I caved.I’m a human being, goddamn it. I’ve been patient enough. I thought I was turned on before, but when everyone was gone, Lyla walked to the beginning of her fucked up obstacle course and set her timer. I watched her do the entire thing at record speed. She’d looked at the timer and nodded her head as if to say, “not bad.” I almost went out there to scoop her into my arms but I didn’t. I kept my hands to myself and helped her pick up what seemed like a thousand cones. I thought I wouldn't be as pent up by the time we finished putting everything away, but I was worse. All I could do was think about that little fucker Barlow. I didn’t even take his picture. I know he’s not a threat, but seeing her laugh with him was too much for me.
I stood outside, staring at the door, trying to convince myself to walk away, but I couldn’t. It’s physically impossible for me not to touch her. All day, I wanted to kiss, touch, claim, and make her remember how it feels between us. Honestly, I don’t even know who I’m torturing anymore — her or myself. I’m still angry, but when I see her do things that make her come alive, like running the obstacle course or interacting with the little kids from this morning, I just want to throw her over my shoulder, take her to the nearest surface, and devour her.
After the nudity this morning, and now this, I’m going to need an ice shower today. Regular cold temperatures won’t do it. I could’ve fucked her. I could still do it, but I’m not going to. I’m too angry right now, and it’s not part of the plan. She makes me lose all reason, but I hold onto my anger. She fucked me over. She left me.
“What now?” I ask when she finishes her Gatorade.
“I normally shower, but I’ll shower at home today.” She shuts her eyes and takes a breath. When she opens them, she asks, “Do you want me to show you around?”
“Sure.” I shrug. I’ve been dying to see this place.
I have to admit, this place is impressive as hell. Indoor pools, saunas, multiple gyms, and areas for doctors to work with patients. An X-ray machine. The list goes on. I personally think Lyla should be playing pro soccer, but I can see what attracted her to this career and this place. She guides me down a hallway and pushes the door at the end open, turning on the light as she steps out of the way so I can walk inside.
“This is my office,” she says.
“You have your own office?” My eyes widen.
“Yep. We get an office after six months,” she says.
It’s a good-sized space with a desk, three chairs, and a small bookshelf. No windows but Lyla doesn’t need shit like windows. She’d shut the blinds and never look outside anyway. I’m surprised she doesn’t have blinds on the glass partition with the view of the hallway that takes up half the wall. I take it in and picture her here. Does she dress in office attire? Scrubs? Fuck, I want her to dress in both and visit me at my office. She doesn’t have any personal items, only little owls on the bookshelf and a mason jar filled with colorful pens. There’s no display of her ribbons or her glass trophy. If you walk in here to have a conversation, you’d never really notice how bland it is, but I do. It’s the kind of office that you can pack up in under five minutes if you need to leave. Maybe Marissa’s right. Maybe Lyla’s pretending to be happy here. Fake it till you make it, right? Yeah, that hasn’t worked out very well for me.
I go around her desk and look up to see her standing by the door. She suddenly looks tense as fuck, like she’s trying to keep herself from moving. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this. Well, she was like this about the dildo, which I understand. But I can’t imagine she has one of those in her office.
“What, do you have a picture with that douchebag here?” I half-joke. If she does, I’m going to rip it. I should probably warn her.
“I have a picture withadouchebag,” she says in a bored tone and crosses her arms as she looks down the hall.
I’m not prepared for what I find when I step behind her desk. She has two unframed pictures taped to the bottom of her iMac. There’s no way to hide my shock when I see them. They have creases on them like they’ve been folded and unfolded — one of me in my Fairview Blaze uniform. I was probably skating up to her when she snapped it. The other one is of us sleeping on her couch, her head over my heart, my arms around her. I’ve never seen it before, but I assume Marissa took it. We look so fucking peaceful. So happy.
I remember that day. We’d stayed in, made pasta, and watched Pocahontas. I got offended when I finally understood her John Smith reference, and she’d laughed and laughed. Fuck. I can still hear that laugh in my head. I can still picture her face. I swallow hard, trying to find my words. When she told me she didn’t let her friends talk about me, I thought it was so she could try to forget me, but I guess I was wrong. Why the hell would she do this to herself? She’d have to look at these pictures every time she sat here. It has to hurt. It’s hurting me, and this is my first time seeing them. When I look at her, she’s looking down the hall.
“Why?” My voice is so quiet, I’m not even sure she hears it.
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine like she’s trying to find something that she’s not sure is there. I wish I knew what she was looking for so I could just fucking give it to her.
After the longest moment, she finally speaks. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She turns and walks out. An ache settles in my chest, the minute she’s gone. I look at the pictures again. I have to go through with my plan. I will go through with it, but fuck, this is more difficult than I thought.
* * *
When we get to her place, we take turns getting ready. We don’t speak. I know she’s brooding as much as I am. And she’s probably hangry, which is the worst, and probably the only time her bitchiness doesn’t turn me on. She has to be starving, by now. I’m fucking starving, and I had two full meals on the field and a 40oz smoothie at Marissa’s. She had a huge protein smoothie too, but she was too active today for that to be enough. Because of our mutual silent treatment, I’m not sure where we’re going or how to dress, but this city doesn’t seem very pretentious. The men probably wear fishing shirts to dinner and shit. I end up wearing a black v-neck t-shirt and dark jeans.
I check Lyla out for the fifth time. She’s wearing a short black romper. A really short black romper. Jesus. She can wear whatever she wants, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep myself in check. As it is, I haven’t been able to stop replaying how she looked when she came on my fingers. How she felt.
“What’s the plan?” I ask as I comb my fingers through my damp hair.
She stares at the movement. Nothing in her expression changes, but I see the longing in her beautiful eyes. I almost pick her up and kiss her right there. I deserve at least three gold medals by now for the amount of restraint I’m showing.
“Burgers,” she says simply, as she puts on some black sandals and looks in the mirror.
I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything, but I can’t stop staring at the bottom of her romper. It’s loose enough that I could push it to the side and fuck her with it on. I need to stop messing around and stay on track before she derails this train. I know I do, but she drives me fucking crazy. She turns to see how she looks from the back. She’s perfect. I don’t even know why she bothers triple-checking. I put on my sneakers and follow her out, staring at her ass the entire walk to the elevator, and picturing all the things I want to do to her.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask as we walk down the block.
I have to admit, it’s a nice city. It’s not Chicago or New York, but it’s nice. I can tell it’s booming, with the amount of people our age who live here. It’s clean and everyone seems nice. Some of them are a littletoonice.
“A travel magazine.”
