Water boy, p.4
Water Boy, page 4
“I wasn’t staring. You must have been staring to know I’ve been staring.”
He smiles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Observation is key in any field, including the study of ‘Stare-ology 101.’ Guess we both aced that class.”
“Anyway,” I say, clearing the clog in my throat. “We can discuss our project, and I’ve also decided on my outing.”
“Okay,” he replies with a casual shrug. “Let’s start with the questions first.”
I click around my laptop, waiting for my Word document to load. The damn shit thing takes forever.
He leans back with a sigh. “Was your laptop constructed before Christ or?”
“Hold your horses, will you?” I snap. A few more seconds tick by before the details appear. Finally. “Okay, ready to go now. So, um, how many siblings do you have?” I huff out, flustered.
“Two. I have an older brother and a younger sister, whom my family adopted. But she’s like a blood sister to me, and I’m very protective of her.” His eyes light up as he talks. “She’s also spoilt.”
Every time I hear the word “adoption,” a tightness forms in my throat. There was a time when a family came, not just looking for a child, but for me. They wanted someone close in age for their son.
They were kind, eyes full of a future I had only dreamed of. But then there was Dara, her small hands clutching mine under the table, her eyes fearful and pleading.
“Chess, are you going to leave me?” she asked.
No. I wasn’t going to leave her.
I was letting her leave me.
I remember the strain in my chest and the resolve that built up like a tsunami as I told the prospective parents about Dara—her laughter, her dreams, the way she lit up a room. I painted the picture of a life with her in it, not me.
“It should be Dara,” I insisted, my voice steady even as my heart wavered. “She needs you...she needs a family like yours.”
When they met her, I saw the decision made in their smiles and how their attention shifted. I saw the future I was giving her as I stepped back into the shadows of the Thompson home.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, convincing them to take her instead. But it was also the most important.
Late in the night, I carefully packed all her things to ensure nothing delayed her departure, right down to her little worn kid’s toothbrush. I chose to remain in a place that had never been a refuge so Dara could finally have one.
So that those monsters would never lay a finger on her again.
I often think about Dara and wonder whether she thinks about me or even remembers me. I don’t regret what I did, and deep down in my heart, I know that Dara is safe and loved, which keeps me hopeful.
“That’s wonderful,” I say, staring down at my questions, my eyes blurring slightly. “And I genuinely mean that. I do. She’s very lucky.” It falls silent for a moment, his confused eyes on me as I focus on my laptop. “Um…next question is, what’s the most important value you hold to, and why?”
His face creases for a moment. “Are those the actual questions? They look different from the ones on the breakdown.”
“I made my own. The ones Hallman gave are cookie-cutter and bland. If you prefer that I go back to using the—”
“No, it’s fine.” He blows out a breath, his eyes reflecting a mix of thoughts. “Anyway, what I value the most is loyalty—to family, friends, and your romantic partner.”
As I listen, I can’t help but be taken aback by the sincerity in his voice when he speaks of loyalty. I’ve always admired this quality, but hearing it emphasized so strongly adds a new layer to my understanding of who he is. It makes me reassess my personal assumptions about him, realizing there’s more depth to Pace than I give him credit for.
I nod, genuinely impressed with his answer yet intrigued to dive deeper. “Great. How would you describe your identity, and has it changed over time?”
He leans back, his eyes drifting to a point above my head. A flash of vulnerability suddenly makes him seem less of an unapproachable captain and more human.
“I guess you could say I’ve been through a few versions of myself,” he begins. “When I was younger, I wanted to fit the mold of what my family and coaches wanted me to be—the athlete, the achiever, always pushing for more. But it felt like wearing someone else’s armor. It was protective but heavy, never quite right.”
He pauses, his gaze fixed intently on me. “Over time, I realized my identity isn’t just about what I do on the field. It’s also about who I am off of it. The brother, the friend, someone who’s learning that it’s okay not to have all the answers and that it’s okay to care deeply, even if it means getting hurt.”
I shift uncomfortably and avert my gaze for a second.
“So, yeah, my identity has changed.” His expression softens. “It’s become more about being authentic, true to myself, and open to the people I trust. It’s a work in progress, but that’s the point, right?”
His words hang in the air, resonating with a part of me usually tucked away, hidden beneath layers of necessity and survival.
“Yes. Identity’s a tricky thing,” I say, my voice even. “It’s like a river, always moving, never quite the same in any two places. Sometimes I think we’re all just...shifting shapes to fit the spaces life carves out for us.”
He eyes me for a long moment, deciphering my words in his head before he gives me a slow nod. His gaze drifts past me momentarily, landing on the dance squad where Alyssa sits.
“Speaking of fitting molds,” I say, clearing my throat. “Alyssa doesn’t seem to be one for the typical popular girl stereotype, does she?”
His eyes return to me, and they narrow. “Do you genuinely want to know, or do you need intel to go back and tell her what we discussed?” A brow rises, almost touching his hairline.
Oh, we’re wading into dangerous waters now.
“Never mind. Let’s refocus,” I reply, my tone light, almost flippant.
