Plays well with others, p.2
Plays Well With Others, page 2
Wait…Does that sound dirty? Want to let me in? Or does it only sound dirty today?
“Of course,” she says.
The buzzer blares, and I bound up the steps. She’s already opening the door when I get there. Her chestnut hair is swept back in a ponytail and she’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and the most awkward grin ever.
Eyes up, I thrust the bag at her. “I got you a mug. A housewarming present.”
“Oh.” She takes the mug from the bag, but before I can see her reaction, I peer around her place, looking for something to focus on other than my dirty thoughts.
Ah, perfect. Her windowsill is covered in tiny plants. I didn’t notice those last time I was here. I point at one with leaves and shit. “Hey, is that…a cactus?”
“No. It’s basil. But close.”
“Cool, cool,” I say, and I’m pretty sure basil has nothing in common with desert plants, but that’s good of her to be so chill. I beeline for the windowsill, stopping to pick up a pot from the floor. I set it with the rest of her plant family, keeping myself busy.
“That’s the rosemary,” she says, bright and cheery. Maybe more cheery than usual?
I scratch my jaw as I stare at the plants, then check out a taller one on the floor next to the windowsill. “Is this a fern?” I ask, though I’ve no idea what ferns look like. Green, maybe?
“No. But good guess. The tall one is a ficus. I call him Bob the Ficus. Well, Juliet named him. She gave it to me. Said it’s a starting over plant.” Like me, Rachel is talking a little faster and chirpier than usual.
“Smart move on your sister’s part.” I touch Bob’s waxy leaves. “I’ve been meaning to get a plant,” I say, and that’s a lie. But the more I talk about plants, the less I’ll think about tits. “Do you have to, um, water Bob a lot?”
“I do. Bob gets thirsty. I could use this mug to water him,” she says, extra upbeat.
And hey, if she’s not weird, I don’t need to be weird. Besides, we’ve got plants to discuss. Slowly, I wheel around, successfully keeping my vision locked on hers in a straight line. “That’s perfect because the mug, you know, holds water.”
“One of the nice things about mugs,” she says from across the room.
“Or you can use it to drink coffee, or wine, or really anything. Tea, soda,” I say, then pause to think about more beverages so I don’t think about breasts. “Juice maybe.”
“I don’t like juice. But wine could work,” she says in the same spirit.
It’s like the incident never happened. “Want to break it in?”
“With wine? I mean, sure. I got a delivery.”
I shake my head. “No. I meant to water Bob?”
“Oh, sure. Or you can. To practice for your own Bob,” she offers.
Right. Yeah. I’m getting a Bob, evidently.
She turns into the open-plan kitchen. Since I’m doing well at not staring below her neck, I follow her, stopping at the counter full of boxes while she fusses around with the faucet. She heaves a sigh, then another, finally lasering me with a no-bullshit look. “Carter. This is a mug that says I’m going to pretend I never saw your boobs, right?”
I blink.
“What? No. No way,” I say, sputtering as images rush back to my brain—my lifelong friend, naked on camera, steam rising around her like she’s a goddess. Pale skin that invites kisses. Curves that should be worshiped. Flesh, so much gorgeous flesh that I now know exists under her clothes.
Yes, I’ve always known she’s a woman. But I’ve never thought of her as a woman. A sexy, sensual woman with water sliding down the valley of her breasts. A woman with lush curves and dips and places for my lips to travel.
I am a bad man with a very dirty mind.
But I’m relieved, too, that she’s dealing with the elephant taking up all the space in the tiny kitchen. She’s a better human than I am.
I exhale deeply, admitting…everything. “You’re right. I’ve been making bullshit small talk.”
Chin up, she gives me a tough-girl grin. “So then this is now officially the commemorative I-saw-your-breasts mug.”
I laugh as she plays our mug-naming game. “Exactly. And who cares? We’re friends. It’s fine.”
She shrugs like it’s all no big deal. “It’s totally fine. Let’s water Bob.”
