by Teagan Kade
“Because you’re so busy fucking your bat boys, right?” adds Phoenix.
I look around for something to throw at him, muscle memory, but the breakfast bar is surprisingly void of inanimate objects. “Wasn’t it you Mom caught watching a bit of guy-on-guy? When was that? Junior high?”
Phoenix throws his hands up. “Jesus, you lose your memory but you remember that. I was curious, man.”
“About the mechanics?” adds Nolan.
“Yeah. I was a kid.”
“You still are,” I muse.
The doorbell rings. “That’ll be Alissa,” says Nolan, rising to answer the door.
I exchange a look with Phoenix. We often do this, the twin telepathy thing that’s always freaked the Nolan and Peyton out. Once Phoenix ditched school to go bike riding. He broke his leg and I actually screamed out in the classroom, five miles away. We share a lot—too much, sometimes.
Alissa drifts into the room, a real eye-popper of a minidress today that’s basically a crop top the hem’s so high. Nolan puffs out his cheeks behind her, eyes flicking downwards.
Alissa smiles at me. “Isn’t it good to be home, Titus?”
“Sure,” I reply, not really used to Alissa doing much at all besides providing a necessary arm prop for my father’s many high-profile gatherings.
The doorbell rings again. “I’ll get it,” she says, darting off to the front door. Usually Alissa gives off an aloof, poltergeist-like air, but she seems overly excited today. Perhaps it’s because she has actual purpose for once.
She returns with the girl from the hospital. Mary? Makayla? Fuck knows if I can remember. I’d forgotten she was coming at all.
M-girl stands there with her hands awkwardly placed by her sides, a basic cream quarter jacket and jeans a size too big. She’s the very picture of plain. If she was ice cream, she’d be vanilla. If she was a book, she’d be Fifty Shades of Fucking Boring.
It’s not like she’s ugly. There’s probably potential tucked away behind that Kia exterior, but she ain’t going to get my dick hard standing still.
Nolan’s getting himself a good eyeful of her ass. He bobs his head in a ‘meh’ kind of movement behind her back.
“Titus, you remember Maya?” asks Alissa, drawing her forward to where I’m sitting.
I pop a slice of orange into my mouth. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Maya smiles. She looks nervous, like pee-your-pants nervous. I can practically see the way she’s vibrating on the spot.
Alissa pulls a folded series of papers from her handbag. I look at Phoenix in confusion, have no idea how she managed to origami them into a bag that small. She hands them to Maya. “I downloaded this standardized test last night, thought it might be a good starting point.” She hands it over.
Another look of confusion, this time from Nolan. I concur. Who would have thought Alissa had an actual brain? I thought her head was full of cotton candy.
“Thank you,” says Maya, still side-glancing me with a look I can’t place. It’s kind of weird.
“I don’t need it,” I tell them. “I remember that test. It’s bullshit. Elementary.”
“Well, you should have no problem with it then,” Alissa smiles. Holy shit, I think. It’s not just a brain. I think she might have grown an actual backbone, too. I get whack-a-moled in the head, sleep for four weeks and wake up in a parallel universe.
“Alright.” I shrug. “Fine.”
“Why don’t you two head upstairs,” Alissa says, smiling. “Get better acquainted.”
Phoenix whistles. “Ooo boy. You goin’ get lucky.”
He collects a flying shoe in the ribs from Nolan. “Fuck, man!”
Maya’s turning a deep flamingo pink.
I extend my hand. “Just give me the damn test, yeah? I’ll be done in twenty.”
She hands it over. I snatch it away and head into the study, closing the door and grabbing a pen.
I can hear them talking out there, the awkward beat of the poor girl’s voice as my brothers give her the full King grilling.
I answer the first couple of questions easily, but it soon becomes clear this is far from elementary. Answers I should know, basic answers, fail to materialize.
I slam the pen down in frustration. “Fuck!”