“No. I want to know where that was going.” He leans back, folding his hands at the back of his head. “You’ve got a funny way of showing disinterest.”
Defiance rises within me, and I snap my laptop shut with a decisive click. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me, Frankie Mercer.”
His use of my full name feels like a gauntlet thrown.
“She said she’d bite if you grew a pair and approached her yourself,” I bark.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
He smirks. “So, you have been talking about me.”
I falter for a moment. “You came up once during a conversation.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, you have no trouble with other girls. Why’s it different with Alyssa?” My gaze drops down to the sleek silver of my Dell laptop while his chair creaks under his weight.
He sits forward, bringing his voice to a low whisper. “You think you’ve got us all figured out, huh?”
I let his words hang like a baited hook, unsure I want to bite. “Enlighten me then. I’m all ears. Well, 20% of the time when it concerns you.”
“With certain girls...” he trails off, his eyes never leaving mine. “You don’t just walk up and make your move. It’s a dance, not a race.”
“Then can you dance your way to stop talking in riddles? I don’t have time to decode you.”
“Funny, Mercer. You seem to be the one always decoding.”
“Anyway, I’m done with this conversation.” I start to pack my laptop away.
“You off-kilter?” he accuses, a smile prancing across his face. “About the fact that I find your blonde friend cute, wishing it were you?”
My shoulders tense. The idea of Pace with Alyssa stirs a strange mix of—I don’t even want to go there, but rather jab myself in the face for feeling remotely bothered by it.
Lame.
It’s not like I want him for myself. Plus, Pace is into girls, and I don’t present as one, so my chances are slim to none.
Not that I’m thinking about chances.
With our eyes locked, his cocky grin throws me off even more, and I feel my cheeks burning hotter than usual.
“What if I happen to be interested in her too?” The words leap from my mouth before I can weigh them.
Shit. That was reckless.
I have no feelings or intentions of dating Alyssa because I’m attracted to full-blown males.
He laughs. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He scrutinizes me for a long second, and it’s clear he isn’t buying it. “Nah, Frankie. I think I know what you really want.”
Something shifts inside me as he laughs—a tangle of frustration and a longing for recognition. Not just as Frankie the friend or Frankie the ‘water boy,’ but as Frankie, the person I’m still piecing together day by day.
I stand. “We can pick back up some other time.”
“Sit down, Mercer. We’re not done.”
“I would, but I’m allergic to snotty jocks. Makes my balls shrivel up until they become little knobs of numbnuts.” My eyes fall to his big lips, and I wish I had a pin to pop them like a balloon. “I’m leaving,” I grit out.
He releases a long, exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I’ll expect your text about when we can start our practical. Looking forward to it.”
“Text you tonight. See ya.”
As I walk away, I feel his eyes on me until I’ve made it through the safety of the exit door. The carnival event I chose will be filled with joy and a little freedom, a day where the only role I have to play is my own.
But damn, the excitement is now clouded by a gnawing irritation…
Pace’s interest in a certain pretty blonde.
My laptop’s screen casts a glow in the dim light of our dorm room, where Sitiveni lies on his bed, scrolling through his phone.
The carnival website I’m scouring promises a day of ‘unforgettable fun and excitement.’ I hover over the ‘purchase tickets’ button, my bank account tighter than the wrap flattening my breasts.
Price: $75 per adult.
Shit.
There goes part of my funds for the hybrid bike I was saving for.
I click through anyway because this isn’t only about getting my thirty percent; it’s about reclaiming a piece of the childhood I never got to live.
I remember the glossy brochures of family outings that littered the coffee tables at the Thompson home. The couple had one biological son, Cain, whose cousin Benson stayed over frequently. Often, they were left to their own vices.
They were excited, knowing they’d be going, while Dara and I stayed behind to scrub floors like little Cinderellas.
I learned to fold my desires into quiet corners, telling myself I’d have my turn one day. And now, with the tickets confirmed, that day is fast approaching.
After putting my laptop away, I grab my phone to let the bane of my existence know about my plans.
Me: Hey, Pace. I bought the carnival tickets, so we’re all set for Saturday.
I see dots appearing, prompting an odd twist in my tummy. It feels ridiculous, this buildup of nerves over a simple response, as if my entire sense of equilibrium hangs on his fucking words. Knowing Pace, he’d most likely leave me on read, or worse, cancel at the last minute.
I nearly jump as my phone buzzes, breaking the tense silence of the room.
Pace: Hey, Frankie. Sounds good. See you then.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, I stare at his text. The words are simple, direct, and somehow feel like a promise.
Yeah, right. Dream on.
Me: Thanks, Pace. Looking forward to it.
I delete the message before sending it. It’s more a note to myself than to him—a reminder that this Saturday, I’m not just going to show up; I’m going to live it fully. Maybe even let him see the sides of me that aren’t just about textbooks and team water bottles.
Maybe this time, he’ll really see me.
CHAPTER 7
Frankie
I meet Pace outside my building; his hair tousled like one coming down from the high of a post-coital fuck, his jacked form leaning against a sleek machine that screams privilege. It’s not the truck he usually drives; it’s a perky black Audi R8. Sigh.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, flashing the tickets from my phone. Maybe I should have shaken the phone closer to my face to hide the subtle blush on my cheeks.