I take the offered mug and head to the thirsty plant. When I’m done, I square my shoulders like I’ve accomplished something amazing. Well, in a way, I have. “I’m ready to be a plant daddy now.”
“There comes a time in every man’s life when he can take that next step. I’m proud of you, Carter.”
You know what? So am I.
It’s taken a mythical creature on a mug, a thirsty plant, and a whole lot of superhuman willpower, but I’m almost free from the new word of the day.
Rearranging her living room helps me even more. Using my body has always calmed my mind. Hell, I could move her couch all day long if I had to. Turn it ninety degrees. Turn it again. Move it here. Move it there. Doesn’t matter. I like to stay active however I can.
As much as I possibly can.
But there’s nothing left to move now that she’s finally got the couch where she wants it, situated with a view of California Street and the city of San Francisco beyond.
She sinks onto the cranberry-colored cushion, patting the seat beside her. “I do love a good sit,” she says.
Sitting is not my speed, but since she’s urging me to join her, I flop down next to her.
Not too close though.
We both stare out the big bay window, drinking in the city that’s always been my home. Even when my parents moved to Los Angeles for a bit—then moved back—this city with its hills and fog, its crooked streets, and impossible-to-keep-up-with restaurants has always called to me.
To Rachel, too, it seems, since she’s returned here.
She sighs happily as we watch the city roll by.
“Perfect,” she says, looking my way with gratitude and a legit smile that I haven’t seen much of recently. When I smile back, she squeezes my shoulder. “It’s completely different from my view the last several years. Which means, it’s what I want.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I’m not glad about what happened, but it’s good you came home,” I say.
She nods resolutely. “Yeah, me too.”
There’s sadness in her voice, but something like possibility too. Maybe a shred of hope. Then she shakes her head, as if she’s shaking off that dangerous emotion. She spins around, her smile real now. “And you’re coming to my breakup party tomorrow. I need it. It’s the real starting over.”
“Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“The Tata Incident won’t change things, right?” she asks, a touch of worry in her tone.
I scoff. “Hell no.”
“Good,” she says, then moves closer to me and gives me a half hug.
I try. I swear, I try to be good. But my eyes. Those naughty fuckers. They steal a peek at the top of her shirt.
I tear my gaze away before I can undress her again mentally.
I am going to have to run six miles tonight to undo the incident.
But I can forget it. It’s what I need, and it’s clearly what she wants since later that night after a haircut and an eight-mile run—overachiever that I am—there’s a delivery waiting for me at my home.
I’m not good with plant species, but I recognize this one for sure. It’s a forget-my-tits ficus.
The note from Rachel confirms it—Meet Jane.
It’s like the incident never happened. This is for the best, but it also makes me a little…lachrymose.
3
HAVE YOU CONSIDERED A GEORGIA O’KEEFFE FOR YOUR UNICORN DICK?
Carter
There’s nothing like having free therapy living next door.
The next morning, I’m emptying the dishwasher and getting my neighbor Monroe up to speed on the Rachel situation.
He’s parked on a stool at the kitchen counter, listening as he savors one of my best-ever cortados, courtesy of this brand-new Slayer single boiler I am obsessed with.
“And then she sent me a plant,” I say, finishing the story.
“Let me rewind to my favorite bit. You actually got her a unicorn mug?”
I shoot him a duh stare as I stack plates in the open cupboard. “Was that not clear, doc?”
With a chuckle, he shakes his head. “I think what’s quite clear is you were thinking with your dick.”
“Have a little sympathy here. It’s that thing where you care what happens to other people.”
“Thanks. I’m in short supply lately.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say.
He waggles his cup at me. “But I will compliment you on this drink. It’s like sex in coffee form.”
“Right?” I say, proud of my newly acquired espresso skills. Taught myself. It’s like a puzzle, making coffee that tastes as good as coming. “I’m a fucking rock star barista.”
“We need to work on your confidence, Carter,” he says, then takes a drink as my phone’s alarm blinks with a notification—Do NOT forget you’re playing golf with your agent tomorrow morning, you time lord.
