How does that even work? Do couples get their sleep schedule synchronized or something?
“Let’s watch something,” I say, and it definitely sounds more like I’m begging.
“Sure, Sandy told me I should watchShitt’s Creek,” he says conversationally.
“You told her about all this?” I think I succeed in sounding casual, because he stays focused on the TV and finding the right app to stream the show.
“Yeah, and she won’t tell anyone, don’t worry.”
God, he’s more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for, including me apparently.
We watch two quick episodes and by the third, AJ’s snoring softly. The control is next to his hand and within reach, so I take it and shut everything off.
As the room goes dark, I’m overly aware of his body lying next to mine, of the strange bed I’m lying in, of the soft pillow. Every little sound is like a cannon and every movement feels too big and sudden.
I spend what feels like six hours nervously recalling everything we’ve done to prepare for the reunion, doubting every decision I’ve ever made, and just generally having a really shitty time, but eventually I do fall asleep.
And when I wake up, I realize I’m a deeper sleeper than I thought because AJ is holding me to his chest like I’m his own personal teddy bear or something.
I do my best to escape without waking him up, but I fail miserably, and startle him so badly he pushes me away as his cheeks darken dangerously fast.
Again, I hate seeing him embarrassed, but in this case... well, this was pretty embarrassing. There’s not much I can do to defuse the tension.
“I-I’m sorry.”
I freeze at his groggy voice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard AJ stutter before. In the last decade I’ve heard him sound unsure, vulnerable, embarrassed, and sad, but never this much.
“It’s okay?—”
“I just normally hug one of my pillows, but I guess you’re what I caught in the middle of the night.” I don’t think he heard me, so I try again when he takes a breath.
“It’s fine, AJ,” I tell him, a bit louder than normal. “I know you weren’t consciously cuddling me.”
“Not that Iwouldn’tcuddle you, that would be fine—it is fine!” he shouts, and I hold up a hand before he starts digging any deeper.
“Stop talking about it and stop thinking about it,” I tell him. “I’m not offended, or upset, but I need coffee, so I’m going to go to the kitchen.” I nod decisively and turn to climb out of bed without a backward glance.
We’re going to have to get past these potentially awkward situations, especially if this will happen again at Mom’s house.
God help me.
MAY
There are levels of fame.
When I travel, I get recognized maybe one time out of ten, but AJ... well, he can’t really step into LAX without a mob of fans almost instantly forming around him, so we fly privately to Gomillion.
I feel better about this farce only because I’m doing it with AJ, who spent the whole flight taking my mind off... everything. I can count on him to have my back this weekend, and I think there’s not much else I could ask for right now.
After five hours of entertaining me, we land and AJ still isn’t done. In the rented SUV he arranged to be waiting for us at the private airfield that’s two hours away from my childhood home, he blasts music while I drive down the highway I still know so well.
Not that we’re going to my childhood home.
Mom sold it a few years back and finally let me buy her the house of her dreams.
It was a long flight, but the drive feels eternal, even with AJ belting out songs and butchering them. We don’t talk about what we’re going to be doing this weekend or how nervous we both obviously are about facing Mom, we just sing and laugh and occasionally talk about how well LA did in the draft last month and how the rookies looked in OTAs just last week.
AJ’s pleased they got him a new left tackle, and I don’t blame him, since he was sacked twenty-seven times lastseason and I know hownotfun that was for him. He’s no longer twenty-five and able to jump up like nothing happened after a sack, he’s thirty-three, and though we haven’t talked about it, we know retirement is looming.
