’t the first one who’d done all the right things and said all the right words to pull the wool over the heads of entire towns at a time.
“He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ahhh…” Tippi stepped back from the island and swiveled her hips. “He didn’t do anything right either, huh? Huh?”
“You have an illness. Hurry up. All this talk of aliens and boys—we’ll never get done in time.”
She cleared her throat. “Hey, Lyra. I only spoke of one boy. Just so you know.”
Shit.
An hour later, the feast was ready. Almost in spite of the non-pasta eater on the other side of the wall, I cooked it all—pasta primavera, toasted ravioli, and bruschetta. It was a carb fest in spite of the king.
Eric and Chela showed up a few minutes early carrying the pinnacle of carbs, bread pudding.
We all sat down at my table and for a while enjoyed the conversation over glasses of wine. It didn’t last long.
“So, Lyra, Crown didn’t really seem like he knew how to cook.”
No! Not this again. Somehow this guy was managing to infiltrate every facet of my life. Just no.
“That’s why God made delivery.”
It was a cold answer, but even his name in the air around me pissed me off.
“Who is Crown?” Tipp
i. All I needed in the world was for Tippi to be set off again tonight.
“Can we please not talk about him?”
The table fell quiet. Great. Not only was this guy calling me an alien and squirming into my life uninvited, but now he was the topic of every fracking conversation.
“Well, we forgot to tell you, Lyra, we’re expecting a grandchild.” Chela broke through my thoughts with her usual chipper tone.
“That’s wonderful. When?”
“April. We are so excited, aren’t we Eric?”
Eric patted her hand, the status-quo, and smiled. “Yes, we are. Hope it’s a boy. Never did have a son.”
Again the company fell silent. I’d heard the lament in Eric’s voice once before when he talked about having three daughters, whom he loved very much, but at the same time he had wanted a son. I had five sisters and had also seen the same look in my father’s eyes. Then again, it was easier for me that way. With four other sisters to keep my parents’ attention, losing me wasn’t a big deal.
The rest of the meal went off without further hitch. I was on edge. All the constant disruption made me cautious of getting too comfortable in my place.
It felt like at any moment, Crown would make another ruckus.
That boy was nothing but ruckus.
Tippi stayed and helped me clean up after dinner. Eric’s keys were taken after Chela determined he’d had one too many that night. They contemplated checking in on Crown on their way out, but with all the lights off in his place, they changed their minds.
The door closed and I exhaled a long sigh. I loved my friends—I did. But silence was my best friend. No matter what happened, I could always be comforted by silence.
Chapter Seven
Crown
Television is brain numbing
Enough was enough. I’d seen enough lovers’ spats, paternity tests and crying parents, graciously hosted by Mr. Rogers looking men, to kill someone. And there was a trend of people running around on the TV naked, naked and surviving, naked and grocery shopping, and even naked and sewing. I loved a naked woman as much as the next guy, but seriously, enough was enough.
Especially when they blurred out all the good parts.
Finally this morning, I’d called Gina and Geraldo, going against my base nature, and both calls went to voicemail after ringing several times—which meant it was ringing on their end—it also meant they ignored the call and let it ring until it went to voicemail.
They couldn’t even do me a solid and hit ignore.
Let’s be honest here. They should be calling me. I should be pressing ignore on their calls.
The other thing that hadn’t escaped my notice—there was nothing on ESPN or the other sports networks about me—not even a whisper.
For the first time since my father died, I felt truly isolated. The notion tore through me like a nail through wood. Maybe I’d never really stopped feeling isolated—I’d just filled my days and my nights with constant work and entertainment—enough so that I didn’t notice or didn’t dwell on it.
But in that apartment, alone, with only the hum of the TV and music I couldn’t play to keep me company, I had no one to hide behind, nothing to entertain me, and my career was painfully on hold.
This is what I’d become. I was some lump of a person, getting skinnier and weaker by the second.
The day before, I’d attempted to do some push-ups, bound and determined not to lose every ounce of muscle mass. Somewhere after ten push-ups, dizziness set in and before I knew it, I was laid out on my stomach.
It took me nearly an hour to maneuver my way back to a standing position.
I just lay, flopped out like a drunk octopus, arms and legs everywhere, gasping for air.
At least I didn’t stink anymore.
When I got up, I half-expected cheers to come from—somewhere.
I missed the applause. When I admitted that to myself, the picture of that flagrant singer’s image singing about applause popped into my head.
I had to get back to the field, no matter what.
Even Matilda, my maid, would clap and said something in her native language when I did sit-ups in the house.
When I did something brilliant or even on the cusp of brilliant people effing cheered.
I was beginning to think that the worship I received at the hands of my fans and the people around me didn’t fuel me at all—maybe it ruined me.