I groan. I don’t want to deal with that one. I do like golf, but I also know I need to talk to my agent about Date Night, one of my sponsors that I owe some appearances to. I’ve been putting off that convo as long as I can.
I silence the alarm, then turn back to Monroe. “So? What do I do?”
Monroe fixes me with a serious stare. “You want to know how to get past the incident,” he says, sketching air quotes.
“Yes,” I say emphatically. “Her party is tonight. I need to be there as her friend. Her longtime buddy. Not the pervy bastard whose mind is elsewhere. Ever since it happened, I’m like—” I gesture to my head, then make a scrambling gesture. “I don’t need more things going haywire upstairs.”
He nods, with real sympathy this time. “I understand,” he says, then takes a very psychologist-like weighty pause. “But you may want to consider if you’ve got some subliminal things going on with you…and, well, her.”
I scrunch my brow. “Translation please, Freud.”
“When I said you were thinking with your dick, I meant it. You have dick on your mind.” He takes a beat, then in his classic, droll style, he adds, “You got her a unicorn, man.”
He makes a rolling gesture, waiting for me to connect the dots. When I do two seconds later, I drop my head on the counter and bang it a few times. “A unicorn has a dick on its head,” I mutter.
When I raise my face, Monroe is slow-clapping. Asshole. “Good job, buddy,” he says. “But let’s not forget the symbolism of the pink bag either. You put the unicorn mug in the pink bag.”
“Pink is innocent, Jung,” I protest, but it dies on my tongue. He’s so right. How did I miss it? “Is giving a woman a unicorn in a pink bag some new dating lingo for you want to bone her? I do not want to learn any new dating codes,” I say, then sigh heavily.
He raises his empty cup in anti-dating solidarity. Dude’s been burned too. As for me, I still have the tire tracks on my back from Quinn’s peel-out-of-town-with-the-engagement-ring act a year ago. “I hear ya.”
I shove thoughts of my ex and the ax she wielded to my heart aside, flashing him a cocky grin. “Though, to be fair, I do have a unicorn dick.”
Monroe stares blankly at me, like he’s not even going to dignify that with a response. Fair enough. “Let’s rewind to thirty seconds ago, please. The part about your brain going haywire.”
That’s the real issue. Even with the eight-mile run last night, even with the new plant—that reminds me, I need to water Jane, so I grab a water bottle and fill it—I’m still thinking about Rachel in new ways.
Wildly inappropriate ways.
I had a dirty dream about her last night, and I don’t need a dating code or a shrink friend to decipher it. I put her on her hands and knees on a raft in a stormy sea. I don’t think the dream means I want to visit a beach with her so much as show her the motion of the ocean. I woke up far too hot and bothered for a workday. “Seriously, how do I get these thoughts out of my head? Do I have OCD now too?”
From someone else, that might sound like a joke. But I mean it genuinely. It’s a legit worry, given what I deal with every damn day.
Monroe knows where I’m coming from, and he must read the seriousness in my tone, because his shifts too. This is the voice he reserves for patients. “I’m not your therapist,” he says, giving me his familiar caveat, “and I can’t diagnose you, but I don’t think you do. I do, however, think there are encounters in our lives that we can fixate on. That anyone can fixate on, regardless of brain chemistry. Like, when a parent walks in on a teenager masturbating.”
I shudder. “It’s taken me years to get over that day.”
“That’s my point.”
I set the water bottle down on the counter, then I return to the dishwasher, grabbing the utensil basket. “All right. I’m going to go work out some more,” I say as I snag the forks and set them in a drawer. “Round up a few of the guys for some extra practice. Find a new hobby. Take up kayaking. I bet my contract permits that. Maybe woodworking. I already aced espresso-making. So I need something new anyway.”
“Relax, Carter. The best thing you can do in these situations is to acknowledge them. You did that already with Rachel. It defuses the awkwardness. If it’s still weighing on you tonight at her party, just make a joke, have a laugh, then move on for her sake. She’s probably way more embarrassed than you are. And then, focus on all the reasons you like being friends with her.”
