by Xavier Neal
I struggle to keep the grip on her hair.
I struggle to get air back into my lungs.
I struggle to ignore the increasing ache in my back.
Being with Lenny this way wins over any level of agony that my body has the balls to throw at me. I don’t give a fuck if it means I don’t walk right for the next two days or have to actually use the pain pills or even start physical therapy again. This woman is worth giving everything I have and everything I am to. That’s a fact that’ll never change whether we end up being more than this shit or not.
Chapter Six
Lennox
“Do you plan to actually eat any of that mustard or just wear it?” Gideon grouses.
I finish smacking on the bite of the ballpark hotdog currently in my mouth before overdramatically licking the lost yellow condiment off my thumb.
“That’s disgusting.”
A small laugh slips loose at the same time I dip my index finger in the paste. Immediately afterwards, I turn to my best friend and attempt to smear it along his top lip. “How about you wear it too?”
He doesn’t hesitate to block and dodge.
See, here’s the problem with having a boyfriend who is not only well acquainted with sports, but really good at playing them. He can bob and weave like fucking Ali.
Oh shit…
Did I say boyfriend?
I didn’t mean boyfriend.
I meant, guy friend who I’m almost boning and wish was in love with me…When are they gonna come up with a term for that shit? Bonefriend? Wovefriend? Bowovefriend?
“Stop it, Lenny,” Gideon grumpily grumbles. “You’re gonna make me spill my beer.”
“Then just sit there and let it happen.”
He swats away my hand, the look on his face teetering between disapproval and amusement. “Do you have any idea how offensive that sounds?”
“Shut up.” I lightly chuckle without abandoning my efforts to paint his face. “You know you love this.”
“Again.” Gideon catches my wrist. “Very Law & Order SVU of you to say.”
My leg bumps into his causing the beer to slosh around his plastic cup.
“Hey!” He releases his hold to rearrange his beverage, and I use the opportunity to sneak strike his lip. Unfortunately, I barely get more than a small line near his nose. “Damn it, Lenny!”
Another snicker slips into the hot summer air surrounding us. “It’s like a baby Hitler mustache.”
His glower deepens.
“I was going to go for more of Mr. Monopoly thing, but fuck it.” I return to munching on my hotdog. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Gideon mumbles his irritation, snatches a spare napkin from my lap, and begins to clean the area. “That shit can dye your facial hair if it sits too long.”
“You don’t want blonde highlights?”
He narrows his vision.
“Guess you wouldn’t look like your profile pic then…” Seeing an opportunity to make a segue, I finish up the last of my favorite baseball food and take it. “And now that you brought it up-”
“You brought it up.”
“How was your breakfast date this morning with Hannah, the successful entrepreneur, whose hobbies included a love of knitting?” My eyes dart back to the field where the other team’s up to bat. “She manage to crotchet her name on your heart?”
Please, God let the answer be no.
I mean yes.
No…I mean no.
As much as I don’t want to work at some soul sucking job that will inevitably feel like another prison, I don’t want him to fall for someone else more. I honestly don’t even want to keep tempting him with women who possess actual potential to be a good match. I keep rehearsing speeches where I tell him we should just forget about this shit and give us a shot, but they always come out jumbled and end with the imaginary version of him telling me good joke or good game, not taking my word rambles seriously. Therefore, I want him to tell me this deal is stupid, and that we’re stupid for continuing to do it, and then kiss me like his life depends on it…Which is the only way he kisses me. Every time it’s happened, it feels as if he’s trying to pour his soul, his entire reason for existence into me. It’s overbearing. Overwhelming. But, most importantly, overzealous. He’s never phoning it in.
Those are the worst kisses.
I’d know.
I’ve endured and delivered equal amounts of them.
After watching the player completely miss the ball, Gideon answers, “You should just give up now.”
My head snaps in his direction in curiosity.
Is this real?
Is he about to give me some heartfelt speech secretly written by Karen McCullah and Kirsten Smith, the women who wrote the classic 10 Things I Hate About You, that more or less wraps up the whole movie?
Is there about to be a music cue followed promptly by a kiss and credits rolling?
“You really are awful at matchmaking.”
So…nope.
Not time to release the doves or breathe easier.
Defensively, I bite back, “I’m not awful. No soy.”
“If it were baseball, this would’ve been your third strike, and this whole thing would be over.”
Yes, and if we were normal adults instead of two stubborn ones, we’d sit down and wade through the difficult discussion of what’s happening between us rather than just writing it off as two best buds borrowing a little friction in the sheets.
