“My father is a celebrity chef. In New York that’s a big deal.”
“You’re a total hypocrite.” I accuse.
“I know. But you’re fun to play with.”
“You have no idea how much fun I can be.” I insinuate.
“You’re right, I’m deprived. I guess I’m a masochist.”
I shake my head. She drives me nuts. And I love it. “Let’s just get to studying.”
“Way ahead of you.” She flips a page.
Laney and I read in silence. It’s a chapter on the Korean War, but I’m barely retaining a word. All my attention is focused on the hot brunette sitting across from me, wearing faded jeans that hug her body and a top that resembles a baseball player’s warm-up jersey. I wonder if she wore it on purpose. The shirt’s grey and black with the number fourteen stamped on her chest. I keep glancing at it, wishing it was the number seven.My number.
“Done yet?” Laney looks up and catches me staring.
“Yup.” I smile, trying to cover.
“Good. Let’s answer the study guide questions then compare notes.”
“Sounds good.” I agree.
Laney picks up her pen and starts writing while I just stare at the notebook in front of me. Grabbing my pen, holding it awkwardly between my fingers, I read the first question silently.Why did North Korea cross the 38th Parallel and invade South Korea?
I know the answer. Now I just have to get it onto the paper. I place the ball point tip of the pen on the blue line and attempt to write.North Korea . . .I’m not two words in when my hand starts to shake. The words become nothing but illegible scribbles. My heart hammers in my chest as I try harder and harder to control my hand. But it’s no use. Control is the last thing I have. I throw the pen and notebook across the room. “Fuck!”
Laney startles and looks up. “What wrong?”
“I hate the fucking Korean War,” I erupt.
“What?” Her pretty blue eyes are confused.
I’m falling apart inside. Every time I try to do anything with my right hand, it ends with something either broken or thrown across the room. The one part of my body I need to work most is being the most difficult, and I’m reminded every damn day that my dreams are slipping away. And I just don’t know how I’m going to handle it when the gauntlet drops and my life disintegrates. Five words will seal my fate: You can’t play football anymore.
“Kam?” Laney is standing beside me now. How long has she been there? “You okay? You checked out for a second.”
“I’m fine, Lemon. Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just this whole healing thing is a little frustrating sometimes.”
I wonder if she’s buying my bull.
“Frustrating?” she repeats, like she’s testing the word. “I’d call it more maddening based on your earlier outburst.”
Nope, not buying my BS for one second. Laney retrieves the notebook and pen from across the room. Watching her bend over makes me feel a little bit better.
Laney looks down at the pad, and I know I’ve stepped in shit now based on her facial expression. It’s puzzled, and I think a little sad. She looks up at me with soft eyes. I have no idea what to say. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want face the truth if it’s real.
Laney walks across the room, straight for me. I watch every soft step she takes. My blood heats up. It seems the closer she is to me, the warmer my insides become. And it’s not just from arousal, she also excites my heart.
Laney makes no qualms about sitting next to me on the mattress. She positions my textbook in front of her and rests my notebook on her lap. Then she grabs my hand and places the pen between my fingers. I tense as she encloses her hand over mine, like how you’d teach a child how to trace. The feel of her skin is euphoric, and I’m at a loss to even come up with a word for the way she smells. I don’t need one; I’m fine just getting high off the scent. It has my cells pumping right along with the rhythm of my pulse. Laney starts to move our connected hands like one.
“When I was a little girl,” she begins, never looking away from the notebook, “I wouldn’t eat anything but spaghetti. And, being the chef that he is, it drove my father crazy. But after a while, making spaghetti became our thing. He would hold my hand like this.” She squeezes my fingers. “And teach me how to stir the sauce. I wasn’t very good at it, at first. It took a lot of practice. I would flick it all over the stove. But the more spaghetti we made, the better I became at stirring the sauce.”
Laney stops writing and I look down at the words we wrote together: Practice Makes Perfect.
Such a simple statement, and maybe before I would have believed it. But now? It seems hopeless.
“I’m not so sure, Lemon.”
