Chapter 21
Colby
Dinner is done. The plates from Mom’s lasagna have long since been cleared. Kat and Dax are playing Hearts with my parents in the kitchen while I’m lying on the couch with Ralph, surrounded by Ryan, Keane, and Keane’s best friend since forever, Zander—a large, black mountain of a man with a mega-watt smile who’s an honorary brother to us all. And, as so often happens when the Morgan family gets together, our neon sheep is entertaining everyone in his orbit with his unique brand of Peenie-ness. Tonight, Keane has been dazzling us with his newly formulated theories on... wait for it... female mind control.
“And it’s just that simple,” Keane says, snapping his fingers.
“Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me,” Ryan says, bringing his beer bottle to his lips.
“It’s not,” Keane insists. “It works every time. Take yesterday at the hospital, for example. While in line in the cafeteria, I said the thing I told you about to this thirty-ish physical therapist with a banging body, and not two minutes later, at her suggestion, I was pounding her from behind in a supply closet.”
“What?” I blurt.
“Which one?” Ryan asks.
“The one across from the cafeteria,” Keane replies.
Ryan scoffs. “Not which supply closet, you dumbfuck! Which physical therapist?”
“Oh.” Keane chuckles. “Ramona.” But when the name doesn’t ring a bell with Ryan or me, Keane adds, “The one with the reddish hair and the tight little body who kept lurking outside Colby’s room all week long. You know, the chick who kept looking at me, you, and Dax like she wanted us to make her airtight.”
Ryan cringes. “Oh for the love of fuck, Peenie! That’s the one with the crazy eyes I told you and Dax about. The one I said kept coming at me in the hallway every time I left Colby’s room.”
Zander laughs. “Sounds like she struck out on her first choice of Morgan brother and settled for door number two, baby doll.”
“More like door number stupid,” Ryan says, and everyone, including Keane, laughs.
“Well, shit,” Keane says, scratching his head. “I didn’t realize Ramona was the bunny boiler you told us about. But now it makes perfect sense. That chick definitely has a crazy gleam in her eye like she’s figuring out where to hide the body. That’s why I fucked her from behind, actually. That crazy look in her eye kind of freaked me out.”
We all lose it.
I say, “Hey, Keaney, here’s a tip: If a woman looks so fucking crazy you don’t want to look her in the eye while banging her, then that’s a pretty good sign she’s a hard pass.”
We all laugh again.
“All I wanted to do those first couple days at the hospital was sob my eyes out,” Ryan says. “But every time I left Bee’s room to go to the bathroom or grab a coffee, there she was again, asking me how Colby was doing and flashing me ‘Come fuck me in a supply closet!’ eyes. She’s obviously a grade-A bunny boiler, Peenie.”
“Oh, now you know how to spot a bunny boiler, Rum Cake?” I say.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Olivia’s not a bunny boiler, motherfucker.” He lets out a little puff of exasperation. “I mean, yeah, I admit she’s a bit of a drama queen, but she’s not a bunny boiler.”
“Just admit defeat already, Captain,” Keane says. He puts out his palm. “I’ll take my fifty bucks in four tens, a five, four singles, a nickel, and ninety-five pennies, please.”
Ryan smacks Keane’s open palm. “Not gonna happen, Peenie Baby. And don’t change the subject. I want to hear more about that supply closet. Because, gosh, when I’m visiting my brother in the ICU who’s breathing on a ventilator, the only thing I’m thinking about doing is getting laid by some nut job in a supply closet.”
Keane scoffs. “First off, this happened yesterday, son. Colby was off the ventilator and out of the ICU when I fucked her. I’m not an animal. And, second off, okay, yes, I’ll be the first to admit it was beneath me. Not Ramona. I fucked her from behind, like I said. But the situation was beneath me. Lowbrow, even for me. But in my defense, I was super stressed about my wise and beloved Master Yoda being reduced to a pile of rubble, and I thought playing a little Hide the Bishop with a bunny boiler in a supply closet would make me forget my woes for a hot minute.”
“And did it work?” Zander asks. “Did you forget your woes for a hot minute, sugar lips?”
“Not so much, sweet meat. As it turns out, even the mighty pussy isn’t powerful enough to make a dude forget certain woes. Unfortunately, the whole thing just wound up feeling super skeevy.” He shudders. “But, oh well. I’m a twenty-two-year-old dumbshit. If I’m not having fucked-up, skeezalicious, supply-closet sex in a vain effort to ease my crippling worry about The One I Love the Most, then I’m doing something wrong with what the good lord gave me.”
“Damn, that was a whole lot of Peenie-ness all at once,” I say, chuckling.