That’s brilliant. I smack the counter like I’m nailing an answer on a quiz show. “She was my jigsaw puzzle club partner in high school,” I point out excitedly. “We could start a jigsaw puzzle club again. That’ll be friendship vibes for sure.”
“Great. Maybe get her a puzzle before the party,” he says, then checks his watch. “My first client will be here soon. I need to go dispense paid wisdom.”
I point at the gleaming silver espresso machine. “Oh, I paid for that wisdom.”
“True,” he says with a smirk, then pushes back from the stool, standing. “But here’s some free advice for you. Try a Georgia O’Keeffe puzzle.”
I make a mental note as I put the spoons away. “New puzzle brand?”
“Yes, Carter. I keep up on puzzle brands,” he says dryly. Then he leaves for his office in the townhome next to mine.
I swivel away from the open drawer. I’ll finish putting these dishes away in twenty seconds. Just need to know more about this puzzle maker. Grabbing my phone from the counter, I google Georgia O’Keeffe.
Fucking Monroe.
She’s that artist who painted flowers that look like vaginas.
The downside of a neighbor who’s a therapist is there’s someone right next door to mock you.
I click over to my texts and fire one off.
Carter: Look for a delivery later. A book of Georgia O’Keeffe paintings. Think of it as a map. I know dinosaurs roamed the earth the last time you were up close and personal with a real one.
Monroe: Pot. Kettle.
Dammit. He’s too right.
But I still like the puzzle idea. I hop over to my to-do list and add Look for non-unicorn, non-Georgia O’Keeffe, non-pink puzzle.
Then, a new calendar item pops up. An invitation from Rachel. I open it. Water Jane, you badass plant daddy.
Damn, see inside my soul, woman.
I hit accept, grab the water bottle I’d forgotten about, and feed Jane. When I’m done, I head to the bathroom. As I brush my teeth, I pick up my day-of-the-week pill container to confirm what I suspect. Yup. I took it this morning right on time. I can’t take Adderall since it’s a banned substance in pro football, but I’ve been taking non-stimulant meds for years.
They help.
Mostly.
I’m sure Quinn would say they don’t, but whatever. She might not have liked that I was late now and then to pick her up for dates, but I’m not the one who ran off to join the circus after saying yes to a marriage proposal. A few weeks after posting her look at my ring pics, she skipped out of here with her diamond, leaving only a goodbye text that said Got a gig with Cirque du Soleil! Maybe we can date another time.
So, maybe the demise wasn’t about my occasional tardiness.
Still, I know what I was like without these, and I didn’t enjoy myself then. The meds don’t solve everything, but they make it easier for me to be present at most everyday moments.
Like this party tonight, when I will be all friendship all the time with Rachel. And, as Monroe suggested, I’ll try to find a moment to joke about yesterday.
After brushing my teeth, I take off to pick up our kicker on the way to practice. Thank fuck for the game. Football is one of the few times everything goes quiet and comes into focus. My brain settles down on the field and knows its place—working in synchronicity with my body. Another thing happens, too, when I play ball. Time makes perfect sense. The clock is my friend, not my enemy. When I play football, I can feel the passing of every single second and experience every glorious moment.
The sport is a little like magic.
And, after the last twenty-four hours, I’m craving the tricks football plays on my mind.
4
AND THE DRESS CODE TONIGHT IS…
Rachel
I should call it off.
I’m not a throw-myself-a-party person. It’s a little self-indulgent.
I’m pacing behind the counter of my jewelry shop on Friday evening, seriously weighing my decision to let Juliet talk me into this fête. It’s just me here, handling the shop solo since I sent Fable home early to work on her own jewelry designs.
Alone with my thoughts, I’m second-guessing tonight big time. Is an extravagant party really the best way to start over? Maybe I should stay home and find a new recipe to tinker with. I discovered a great new baking blog earlier this week. I bet there are all sorts of fun treats I can make. Maybe give out to my neighbors as I get to know them.