He shrugs. “I’m just the chauffeur wanting my thirty percent.”
I nod, the words leaving a faint sting. “Right. No worries.”
As we slide into the car, a surge of nerves grips me. My hands clutch the seatbelt, fastening it with a click that sounds too loud in this confined space. The engine hums to life, and a silent apprehension fills my chest.
While the car moves, I steal a glance at Pace. His face is set, focused on the road ahead, but there’s a tension in his jaw. It’s a telltale sign that he’s not as indifferent as he claims.
I turn my gaze back to the window, the scenery blurring past, and my mind a whirl of what-ifs and maybes. But beneath the surface, there’s a current of hope. For me, it’s the thrill of a first-time experience; for Pace, an asshole ticking a box.
For a moment, I wish he’d play music from the car stereo to muffle the awkward silence as we drive.
Once we park and walk through the gates, I inhale the thick scent of popcorn and cotton candy. Children dash past us, their laughter echoing the vibrant chaos of the carnival.
However, Pace’s gaze is distant, and he speeds ahead of me without looking back. He doesn’t want to be seen with me, putting deliberate distance between us.
When I finally catch up, I coax him to the first ride, a towering Ferris wheel that gives us a view of the entire park.
“Come on, Pace. It’s part of the experience,” I say, offering a gentle smile to encourage him.
“I’ve done this before, Frankie,” he grumbles. “I don’t need a recap.”
His comment lands with more impact than I anticipated, causing a brief falter in my posture. However, I do my best to hide it.
Despite his reluctance, he finally gives in and climbs into the gondola beside me, sighing as if irritated. We sit, and the wait feels endless before the gondola finally begins to move.
I press my face against the cool metal bars as it ascends, my eyes wide with wonder. Pace sits back, his body language resigned, but his eyes track my every reaction.
At the top, the world stretches out beneath us, a tapestry of lights and movement. I can’t help the gasp that escapes me; the sheer beauty of it all overwhelming.
Every light below us feels like a star within reach, and I wonder if Pace sees it, too. This magic is hard to put into words, but he’s too caught up in his own world to notice. I nervously turn to him, catching a fleeting look in his eyes before he turns away.
The ride continues, and I feel a growing sense of freedom. But I realize that while living this dream, I’m doing it alongside someone who doesn’t want to be here.
Pace
The gondola sways, and bittersweet flashbacks surface—flickers of Rebecca’s laughter and the warmth of her hand in mine. But as I glance at Frankie’s awestruck expression, a subtle squeeze happens in my chest.
His joy is infectious, and for a passing moment, I let it in.
“You okay, Pace?” he asks, his eyes clouded in concern when they meet mine. There’s a hint of disquiet there, and my stomach churns.
I swallow. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Unexpectedly, the gondola jerks to a stop. Frankie’s face pales, his knuckles white as he grips the safety bar. Without thinking, I carefully move closer, an instinctive protective gesture.
“We’re okay,” I tell him. “Promise.”
When the ride resumes, Frankie’s breath evens out. “Was worried there for a moment,” he jokes.
The joy on his face slowly returns and I long to feel the same, but Rebecca’s ghost hovers too close. The carnival is a minefield of memories.
“Look at that view,” Frankie whispers to himself.
Despite the longing in my heart, I can’t help but utter, “It’s not just the view that’s surprising me today.”
Frankie doesn’t notice, lost in his excitement.
During the following few rides, I mostly stand on the sidelines, my participation passive at best. I hold Frankie’s things while he goes from ride to ride, my gaze following his figure as he blends into the crowd of carnival goers.
I feel a twinge of guilt when I catch him stealing worried glances in my direction as he waits for his food. It’s as if he’s silently urging the vendor to hurry up, not wanting to inconvenience me further.
Yeah, I’m really putting a damper on his day. Fuck.
We stop at the rollercoaster, and he stands in the queue alone while I linger at a distance like a spectator. He sparks up a conversation with a young kid who looks to be about five years old.
The child’s eyes follow his every gesture, hanging onto his words as if they’re the most exciting tale ever told.
The kid is fascinated with the rugby ball keychain hanging from Frankie’s wallet. Frankie points at me, and the little kid’s head swings in my direction.
“That tall guy is a rugby player,” he says enthusiastically. “It’s almost like football but not quite. And he’s outstanding. Maybe you can be like him one day.”
I watch Frankie unclip the keychain and hand it over, his actions generous and unthinking. The kid’s excitement, the kind that only children can have over the smallest gifts, warms my heart.
“Daddy, look what I got!” he exclaims, eager to show his new gift to his parents. “I’m going to be a rugby player!”
For a second, I wish I could step into that world where past griefs don’t overshadow simple joys.
Frankie savors every moment throughout the day, from the cotton candy to the games. When he heads to the bumper cars—a favorite of Rebecca’s—my feet stay rooted to the spot. I see her hair flying in the wind, the laughter and thrill from the rides circling back to her.