Ryan says, “And what exactly did the good lord give you again, Peen Star? Shit for brains? And fuck you, by the way. I thought I was The One You Love the Most.”
“Not anymore. Try rushing into a fiery inferno to save a little baby and maybe you’ll retake my top spot.”
Boom.
In a flash, I’m right back in that burning building. Trapped. I hear that poor baby screaming. See the relief in her eyes at the sight of me. She reaches for me. I scoop her up and hug her to me.
Colby’s got you.
Oh, God. Those goddamned words will torture me until the day I die.
Ryan says something, but I can’t process it. His voice sounds like he’s talking through a toilet paper roll.
I stroke Ralph with urgency, my heart beating against my sternum.
Colby’s got you.
I drag myself to the window. Break the glass. Terror. That’s what I feel. The most acute terror of my life. My throat burns. My lungs sizzle.
Colby’s got you.
The gates of hell blast open behind me. A wall of flames roars at my back and reaches for me. I’ve got maybe ten seconds before I’m burned alive.
Ten... nine...
I stroke Ralph even more fervently, trying to calm myself.
Colby’s got you.
Seven... six...
The baby’s head lolls to the side. Her face is charred. Her hair singed clean off.
Four... three...
Ryan’s voice pings around the edges of my consciousness, pulling me back to the present. He’s asking me if I’m okay, but I can’t reply. I close my eyes and try to remember the thing that therapist told me about yesterday. That little trick she said I should try when I find myself trapped in the fire again. Visualize a dandelion, the therapist from yesterday said. The dandelion is your panic, Colby. It’s your fear. Visualize the dandelion and blow on it. Watch its seeds scatter and float noiselessly into the wind. Off they go, Colby. Away, away, away.
I take a deep breath and let out a long, slow stream of air from my O-shaped mouth.
Away, away, away.
The flames recede. They’re not completely gone, but at least I can breathe again.
Away, away, away.
I open my eyes.
Damn, I guess that therapist knew what she was talking about.
Huh.
I didn’t intend to meet with her in my hospital room yesterday. She showed up unsolicited and sat down next to my bed. “My good friend, Lydia Decker, asked me to drop by,” she said. “I work in the building next door and she thought I might come by and answer any questions you might have about trauma therapy.”
Lydia.
The woman is relentlessly kind.
Just thinking about her soothes my tortured soul. In fact, fuck the dandelion. Next time those flames come for me again, I’ll imagine myself camped between Lydia’s mocha thighs, my tongue lodged firmly into her sweet wetness. Now that’s a visual to make a guy a happy camper again.
“Colby?” Ryan says. He’s standing next to the couch, looking down at me, his face awash with concern. “Are you okay?”
I nod and shake it off. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Ryan says. He puts his hand on my forehead. “You’re clammy.”
I inhale deeply. “I’m okay. I’m just a tad bit fucked up in the head these days. Don’t worry. I’ve got an appointment with a therapist tomorrow. She’ll reset my noggin for me.”
“Did your doctor give you any anxiety meds?” Ryan asks.
“No. I don’t need them. I’m fine.”
Ryan looks toward the kitchen, apparently making sure my parents are out of earshot. “Keaney, you got some weed?”
“Are there dicks in gay porn?”
“Give Bee something.”
“Sure thing. I’ve got edibles today, fellas.” Keane reaches into his pocket and pulls out two wrapped candy bars. “You want chocolate or peanut butter, sweet cheeks?”
I wave him off. “You know I don’t do that shit.”
“Well, you do today,” Ryan says. “It’s not like you’re going to be operating a fire truck any time soon, man. You’re just lying here like a sack of fucking potatoes.”
“Good point,” I say. I put out my hand. “Chocolate. But you guys gotta join me so I don’t feel like a total loser.”
“No need to ask me twice,” Keane says. He tosses me the chocolate bar. “Careful, though, Eldest Morgan. That’s some strong stuff and your tolerance is for shit. One little bite and you’ll be feeling fine as wine.”
Fuck it. I unwrap the bar and take a huge bite.
“Holy shit,” Keane says, laughing. “You’re gonna get batfaced on that, Bee.”
I look up at Ryan. “Sit down, Captain. You’re freaking me out standing over me like that.”
“You look like shit,” Ryan says. “I’m worried.”
“I was just having some sort of flashback but it’s gone now. I’ve been having them since the fire. Totally normal. Slight PTSD, I’m sure. Like I said, I’m gonna get myself some therapy starting tomorrow and I’ll be fixed right up.”
Ryan collapses onto the couch at my feet. “You scared me, Cheese.” He indicates the bar in my hand. “Gimme some of that, fucker. Jesus Christ, I’m totally stressed out now.”
