Contusion

by Ofelia Martinez

  “You’re here, so I take it you are interested?”

  He nods. “You’re very forward, aren’t you?”

  “Not really, but I don’t have any time to waste,” I say plainly because it is the absolute truth.

  Chapter 4

  Rory orders a car, and I frown when we arrive at our first stop. “A gas station?” I ask.

  Rory nods.

  Not only is it a gas station but a somewhat shabby one at that. We get out of the car, and as we round the corner, we have to walk past a long line of people waiting to go inside.

  “Pro-tip,” Rory says, “whenever you travel anywhere new, find long lines. Nine times out of ten, that’s where the good food is.”

  “What could there be that’s so good at a gas station?” I scoff.

  “Barbecue. The best in the states, dontchaknow.”

  “Barbecue?”

  He nods as we take our place in line. I frown. This line will take an hour before we can go inside, then another hour to wait for the food and the eat it. Maybe I should have gone with Dr. Keach instead of Rory. He was ready to go right then and there.

  As if sensing my turning mood, Rory nudges me. “Don’t worry. The line will move fast, and you’ll see, the wait will be more than worth it.”

  He is right. We get through the line and have our food in front of us in less than thirty minutes. The dining area is small and crowded. People don’t linger and talk, so other diners can have a table.

  “This is huge,” I say, looking at the brisket sandwich Rory recommended as the only thing worth having. Piles of brisket on a bun with melted cheese and onion rings tower on my plate. Adjusting to the portions in Kansas City will take time but serve my weight-gain goals well. I close the sandwich with the top bun and take a bite. My eyes draw closed. The meat is tender and smoky and so delicious.

  “You didn’t put any barbecue sauce on it,” he says, and hands me a bottle.

  I try the sauce first and wrinkle my nose. “Too sweet,” I say.

  He then hands me a second sauce that is spicier and less sweet. I add only a little of that to appease him.

  “So?” He asks.

  “It’s delicious,” I say and mean it. “Except for the fries.”

  “What’s wrong with the fries?” Rory looks down at the tray with the fry mountain.

  “They have sugar. Who the hell puts sugar on fries? It’s like everything here has sugar. It’s really annoying. Sugar is for desserts—that’s it. Maybe sweet and sour at Chinese. But that’s really it.”

  Rory blinks at me, then shakes his head. “The fries don’t have sugar.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What?”

  “They are like candied fries; they have so much sugar! You really can’t taste it?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

  I only eat half of my sandwich, even though it’s so good I could probably stuff it in. I want to avoid what saucy Chema christened ‘TFF’ or ‘Too Full to Fuck.’ I heed all of Chema’s warnings.

  Our second stop on my tour of the city lands us at a plaza that I have to admit is stunning. The architecture reminds me of the Spanish-style haciendas typical in Mexico. We walk for an hour past restaurants, bars, and shops, never once going inside. Rory talks about his love of traveling and how he wishes he could do it more and asks me questions about Mexico, but we don’t go too deep. I won’t let it, even with the ample invitations he opens up.

  “How’s your English so good? I mean, you know a lot of colloquialisms . . . I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m sorry, maybe that’s a rude question,” says Rory as he cups the back of his neck like he did at the bar.

  I laugh. “Not at all. A lot of middle—and upper—class kids in Mexico love American culture. English is so cool when you’re a teenager in Mexico. We pay attention to all the music, movies, everything that’s popular here. And I did a year in a Swiss boarding school when I was fifteen.”

  Rory stops in his tracks to look at me. “Fancy,” he says and resumes his walk.

  I scoff. “Yeah. That’s one word for it. I think Dad was hoping I’d come back a lady,” I say wryly.

  “Did you?”

  I shake my head. “No. It backfired. I’ve always wanted to be the furthest thing from a lady that I could. But anyway, the school was mostly for Americans—though I was never quite able to completely shake off the accent—”

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed of it,” says Rory. “You speak multiple languages, and it’s easy to understand you. Not to mention, it’s very sexy.”

  “It is?” I ask, my cheek heating up. He nods. “Rory? Are you trying to avoid going to my place? If you didn’t want to—”

  “No,” he says and grabs my hand in his. “I just want to make sure that when we are together, we are both completely sober.”

  “Oh,” I say, unsure how to respond to that. “I’m sober.” I’ll admit the food helped, and I’m starting to realize nothing Rory does is by accident.

  He smiles. “Good. But I also do want you to see a little of this city before you leave—one last stop. I promise, then we’ll head back to your place. No way in hell I’m backing out.”

  We get to the last stop of my tour at nearly one in the morning. Our driver warns us we are probably not allowed at the park this late, but I let Rory lead the way. I smile when he insists on opening my door. Men like this just don’t exist anymore. Or so I thought.

  “This is Liberty Memorial. The building is a World War I museum, and that is the Liberty Memorial Tower.” He points to an obnoxious structure.

  We walk through the park toward the tower, and I compress my lips together.

  “What?” asks Rory.

  My shoulders shake with my suppressed laugh. I can’t hold the laughter any longer, so I let it out. “Sorry, it’s just . . .”

  “Spit it out, Almonte.”