I was ruined completely and totally. Every time I took a shit, I expected marching bands and serenades of hollering fans.
I’d been conditioned to expect it.
It ruined me for a normal life.
Is this what it would be like when I could no longer play?
When I retired from soccer, the game no longer exciting and my body no longer compliant, is this what life would be? Sitting around watching TV and waiting for something else to happen?
Slamming my head against the back of the couch, I contemplated taking an extra dose of pain meds just to get through another day.
They said I should rest—resting was good, right?
Just when I shook an extra pill into my hand, I heard a noise out back that sounded like a chorus of tents being put up.
Not that I’d ever gone camping—that wasn’t soccer.
After positioning the crutches, which now hurt more than helped, I walked to the backdoor to look at what chaos was occurring. This is what my life had been reduced to—the sounds outside were my new entertainment. I was like one of those old ladies who spies on their neighbors constantly.
At first, all I could see was blue. The noise continued as the blue flapped back and forth in the wind and then came to a rest, laid out on the grass, much like I’d been laid out the day before. Lyra’s hands smoothed the corners and relieved the tarp of its air bubble.
I’d already embarrassed myself more times with that woman than I’d embarrassed myself in my life. She’d seen me at my worst, in a wheelchair, almost falling over, and stinking to high heaven.
But so far as I’d seen—she was downright perfect. It was like goodness just seeped through her pores as if her blood was made of honey.
She was good at all the things I was miserable at. She knew how to talk to people. I had no clue how to carry on normal conversation with family or friends. I knew how to talk about soccer and myself—mostly myself.
Crown Sterling is excellent about talking about Crown Sterling.
But Lyra, even in her so-called comebacks, wasn’t quite mean. Sassy, always, but never mean.
I scooted to the side of the door so she wouldn’t see me. She took a while coming back, but when she did, she was moving a dresser toward the tarp using its corners to turn it back and forth, essentially letting the dresser walk itself to where she wanted it.
The thing was obviously old and stripped of whatever paint was once on it.
It was ugly as hell. Who would want something that ugly on the outside?
When she got it dead center on the tarp, she did a little shimmy wearing what looked like a dress made from someone’s curtains. Like she was proud of herself. It was white with roses all over it—a red collar was popped around her lithe neck. Her hair was all up in a tangle.
Why anyone would do a dance about a worn out dresser puzzled me.
I looked behind me at the empty apartment and sighed. I was stuck between two uncomfortable places. One, the place I was now, unwillingly, calling home—boring, silent and depressing. Two, outside with that girl that had seen more of my flaws than I’d ever shown anyone.
Before Lyra, I had no flaws that anyone could see.
Crown Sterling wasn’t weak.
Yet, she’d seen me at my weakest.
“Here goes nothing.”
Popping the lock on the screen door, I walked outside. She had a small towel, wiping down that dresser, looking like she cared about it—like it was a person.
I cleared my throat.
That was a typical conversation starter—right?
She looked up at me and then went back to her work.
“You don’t work?” It came out more of an accusation than a question.
“I work.” Lyra was working really hard not to talk to me. Stubborn—I liked it.
“You’re home all the time. You’re here now—on a Thursday morning.”
She rolled her eyes and began to remove the knobs on the drawers. “It’s Friday.”
“Doesn’t refute the point.”
She canted her head in my direction and popped one of her fists on her very proportionate hip. The sun glinted off the highlights in her hair, something I hadn’t noticed before.
“I’m sorry. This is a conversation friends have. Crown Sterling doesn’t have friends.”
I didn’t sound like that big of a douche when I called myself by my own name.
No, no, I didn’t.
“Maybe I’m trying new things.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to praise you for letting me be your friend. Please.”
Getting down on her knees, she began the task of cleaning the rest of the dresser and by the bunch of her eyebrows was taking into consideration my statement.
“Fine. Whatever. I work when I can, when I get jobs. My—gigs—are sometimes few and far between. In between jobs, I stay here. I have my friends and my hobbies to keep me busy. My goal in life is to be invisible, or at least well-camouflaged.”
It was my turn to be confused.
“Most people—work is most people’s life.”
She beamed a smile up at me. Not once had a woman ever smiled at me like that—enough to stop my lungs mid-breath and cause a flood of tingles through my worthless body. Her smile showed me everything she was. It touched her eyes and even her ears lifted with it. “Not me—work is just a paycheck to help me get to the next place in life. I love it, don’t get me wrong, but there’s too much to do in life to spend it working. I need more jobs, but I just take what I can get.”
Finally, with my breath back, I answered. “Like what—cleaning dressers?”
“I’ll have you know this is a vintage dresser that someone destroyed by coating it with a hideous color of paint never meant to cover up such fine craftsmanship. I’m not cleaning it—I’m refinishing it. Giving it new life.”