I hand Ryan the bar and he takes an even bigger bite than I did. He points at Keane as he chews. “This is your fault, dumbfuck. You stressed poor Colby out. I told you not to mention the fire around him. He doesn’t need to be reminded of that shit.”
Keane looks sheepish. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“Aw, leave him alone,” I say, stroking Ralph’s head. “Me being fucked up isn’t Keane’s fault.” I look at Keane. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”
“You’re pretty fucked up from the fire?” Keane asks softly.
“I’ve just got a few kinks to work out, that’s all. I’ll get me some therapy and I’ll be good to go.” I put out my hand to Ryan. “Gimme that bar, Rummy-o. You took twice as big a bite as me. I gotta catch up.”
“Careful with that, Bee,” Keane warns. “It’s strong stuff.”
“How strong?” Ryan says.
“Really strong,” Keane replies.
“Oh, well, in that case,” Ryan says. He takes another gigantic bite and then hands the rest to me. “Eat the rest, Bumble Bee. We’ll go down the rabbit hole together.”
I eat the remainder of the weed-bar to match Ryan’s share, and Keane and Zander look at each other like, Oh, shit.
“Atta boy,” Ryan says, patting my foot.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, fellas,” Keane says, laughing. He breaks the peanut butter weed-bar down the middle and hands one half to Zander. “Bottoms up, baby doll.” They tap their halves together like two dudes enjoying a pint in a pub, and then they cram the entirety of their large chunks into their mouths.
“Hey, you need a ride to the therapist tomorrow?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Mom said she’d take me, but I’d much rather go in your slick new ride.”
“You got a new car?” Zander asks.
Ryan tells Zander about his fancy new sports car. “I get a woody every time I get behind the wheel.”
“Hey, will my wheelchair fit in the back of that thing?” I ask.
“Oh, shit. I forgot about that,” Ryan says. He furrows his brow. “I think so. But if not, I’ll just borrow Mom’s car to take you.”
I laugh. “Then shouldn’t I just let Mom take me?”
We both find that comment completely hilarious and start laughing our asses off.
“So tell us the story of how you wound up screwing that physical therapist in a supply closet,” Ryan says to Keane. “We got distracted when you turned poor Colby into a zombie.”
Keane looks stricken. “Hey, I’m really sorry about that, Bee. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
“I know you meant no harm, baby doll,” I say. “You’re a lover, not a fighter.”
Keane sighs with relief and flashes me his dimples—and, of course, I melt like I always do when he hits me with those damned things. Or, wait, hold up. Maybe I’m actually melting into the couch? I look down at the weed-bar wrapper in my hand and blink hard, trying to clear my head. But I can’t. My vision is tunneling.
“Wow, this stuff is strong,” I mutter.
“Told you,” Keane says.
“So tell the story already, would you?” Ryan says. “Any minute now, I’m gonna start barking like a seal or belting out ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ to Colby and I want to hear your goddamned story before that happens.”
Keane looks earnest. “Okay, okay. But first can I just say I love you, Bee. I don’t tell you that nearly enough. When Mom called and told me what happened to you and that she didn’t know if you were going to live or die, it was the worst moment of my life. The mere thought of something happening to you...” Keane shakes his head.
Zander puts his hand on Keane’s broad shoulder and squeezes.
Keane’s Adam’s apple bobs for a moment and then he continues, “I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not around to call me dumbshit, Colby. I love you.”
My chest feels tight. “I love you, too, Peenie. All you guys.”
“I love you, too, brother,” Ryan says. He squeezes my good leg. “More than I could ever say with words.”
Zander’s dark eyes are glistening. “You’ve always been my hero, Colby.” He forces down a lump in his throat. “I love you, man.”
I look down at the weed-bar wrapper in my hand again. “What the fuck is in this shit, Peen?”
We all burst out laughing at ourselves and wipe our eyes.
“In all seriousness, though, guys,” I say. “When I was trapped in that fire and thought I was done, it was the thought of never seeing you guys again that made me...” I’m too choked up to continue, so I just shake my head.
We’re all quiet for a long beat, wiping our eyes and smashing our lips together. Holy hell, there are a whole lot of bobbing Adam’s apples in this living room.
Finally, I pull myself back together and say to Keane, “Just tell us the goddamned motherfucking story of how you banged that physical therapist in the supply closet, you dumbshit. I was mentally prepared to cry in therapy tomorrow morning, not tonight with you guys.”
Keane leans back in his chair, spreads his muscular thighs, and says, “Shit.” He rubs his face and takes a deep breath. And when he comes out from behind his hands, he’s got his game face on. “Okay, baby dolls. Here’s the story. Fasten your seatbelts, because the smarm train is about to leave the station.”