“The date was a disaster.”
Score!
“Is that like the only word in your vocab?”
“It was an atrocity.”
“Oh…Way to knock that one out of the park. Unlike the Bayridge Bears.” My head motions to the game. “I thought they were having a great season.”
“The Highflyers are having a better one.”
I smirk at the retort and reach for my own beer that I placed near my feet while eating.
Despite the old saying regarding baseball being the best American sport, it’s one I tolerate more than enjoy. Up until a few years ago when Gideon became an agent, I always just changed the channel. My father is a die-hard basketball fan along with both of my brothers. Never really understood the appeal of this game or the need for the long-ass innings. Even Gideon had to grow to love it, which progressed without real resistance. Sports and all things sports-related come natural to him. Memorizing regulations, legends, current players, and stats is all second nature. I like to think sports are his first language and English just the one he learned to convey his love affair with them. Baseball is still something I find incredibly boring, but live games are much more enjoyable than watching it at home. Plus, I live for ballpark hotdogs, cotton candy, and ice-cold beer on a hot summer day. The team jerseys we’re gifted every year to wear like super fans are just a fun, flashy bonus. Although, from the way Gideon keeps glaring at mine, I take it he’s not particularly thrilled with the way I’ve bunched it to one side giving it a sexier look. As much as I wish it were to tempt him into taking me to the parking lot and finger-banging me in the front seat of his Escalade, it’s only something I do to keep cool. Kinda like sporting the baseball cap on my head. Then again, if that was really to keep my face from overheating, I’d wear it frontwards instead of with a Fresh Prince of Bel Air twist.
Gideon loudly proclaims, “Hannah was a crazy cat lady.”
The comment causes me to meet his stare again.
“Not exaggerating.”
“She’s an animal lover.”
“No, she’s an animal hoarder. Twelve cats is too many.”
“¿Doce?” My voice squeaks. “Did she think they’d be cheaper by the dozen?!”
Gideon chuckles and has a sip of his beer.
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No.” He wedges the cup back between his legs. “I saw pictures of all doce. Just listening to her name them had me feeling like she was gonna skin me in the diner bathroom to make a human rug for her precious
es.”
Cringing is the only response I can muster up.
“Oh! And she was ten minutes late because her pet sitter was running behind, and she couldn’t leave her babies unattended.”
“They’re los gatos…Don’t they watch themselves?”
He shrugs. “You would think.”
“Okay, so aside from her love of cats-”
“Hoarding.”
“-why else wasn’t it a match?”
“Putting aside the disgusting amount of animal hair she was covered in that also fell into her food to which I then watched her eat,” he describes with an appalled expression. “There was no…chemistry.”
My fingernail momentarily lands between my teeth.
“She was…painfully shy. I had to ask the majority of the questions, so we could do more than just stare at each other while waiting for our food. She had a shit ton of passion regarding her pet grooming business but not much else. She was only into movies that featured animated animals because of the horrible things pet actors endure, and modern music was something she avoided since her cats only preferred the soundtrack to the musical Cats. When I asked her about her hobbies, she did mention knitting, yet said it’s really just a game she likes to play with them by pretending to knit while they bat around the ball.” He doesn’t let me comment. “Was she an option because she too had a great zest for business?”
“Actually no,” I hum between beer sips. “I listened to your concern about business being your only mutual interest and went a different direction. You both shared a love of animals.”
“I don’t have a…love…of animals per say.”
“OG, the only charities you donate to outside of those that provide assistance to the youth are those that help endangered animales.”
A small blush burns his cheeks.
Yeah…the big, burly sports mogul has a soft spot for creatures who can no longer protect themselves.
“Plus, your favorite movie growing up was the first Free Willy.”
“He was just a kid who saved an animal from being murdered! He was a goddamn superhero in the making.”
I give his thigh a comforting pat.
Gideon rolls his eyes yet lets a small laugh leave his perfect lips. “Fine. I can…understand your logic.”
“Gracias.”
“But she was a miss,” he firmly states, stare boring into mine. “And I have no doubt the next four will be too.”
Wonder if me being on the list like Carly suggests will change his tune or if I’ll suffer the same fate as the others…
Redirecting my attention back to the game isn’t difficult knowing I’d prefer to focus on a lighter, easier to navigate topic. We watch together in comfortable silence. The crowd around us buzzes with chatter, some game-related, others food-centered. A few parents fuss at their children who have become uninterested in the sport and dancing mascot while others make promises of cotton candy or foam fingers if they’ll just make it to the seventh-inning stretch.