Painfully, I answer what I can and return to the kitchen, all four of them waiting anxiously.
“Alright,” I confess, “so I’ve got some gaps in my knowledge.” I throw the test down onto the breakfast bar. “You try copping a 70mph fastball to the head and see how you fare.”
Maya steps forward. “I can help. Please. I’m happy to.”
I really don’t need this, but I huff. “Fine. Fuck. Whatever. What else am I going to do?”
Alissa loves that. She claps her hands together. Does she think she’s playing match matcher here or something? “Great!”
I start to head upstairs, flicking my head at Maya. “Come on then. It’s more comfortable in my room.”
Miraculously, Phoenix keeps his mouth shut.
I head into my room and take a seat at the desk, clear what space I can. Maya drags a chair over from the corner, almost like she’s been here before.
“So,” I begin, tapping the desk, “where do you want to start?”
And damn her, she’s giving me that weird-ass look again. I don’t know what she thinks is going to happen here. I get it. She was a safe choice. She’s not going to tempt me looking like Mother Teresa. Kind of smart of Alissa, actually.
She pulls a notebook from the satchel she brought with her. It’s of the simple tan leather variety, non-intrusive and safe. I can’t imagine her closet if full of Fendi. “I had a friend of yours log me into your Crestfall account, pull what I could from the syllabus. I thought we could start with biomathematics, maybe linear models?”
I tap the desk a little louder. “Whatever you like.”
She slaps on a smile, brushing her hair behind her ear, finger remaining at the back of it for a beat too long.
“Look,” I tell her, hoping to straighten things out here, “if you’re thinking this is going to turn into some kind of hot-for-teacher situation, that you’re going to have me fucking you against the wall here before lunch, you’re mistaken. You’re not my type.”
I expect her to brush this off, but her eyes go glassy, her face frozen and pale.
“Did you hear me? What?” I press. “You’re the goody-goody type who wants commitment. It’s written all over you. I don’t do that. That much I can remember. Like I said, you’re just not…” I let it linger realizing she’s close to bawling.
Maybe she really did think that’s what was going to happen here, but I don’t want to have her under any illusion. It’s easier for the both of us this is sorted here and now.
I speak slow. “Do. You. Understand?”
She nods and stands up abruptly. “I’ve got to use the bathroom,” she blurts out, running off to the hall.
“It’s on your right,” I shout, but she’s already gone.
The hell? I think. It’s not the first time I’ve provoked this kind of reaction, but something about this is nagging at me. It’s off, not that I expected anything about being home to be normal. I’ve been lying in a hospital bed for the last four weeks for fuck’s sake.
When Maya returns, looking far less stricken, she seats herself and places a worksheet before me. “Sorry about that.”
Guilt starts to prick at me, to dig its bony fucking finger right into my side. “Look, I’m sorry, okay. But I have to be honest. I can’t apologize for that.”
“I know,” she smiles, directing me back to the worksheet. “Here, these predictive models will be a good place to start. You think you can handle that?”
I take up the pen. “Piece of cake.”
Turns out said models are not a piece of anything I can handle. I struggle, growing increasingly frustrated with myself for not being able to put the simplest of concepts together. It’s like my brain’s turned into Swiss cheese, full of holes and missing p
ieces.
And I fucking hate it.
An hour in and I can’t take any more. Maya’s trying to be patient, more than she should, but it’s not working.
I smash the pen down, two fingers pinching the middle of my forehead. “I’m done.”
“We can go back to the original datasets if you like, find something more appropriate?”
My brain hurts. I’m talking a physical, drum-beating pain that’s set up shop somewhere between my ears that sure as hell wasn’t there two hours ago.
I stand, two hands on my head and pace around the room, not that it’s doing any damn good. “I said I’m done.”
“Ah…” she starts.
“You can see your own way out.”
I ignore her stunned expression, stand and head downstairs, determined to get some fresh air, but Phoenix stops me at the bottom of the stairs. “Whoa there, brother. Where are you off to looking like the Grim Reaper?”