We all laugh, relieved to get this party back on track.
Keane leans forward. “I was in the cafeteria line getting a banana and Ramona beelines over to me to introduce herself. It felt exactly like when girls used to wait outside the locker room after games for me. You know, she gave me that look. So she asks me about Colby. We make small talk. Blah, blah, fucking blah. ‘Oh, he’s so brave!’”
We all chuckle.
“So the whole time, it’s obvious to me she just wants to bang and she’s looking for her angle. So, finally, she asks if I have any fun plans for the weekend and I say, ‘Yeah, I’ve got a couple gigs.’” He grins, the cat who ate the canary. “So Ramona’s like, ‘Oh, you’re a musician?’ And that was that. Ka-bam, son! I told her what I do and two minutes later, it was Bonin’ Time in the supply closet.”
Ryan and I look at each other like, What the fuck?
“Um, I think you left a little something out of your narrative, son,” Ryan says.
“I left out nothing, son,” Keane says. “You wouldn’t believe how fast women offer themselves to me when they find out I’m a stripper. They’re ten times more aggressive with me than they were when I played ball—and, as you know, women weren’t exactly shy with me back in my pitching days. I dunno. When they find out I’m a stripper, they forget I’m a human being. They think I’m literally nothing but abs, a dick, and balls.”
“You’re not?” Ryan says.
“Keane,” I say. “Just tell us how you got from point A to B.”
“Dude, it was like sending a greased pig down a chute. I told her I’m a stripper named ‘Peen Star’ and she goes, ‘Oh, I’d love to get a private lap dance some time.’ So I give her my card, just to be a smart-ass, and she goes, ‘Actually, I’ve got thirty minutes right now. How much would you charge me for a private show now? Would twenty bucks get me twenty minutes with you, Peen Star?’”
“Ho-lee shit,” Zander says, laughing. “Not beating around the bush, that one.”
“No, that one took a weed wacker to the motherfucking bush,” Keane says. “You want to know the skeeziest, most demented part? When we were done, she actually handed me that twenty bucks and said, ‘Nice job, Peen Star.’”
“No fucking way!” Ryan says.
“I know, right?” Keane says. “I thought she was kidding about the twenty bucks. Plus, twenty bucks? How insulting. I gave that woman three O’s in twenty minutes and she gave me twenty measly bucks? On the open market, three O’s would normally get me at least a C-note!”
“Oh, fuck,” I say. “Please tell me you’re joking about knowing the market for something like that.”
“Of course. What do you take me for?”
“Um, a gigolo?” Ryan chimes in.
“A male prostitute?” I add.
“No, no, no,” Keane says. “Nobody’s payin’ for layin’ when it comes to Peen Star’s peen.” He chuckles. “Which isn’t to say Peen Star’s peen isn’t getting any action. Jesus motherfucking Christ, I’ve never had so much pussy thrown at me in my life. At this bachelorette party I did on Saturday, this one really classy-looking MILF with a diamond ring as big as Zander’s head flat-out offered to get her knees dirty for me.”
My brother and I erupt in disbelief while Zander nods knowingly and laughs. Apparently, Z’s already heard this particular story.
“Did you say yes to the MILF?” Ryan asks.
“No, I didn’t say yes,” Keane says, feigning offense. His face lights up. “I said, ‘Hell yes!”
We all laugh.
“The MILF was hot as fuck, brah! Older women always have highly developed skills in the bedroom—the kind of expertise that comes with time and experience. But this particular MILF? Holy hot damn. Olympic caliber in the sport of giving head. Ever seen footage of a snake eating a rabbit?”
He mimics what he’s talking about and we all lose it for a very, very long time.
“So did the MILF ‘tip’ you like Ramona did?” Ryan asks when we’re semi-composed again.
“Of course not. Well, she tried, actually. But I wouldn’t take it. Peen Star’s peen ain’t for sale, son. Any dabble with a client, it’s a dabble on the house. Just for fun.”
I shake my head. “I dunno, Peenie Weenie. I’d be careful with that kind of dabble. I think it’s the kind that could get you into big trouble.”
“Bah. A little dab’ll do ya is just one of the perks of the job. It’s no different than when groupies used to stand outside the locker room after one of my games, begging me to take them home. I didn’t charge the pretty groupies back then and I don’t charge the pretty groupies now. It’s the same thing, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Dude. It’s completely different,” Ryan says. “You’re a stripper now, not a pro athlete. Lines are gonna get blurred when you’re the guy being paid to take off his clothes versus the guy paid to throw strikes.”