Casually, I ask, “Did I tell you Winnie is pregnant again?”
The mention of my little sister’s name causes him to roll his head in my direction. “Does she know she’s not a goddamn gumball machine?”
“I don’t think she got that memo.”
“Maybe you should write it to her in ink instead of lip stain?”
His playful suggestion receives a chuckle from both of us. “Mom’s thrilled. Dad’s already swearing they won’t keep watching the kids like free childcare, though, they’re not the only ones feeling that sting. There are moments when I think I spend more time parenting those kids than Winnie and Diego.”
“That’s gotta be true. Putting aside how you pick them up from school, doing school projects, and making sure they either have lunch money or their ideal lunches made, you also practically guide them through the ways to survive being emotionally unstable because they’re three, four, six, and seven.”
“All kids are emotionally unstable at their ages. There’s a chemical imbalance that plays a factor as your brain is developing.”
“You know so much weird shit.”
“Aw,” I playfully coo. “Gracias.”
Gideon chuckles prior to inquiring, “How do your brothers feel about it?”
“Mateo is thankful his daughter isn’t the youngest any more, and Gordon is requesting they all stop having children because he doesn’t make enough to keep up with buying all the Christmas presents he already has to.”
Gideon’s smirk is surprisingly fleeting. “Do you…ever think about…following in Winnie’s footsteps?”
“Do I ever think about having enough children to start my own rock band? No.”
He slouches down a bit in his seat. “I meant about starting a family.”
I lift my eyebrows in bafflement, ill-prepared for a question I never saw coming.
“You know, you’re worried about me settling down someday, but what about you? Do you…” his hand drifts upward to tug at his collar, “want…any of that? A house? Kids…?”
Gideon’s nervousness is almost as startling as the question itself. If he were sitting in my office, and I took a moment to observe his behavior from body language to tone, I could conclude there’s an underlying fear to it all. A worry, though it’s hard to decipher over what exactly. Does he wonder what will happen to us, to our friendship, if one of us does end up hitched to someone else? Does he secretly feel that’s going to be me, and he’ll no longer have a place in my life? Or maybe…maybe he’s afraid those are things he wants to be the one to provide for me, but can’t?
“Stop gaping at me,” he grunts, redness blooming across his tanned skin. “I simply asked you a question, not to solve a complex riddle.”
His snide comment encourages me to kick the side of his foot with mine.
“Hey! These are limited editions. Don’t Lenny them up.”
“Did you just verb my name?!?”
He cockily tilts his head. “I did.”
Swiftly, I repeat the action with a little more force.
“What the fuck did I just say?! You know, Elio hates having to scrub these.”
“Then maybe you should stop paying your wardrobe assistant to clean your shoes?” The suggestion spirals me to snip more. “And maybe you shouldn’t have a wardrobe assistant? Maybe you should let your everyday shoes and clothes be less pristine. Maybe it wouldn’t kill you. Hell, maybe it would help to alleviate all the pressure you constantly keep yourself under to be ‘perfect’.”
His mouth bobs, yet he doesn’t successfully speak.
“No one’s perfect, Gideon. No matter how many little details you nitpick or how many times you get something cleaned or no matter how many times you overthink the preparation process, there will be blemishes. Things will get a little tarnished. Damaged. Worn. That’s life. And that’s okay. It’s totally acceptable to relax and get your hands dirty more often than you do. Especially if you want to be a father someday. Kids are…insanely messy. They literally shit on schedules and vomit on plans. They have no care or concern for the clock that isn’t the one they internally follow. You’re gonna have to learn to keep the anal-retentive, overthinking shit in the office because once you step through your front door, your son or daughter or both need you to be flexible as well as able to make prompt decisions.” I lift the last of my beer towards my lips. “And yes, I want that chaos someday…”
Gideon’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You know I can’t have kids, Lennox.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t have a family.”
My retort is met with a wrinkled forehead.
“Fostering. Adoption. Those are both great ways to grow one. Just because they don’t carry your DNA doesn’t mean they’re not yours.”
Hope appears in his warm, chocolate glare. “Do you think you could settle for those?”
“Absolutely. Though, I would never consider those options as ‘settling’ so much as just taking a different path.”
; The lack of vacillation shifts smiles onto both of our faces.
“Foam fingers!” Yells a vendor. “Get your big foam fingers!”
I frantically wave my hand in the air. “Over here! Over here!”
He darts toward me, weaving around whining children whose parents are glaring at me for bringing the temptation closer. “What can I get ya?”