“Anywhere but here. What are you, the fun police?”
“Ah, yeah, because orders were no hard, flying objects at your head.”
“You and Nol have been throwing shit at me all day.”
“At your body, not your head, bro.”
“I’m still going,” I tell him.
Phoenix rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. You can’t be doing that shit, and you’re not going out there alone, also doc’s orders.”
I’m searching around for my cell, know I left it down here somewhere. “So come with.”
“I’ve got practice,” he says, “and Nolan’s gone.”
I find my cell and pocket it. “I’ll go alone then.”
I try to dodge around him, but he blocks my path again, a hand on my chest. “I said can’t allow it.”
“Phoenix, man…”
“Seriously,” he says, firmer than I’ve heard him in, well, forever. “You are not going out there by yourself.”
“I can go with him.”
We both turn to see Maya descending down the stairs, her twenty-dollar satchel over her shoulder.
“You’re still here?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
Phoenix is eyeing me hard and I’m too tired to argue.
I look to Maya. “Come on then.”
She stops for a moment, seems reluctant, but then something else comes over her. Again, I can’t place it, but she’s confusing the fuck out of me. I mentally note to grill my brothers on her later, see where her fixation on me might have originated from.
She basically skips down the stairs. It’s like being followed around by a puppy, but whatever, I need to get out. If I’m trapped here much longer with Dumb and Dumber I’m worried I’m going to slip back into a coma.
If I have to bring Driving Miss Daisy with me to please Dear Brother, so be it.
She’s still aloof when we step aside. “You up for a drink?” I ask her.
She’s blushing so hard she’s basically a fire blanket. “I could go for a water.”
“Fuck water,” I laugh.
“What do you suggest?”
All I have to do is smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAYA
We arrive at the Steam Room just when it’s starting to fill up with the after-college crowd keen to relax after a long day of study. Unlike most college bars, almost everyone is wearing a jersey or a uniform, shin pads and pencil-pleated skirts fresh from tennis courts or volleyball or one of the ten-thousand other sports they do here at Crestfall. Obesity simply doesn’t exist here. It’s the Body Issue come to life. Not a big self-esteem booster if you’re out of the fold.
I follow Titus closely into the throng of bodies gathered near the bar. Everyone knows him. Everyone stops to say hi or clap him on the back, offer some quick jibe about his head injury—common knowledge around campus.
I’ve been here once or twice, but never with Titus. We always did quieter activities together. I suddenly realize how odd it was we spent most of our time hanging at my apartment where we’d never be interrupted or caught by his brothers. We were keeping a low profile, which yeah, probably added to the excitement of it all.
Could you take him there? I ask myself. To your apartment? Maybe that will jog his memory.
But I don’t know if I’m ready for that, how I’d even broach the subject. ‘Oh, hey? Want to go to my place?’
‘What for?’ would come the inevitable reply.
‘Milk and Oreos?’
Yeah, not going to work.
And then I realize something else—something that’s never occurred to me before: was he ashamed of me? Is that why he wanted to keep our relationship quiet, to avoid comments, keep me out of the spotlight?
Then I remember how sweet and attentive he was, the Titus no one else ever got to see, and I don’t think that could be true. But hey, what do I know about anything right now? Everything is new and turned inside-out and utterly terrifying.
Titus finds us a small table in the middle of the room. People churn around us, but Titus doesn’t seem concerned in the least. He’s used to this. It’s his territory.
He nods to the bar. “What will you have, and don’t you dare tell me H20.”
“I suppose a Shirley Temple is out the question?”
“Not unless Shirley started adding vodka to it.”
“I’ll just have what I always have,” I say, quickly realizing he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about, that we only drank together and not in public. “Sangria,” I finish.
He slaps the table and stands. “One jug of sangria. Comin’ up.”
“Wa—”
But he’s already gone.
