I laugh because they’re funny, then shrug. “Both. You can never have too many pairs of socks.”
He nods and shoves them into the bag before packing my dress socks too.
“Why is the plural form of cactus cacti, but the plural form of penis isn’t peni?” I ask, grabbing my phone from where it landedand twirling it between my thumb and middle finger. “Peni sounds much more fun than penises.”
Blaine glances up from the bag to me with wide eyes. “Uh… I have no idea? I didn’t pay attention in English class,” he says, turning toward my closet. “Hey, where’s the laundry Alex did for you the other day?”
“In there.” I point to the far side of my closet.
Blaine slides open the door, and sitting on the shelf is the laundry, still folded neatly in the same pile Alex delivered it in.
He snickers. “Did you just put it in like that?”
Nodding, I sit up and dangle my legs over the edge of the bed. “Yeah. After it sat on the dining table to marinate for a few days, but I didn’t have the spoons to put it away properly at the time, so I just…” With my hands out flat, I motion picking up the pile of laundry and placing it on the shelf.
Should I be embarrassed that my brother-in-law has to do laundry for me, otherwise it would never get done? Maybe. Before Alex moved in with Blaine, I tried so hard to be organized enough to do laundry. I’d get it in the washing machine, but I would often forget to turn it on. Or if I did turn on the machine, then forget to take it out until several days later, by which point it would need washing again because all I could smell was damp. I even tried taking it to a laundromat once, but then they called me a week later to ask when I was planning to collect it, and I was too embarrassed to go back after that.
Then one day, Alex came over and found me lying on the floor in my living room, surrounded by the contents of my suitcase from my ten-day road trip. I was close to having a breakdown, and he offered to help me.
There was no judgment or snide remark that I was lazy like my mom, or my roommates at college, or my teammates in Vancouver would say to me. He seemed to understand that I was trying, but I couldn’t seem to do it on my own.
It’s another thing to add to the never-ending list of how I need to rely on my brother to survive, I guess.
Blaine takes the pile and places it in my bag. “That’ll do. Now, go grab your toiletries and whatever else you want to bring.”
Sighing, I haul myself up off the bed and into my bathroom. I shove my toiletries into my washbag, then head back into my room to drop it into my duffel. I change out of my pajama bottoms and into some Thunder-branded sweatpants and swap my Crocs for Vans.
Blaine grabs various cables and my iPad while I pull on a jacket, and wordlessly hands over my phone I left on the bed.
“Oh, I need snacks,” I announce and quickly head to the kitchen to raid the pantry. I load up the front pocket of my jacket with packets of cookies and chips, then follow Blaine out of my apartment.
Thirty minutes later, Blaine pulls his car into an empty spot in the private parking lot at O’Hare airport and offers me a tired smile.
“Ready to kick some Montréal ass?” he asks, reaching over to grab his coat from the back seat.
“You bet.” I clap my hands together. “You better score all the goals too. You can’t leave it all down to me. I can’t sweet-talk the posts in Montréal because I don’t know any French.”
He snickers. “I can’t help you with the French, but I can help you with the goals.”
I hold my fist out, and he bumps it in return.
Stepping out of the car, I shiver at the bitter December air as it sends chills down to my bones. I let out a loudburrrrnoise and tug the collar of my jacket higher up my neck.
“Fuck me, it’s cold!” I shout, hiking my duffel bag onto my shoulder before shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
I wonder how Hunter works in these conditions. Are his big, bulky clothes nice and warm? The firehouse was warm when I visited the other night to drop off the cookies, but when they get sent out on a call, they are outside a lot of the time.
Did he enjoy the cookies? Should I make him more? Maybe I could decorate one with icing.Will you go on a date with me?I could throw it at him, then run away. But if the cookie broke in half, he wouldn’t be able to read it.
I inwardly sigh. All this stuff is hard.
We go through immigration and security, and when we go back outside, another blast of wind has me tensing. I tuck my chin beneath the collar of my jacket, trying to hide the bottom half of my face.
“I don’t know why this is called a windbreaker because it doesn’t break the wind,” I mumble into the fabric.
Blaine’s brow furrows. “I don’t think it’s called it in a literal sense.”
“But then it’s false advertising,” I argue. “They shouldn’t call it something if it doesn’t do that. Like you wouldn’t call it a nutcracker if it didn’t crack nuts.”