  “The tower. Isn’t it a bit . . .” I trail off and point to the tower because he has to see it. How could he not see it?

  Rory cocks his head to the side as he studies the tower. His face scrunches up, and he scratches his head. “What? What are you saying?”

  “It’s rather phallic. Don’t you think?”

  He tosses his head back with laughter and then nudges my arm. “You are a one-track-mind kind of gal, aren’t you?”

  “Sure you don’t want to just go straight to my apartment?” I ask and wiggle my eyebrows.

  Rory shakes his head and takes my hand in his. Our fingers lace together, and I stare at our hands where we join as we walk. I blink. I’ve never held hands with a man before, and the intimacy of it has me regretting that I’ve selected Rory for this job. He needed some sort of ‘date’ before he could go to bed with me. He is boyfriend material, and I am not girlfriend material. This is such a bad idea. But his hand is warm and inviting, and the gesture brings us closer together so I can take his scent in again like I had at the bar. It’s a mix of sandalwood and suede and so refreshing mixed with the park’s cut grass.

  We walk to the edge of the building until we come to a short wall where I rest my elbows on the ledge and look down at a Kansas City starting to come alive with nightlife. The lazy pulse of light traffic in the veins of the city streets flows below us. It’s dark, and the lights are bright. Straight ahead, a beautiful building that reminds me of the Met in New York displays fountains on its front lawn.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the building.

  “That’s Union Station,” he says.

  “Like an actual train station?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say dreamily. Would I ever get the chance to ride a train? I was so dedicated to my sport, I barely experienced life at all. You always think there is more time, later—to do all the things you ever dreamed of. But time is not a guarantee, and it is not owed to anyone. Too bad I learned this lesson at the expense of my life.

  You are not dead yet, Valentina, I remind myself. There’s
still a chance.

  “The inside is great too,” Rory says, oblivious in the dark to the prickling tears in my eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. There’s a coffee shop and a restaurant. They have all sorts of science exhibits. Maybe you’ll let me take you on a date? We can go there. This weekend? Are you free?”

  This weekend I’ll be puking my guts out. “Rory, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I—”

  “I know what this is,” he says. “I’m not asking you to be my girlfriend or my wife. You were at that bar looking for something, and I’m just the lucky bastard who caught your eye. But I’m not going to stand here and lie to you. I can’t tell you I don’t want to see you again after tonight.”

  “The thing is, I’m not sure I’ll be here much longer.” I mean life, but Rory, I know, hears Kansas City.

  “Can we just enjoy the time we do have, then?” He ducks his head to hold my gaze, and I suddenly am not sick Valentina. I’m not cancer-patient Valentina. In his eyes, I’m hot and sexy Valentina. The girl with the Spanish accent who bought him a drink. “Please?” he nudges.

  “Okay,” I say, unsure how the hell I’m going to get out of this. The thing is, spending what little time I have before treatment with him sounds lovely. I can always make an excuse later if I’m not feeling up to going out on the weekend.

  He leads me by the hand as we make our way back through the trees and lays down on the grass. He pats the spot next to him. “You gonna join me?”

  “This is the weirdest hookup of my life,” I tell him, attempting to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His beard shifts lightly with the movement of his clenching jaw.

  We are nestled between two trees, looking up at the black sky through the leaves. There are no stars out tonight. I’m completely sober now, and a gust of wind makes me shiver. I press my naked arms to his body as I curl up to his side.

  “Hold on.” Rory shifts. “Lift your head a bit.” I do as I’m told, and he slides his arm under my head so that I nestle next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. He wraps his other arm around me and rubs my arm a few times to warm me up. “Better?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I get cold easily.”

  “That’s great because I’m always running way too hot.” And it’s true. His warm skin soothes me, and I bet my cool skin refreshes him. I fit next to his body perfectly and can only imagine what it will be like to have him fully.

  A short gust of wind rattles the leaves into the most soothing sound.

  “Valentina?”

  “Mmm?” I moan, too relaxed to form words.

  “Why did you pick me?”

  I shrug. “You’re handsome. And . . .” I bite the inside of my lip.

  “And what?”

  What the hell. Pa’ luego es tarde, as Chema would say. “When you were getting the Pop-Tart from the vending machine, I may have checked out your ass.”

  “You checked out my ass?”

  I lift my head so I can read his expression, and he chuckles. “Yeah. I checked out your ass. Sue me. It’s a cute little bubble butt.”

  “Oh, Valentina—”

  “What?”

  “I was checking out your ass the entire time you were threatening the machine.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah.”

  I laugh, and a moment of silence follows. I’m thinking about the train station and all the places I want to go one day. “Rory?”

  “Mmm?”

  “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

  “Easy. India.”

  “That’s unexpected.”

  “I’d eat my way through India until I got sick of it.”

  I laugh. “Really? You chose your dream destination based on the food?”

  “What else is there?”

  “I don’t know. People? Places?”

  “Well, yeah, India has both those too.”

  “Smartass,” I say, and he chuckles. “So, you like Indian food?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t know. I kind of live on protein shakes, broccoli, and chicken breasts. Slight exaggeration, but it’s not far off from the truth.”

  “A picky eater, huh?”

  “No. It’s for work.”

  “Work?”

  “Yeah. I’m an athlete.” Or was an athlete, I think. “So my eating habits are controlled, to put it mildly.”

  “Well, if you can ever have a cheat day, I’d love to take you out for Indian food.”

  I blink slowly, then smile when he doesn’t judge my eating regimen like most people do. Everyone not in the sport always assumes I’m exaggerating and should be able to cheat my diet more than I do. But Rory accepts it without question, and it’s so strange to me. He also doesn’t ask what kind of athlete. He wants me to open up to him because I want to.

  “Maybe one day,” I tell him finally.

  He nods, and we both fall silent for a long stretch of time. So much so that when I wake up, I have no idea how long we’ve been out because next to me, Rory is letting out the cutest little snore. I poke his ribs gently, and he stirs. “Rory,” I whisper.

  “Mmmh,” he groans but doesn’t open his eyes.

  “Rory.” I shiver. The night got significantly cooler. What the hell time is it? I pull out my phone from my back pocket, and my eyes widen with horror. Five in the morning. We slept all night. What the hell are cops doing that they didn’t notice us? Not only did we miss our booty call, but I slept like I had never slept in my life. “Rory,” I hiss, louder this time. “Wake up. We have to go.”

  He stirs and wipes a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. His eyes dart around his surroundings, trying to place where he is. “What . . .” He sits up and looks around. He starts grasping around for his glasses that must have fallen from his face in the middle of the night and puts them on once he finds them. He looks around, and what he does next, I would have never in a million years have guessed would be his reaction.

  He rolls onto his back with laughter so intense, he wraps his arms around his middle to clutch his stomach. “We fell asleep!” He cries between guffaws.

  “It’s not funny, Rory,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “It’s pretty funny.”

  “Rory, it’s five a.m.”

  He laughs harder. “Really?”

  I stand to shake any dirt from my outfit and try to straighten my hair. I use my phone as my mirror, and I turn away from him at record speed. My mascara is running, and I look like a raccoon. My hair is knotted and has blades of grass stuck in it.

  Rory stands to look at me, and I pull my face away, horrified.

  “Come here,” he says. He grabs my chin, so I face him. “You look adorable,” he says.

  “No, I don’t,” I whine, and I slap his torso playfully. My hands can’t help but linger over his hard oblique muscles. I’m only holding on to him for balance, of course, while he pulls out blade after blade of grass from my hair.

  “Here, let me get that.” His finger is reaching for my eye next, and I rear back.

  “What are you doing?”

  He laughs as he tries to approach me again. “You have an eye booger.”

  “Oh my god!” I turn away from him and start walking in the opposite direction while I clear out the corners of my eyes.

  “Hold on,” he calls after me. “It’s no big deal,” he says. He continues to laugh, and I’m trying to be annoyed like I should be, but it’s getting harder to suppress my own laughter.

  “This was supposed to be a sexy night. I’m not going to let you clean my eye-boogers.”

  “I’m sorry if you’re upset,” he says. “But I’m not.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Me too,” I admit.

  “See? It wasn’t a total waste. But I am sorry we missed our night together. I’m sorry for falling asleep. Not that it’s an excuse, but I had a long
shift at work yesterday.”

  “It’s on me too. I can’t just blame you. Even if I wanted to,” I say.

  “I don’t have work today,” he says. “Do you?”

  I shake my head. “Do you still want to . . . ?”

  His expression changes from that playful-young-boy demeanor of his into a dark one full of hunger. It’s like he has two personalities, my very own personal Jekyll and Hyde. He draws me to him and kisses me with greed I have never known before. He crushes his lips to mine and nibbles at my lower lip when he comes up for air. Then he plunges in again to play, his tongue on mine. His beard grazes my skin, and I whimper into his mouth. A groan comes from deep within his throat in response, and I bunch up the fabric of his shirt in my hands.

  I push him away, and we are both panting. I touch my lips that now feel bruised. I can’t believe I slept with him in the literal sense of the word and hadn’t so much as kissed him. “We need to get a car,” I say. He nods and pulls out his phone.

  “Your place or mine?” he asks. “I have roommates. They’ll be up soon.”

  “My place is fine. I live alone.”

  We ride in the back seat together and can’t help giggling as we look at each other conspiratorially. He tries grabbing my hand, but I pull it away. He chuckles, and I can’t help smiling around him. I should be mad. So mad. And with any other guy, I would be fuming if this had happened, but sleeping with him didn’t seem like a waste of time—not even with the precious few days I might have left.

  “Valentina?”

  “What?” I try to snap but fail.

  “How do you say eye booger in Spanish?”

  “Oh my god. Why do you want to know?” I look over at our driver, who doesn’t seem to care about our odd conversation.

  Rory shrugs. “I think I’d like to learn Spanish.”

  “And you think the best place to start is with ‘eye booger?’”

  He presses his hand to his heart. “The word has sentimental value to me.” He chuckles as he says this, and soon I follow with my own laugh. Have I ever laughed this much? Rory radiates a warmth that makes it hard to be mad at him and instead has me smiling and laughing like I wasn’t already walking on death row.