I watch him shift effortlessly among the beautiful people. He points at one guy, winks at another, making what I’m pretty sure is a jerking-off sign at yet another, who laughs and retorts with what I think is a physically impossible sex act.
The waifish bartender smiles when she sees him, nodding enthusiastically and laughing loud enough to be heard over the Nashville rock pounding from the speakers.
Titus is still smiling when he returns to the table with the jug of sangria and two glasses, placing them down and pouring. “When in Rome…”
He sits and drinks, offering me a glass. I take it and do likewise, admiring the carefree way he holds himself in here, the happiness that’s filled up his entire being the moment we walked through those doors. I’m only disappointed I’ve failed to illicit the same response.
He’s watching me closely. Those sapphire eyes that seduced me, a playful glint beyond. “So, what do you do for fun, Maya… besides trying to crack the Navier-Stokes equations?”
“The great what-happens-when-your-stir-cream-into-your-coffee math problem? I’m surprised you remember.”
He shrugs. “Fluid dynamics are hot. Come on.”
I can’t help smiling because suddenly this feels like we’re back to normal, bantering back and forth. “I suppose some math is sexy, but don’t you even start trying to dream up examples.”
Titus leans back, so casual and relaxed and perfectly placed here. “I had this math teacher in junior high, Ms. Macarthur, but we used to call her ‘The Rat’ on account of her front teeth.” He brings his hands up to his chest. “But she had these breasts, these bazookas that were just fucking insane. If she was near you and had to turn in a hurry she could damn near take your head off.”
I’ve heard this before. “So your large-chested junior high math teacher was the person who got you into mathematics? Is that where you’re going with this?”
“No, that was Sesame Street, but that ‘They Did the Math’ subreddit was pretty popular back in high school.”
Again, I’ve heard this, but it’s nice to hear him opening up and enjoying himself. “You mean the one where they ask weird math questions like, ‘How many miles of penis has Jenna Jameson received in her porn career?’”
He smirks. “That’s the one, and the answer was 6.14 miles if I recall.”
“So you can’t do these basic college equations but you r
emember that?”
He folds his arms, shirt straining against his biceps. “Alright, I see the irony, but come on, tell me you’ve never checked it out.”
“Because I was curious how many years of masturbating it would take to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool?”
Titus’s smirk starts to break. “I believe it was 951 years—once per minute without stopping for food or sleep.”
“Bet you could do it in twenty.”
It’s more risqué than anything I’ve said to him yet, and I’ve seemingly forgotten he doesn’t know we’re in a relationship, but he reels back all the same. “Maya, Maya, Maya… And here I was thinking you were a prude.”
God, I’m blushing so hard. If it was any brighter in here the whole place would know. “I am not your stereotypical mathematician. Besides, don’t you think there’s something innately rebellious about applying elegant, beautiful math to something so crude as the act of sexual intercourse?”
“It doesn’t have to be crude,” he smiles.
I know, I think, casting my mind back to a better time.
I need more sangria—pronto.
I reach for the jug, but he places his hand on mine, sliding it away.
“Allow me.”
It’s the first physical contact we’ve had since the accident. It sets my skin on fire, pure need pulsing between my legs.
“You didn’t tell me where your interest in math comes from, by the way,” he says, pouring.
We’ve been through this before, but I humor him. “My father, actually. He was a brilliant man.”
“Was?”
It’s like a stab wound right in my chest, but I prevent myself falling apart, swallowing hard before speaking. “He died a few years ago—heart attack.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
It’s exactly what Titus said the first time I told him. “He had a BS with a double major in math and physics, an MS in Nuclear Engineering and a PhD in computational chemistry.”
“You’re telling me your father was Albert Einstein?”
Same joke. I feel like I’m in a parallel universe.
Keep cool, I remind myself. “Well, he didn’t have a 1,427-page FBI file, or an illegitimate baby… I hope.”
“Einstein also paid his first wife his Nobel Prize money for a divorce, you know.”