“Ryan’s right, Keane,” I warn. “There could be some big misunderstandings if you’re not careful out there.”
“It’s all good, Master Yodas,” Keane says, waving us off. “I’ve already decided I’m only gonna partake in the dabble when I’m really feeling it, and only after I’ve already danced for the whole allotted time and gathered all my tips. If I do it like that every time, then what could go wrong?”
“Famous last words,” I mutter.
Ryan says, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure the universe is contractually obligated to unleash a shit storm of epic proportions directly on top of any dude’s head who’s stupid enough to utter those famous last words.”
“Well, thanks for watching out for me and The Talented Mr. Ripley, fellas,” Keane says breezily. “But we’ll take our chances.” He flashes his dimples. “So, hey, Bee, speaking of hot women, I’ve been meaning to ask you: what’s the deal with your hot physical therapist? Damn, boy. What’s her name again?”
“Lydia. And don’t even think about giving her a private lap dance in a supply closet, Peen Star, or I swear to God I’ll find a way to beat you senseless, even in my present condition.”
“Don’t worry,” Ryan says. “I’ll beat him senseless for you if he so much as looks at Lydia.”
“Thank you. That’s why I love you the most, Captain.”
“Hey,” Keane says. “I thought you loved me the most.”
“I’ve never said or done anything to give you that impression, Keane.”
“You’re such a dumbfuck, Peen,” Ryan says. “Why even joke about hitting on Lydia when Bee so obviously looks at her like he owns her?”
Keane rolls his eyes. “I was kidding. We all know Lydia is Colby’s girl. He staked his claim on her the day she walked into his hospital room. Actually, he staked his claim on her in high school when he was all obsessed with Beyoncé.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan says, chuckling. “I forgot about that.”
Keane says, “I was just playing around—trying to get a rise out of him. Colby’s looking catatonic over there. I wanted to make sure his brain still works.”
“I’m just lost in thought,” I mumble, but my tongue feels thick and weird as I say it.
“Yee-gads, you’re stoned out of your mind, Bee,” Zander says, laughing. “You’re literally drooling.” He looks at Ryan. “And so are you, Rum Cake. You both look like fucking jelly fish.”
Ryan and I look at each other and laugh our asses off.
“Well, looks like I’m crashing here tonight,” Ryan says. “What time’s your therapy appointment tomorrow, BeeBee Baby?”
I rub my face. “I have no idea, man.”
We laugh again.
“So you’re totally into Lydia, huh?” Keane asks.
“Dude, I’m obsessed,” I say. “I can’t stop thinking about her, day and night. I think I’m falling in love with her.”
“Not surprised,” Keane says. “It’s written all over your face every time she walks into the room.”
Keane keeps talking about my obvious attraction to Lydia, and how gorgeous she is, and how much she’s my “type,” whatever that means, but I tune him out. I lied to the guys just now. I don’t think I’m falling in love with Lydia—I know I am. When I’m not having a nightmare, it’s because I’m dreaming I’m having sex with Lydia. Or that we’re running on the beach together or otherwise doing something where my body is back to normal. And when I’m awake, I’m consumed with thoughts of her. Take right now, for instance, I’m wondering what Lydia’s doing tonight. What kept her from being here to celebrate with us tonight? And who called her today when she was working on me? Man, it’s driving me crazy to think whoever was on the other end of the line today said something that upset her.
And not knowing what that phone call today was about isn’t the only thing driving me crazy when it comes to Lydia. What ‘entertaining’ thing did I write to Lydia on that whiteboard that she won’t tell me about? Did I write something dirty? Because the woman inspires dirty thoughts in me, that’s for sure. I can’t imagine I wrote anything too salacious. Painkillers or not, that would have been so outside character for me as to be mind-blowing. Plus, I was on a breathing machine and broken and in pain, so I can’t imagine I was even remotely thinking about sex in that moment. But what if I was? What if I was so out of my head, my most primal instincts took over the minute I laid eyes on her? I guess it’s possible, considering how sexually attracted I am to her.
“Hey, Keaney,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Did you draw that dick and balls on that whiteboard in the ICU?”
“Of course. And bee tee dubs? Mom-a-tron totally thought it was a rocket at liftoff.”
We all laugh.
“Do you remember what was written on the white board before you doodled your self-portrait?” I ask.
“Nada. It was already wiped clean when I drew on it. Why?”
My shoulders slump. “Lydia said I wrote something ‘entertaining’ on the white board when I was flying high on painkillers, but I don’t remember writing a damned thing except a question about the baby. I’m just hoping whatever I wrote to her wasn’t something too horrifically offensive. I don’t want her knowing this early on what a total perv I am, down deep. