Due to unforeseen circumstances and a rather unfortunate plot twist, my fiancé will soon have a child. Not mine, obviously.
He’s been agitated lately, but I guess that kind of blast from your recent past is stressful. It’s stressful for me, that’s for sure.
It happened before we met.
It’s not about me.
I can’t judge people for their past.
Once, I went out with a guy who told me, “You can’t expect everyone you meet to be as perfect as you or you’re going to be really disappointed.”
I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment, but I found outthatguy was still legally married, so there’s that.
Gah, focus!
I could have written this paper three times for the amount of editing I’ve done. I’m overthinking my words and perspective, going from concise and unapologetic to a more sympathetic and tolerant tone, then back to straightforward again when my thoughts boil up in my gut.
Hunching over my laptop with my elbows on my knees feels good for exactly seventeen minutes before my joints scream at me to hurry up.
But do I move?
No.Because self-inflicted pain is tough love from me to me.
Also, my left butt cheek’s asleep, and I don’t mean tingly and mostly dead. I meancompletely dead.I can’t risk standing up now or I’ll lose all the momentum left from this morning’s caffeine.
My head hurts, and I’m whiny, but I’m so close to the finish line I can’t even lean back against the couch. Steno paper is scattered everywhere, so I gather the crumpled pages to be sure I included all my notes in the final draft.
Nathan hasn’t called today. He won’t. I’ve initiated all our communication for weeks. He’s too far in his own head, or maybe his head’s too far up his …something else.
Either way, it’s up to me to call during his break tonight, or we won’t talk at all and things between us will become even more strained. It’s my responsibility to keep us above water since I’mnot the one in a crisis.
That’s my role here, right? Check in. Be there for him.
Geez, stop thinking. Finish!
A creak alerts me to the front door, and my tight shoulders begin to relax. I don’t have to look. I know those footsteps. I hear the fridge open and close and two pop tops in a row before the couch shifts behind me and a cold Diet Mountain Dew can levitates into the left side of my peripheral vision.
There’s one black leather and one faded pink-and-aqua braided bracelet wrapped around a wrist I’d know anywhere. He’s like a golf caddie—mypaper-writing caddie—silently cheering me on, giving me exactly what I need as I lift my hand to take the icy, sweet, caffeinated relief.
Did I mentionsilent? I’m in the zone. He gets it.
I don’t know if it’s the caffeine that calms me or the clean scent of my favorite neighbor not talking to me while I drink it, but I feel better instantly. My tension diffuses as I sip my fizzy neon energy chemicals and Daniel Crawford’s familiar gray suede sneakers materialize on the floor to my right and left.
His knees press against my shoulders, and I can already feel my vision become clearer when he reaches for the can and puts a red cherry Twizzler in its place.
Gnawing on it absentmindedly, I read my paper for at least the hundredth time. DC hears my phone chime and stretches down to retrieve it, so I’m not tempted to look. The caffeine must’ve brought some clarity, because nothing’s wrong with this paper. The sources are solid, the grammar is correct, and I refuse to lose sleep over some adjunct professor who probably won’t even read it.
Done. I save the document and clickSubmit.
“You ready, Punk?” His low melodic tone is sweeter than the nickname suggests. My car has been unpredictable. He replaced the battery a couple of weeks ago when Nathan was out of town, but it’s acting up again, so he said he’d rather drive me than risk it.
We like to sing in the car and talk about music anyway, so neither of us hates the temporary arrangement. I just need one more paycheck to hit my account, then I can use my tips to deal with this problem.
Again.
“Give me thirty seconds please,” I say, closing my eyes and resting my arms on top of his legs. I slump against the couch, holding him still forjust a minute longer.
He leans over me, placing his chin on my head, his hands with guitar-calloused fingers cover mine on his knees, and when I open my eyes, I get a close-up of the black inked band around his left forearm and braided friendship bracelets that match mine—the bracelets, not the ink.
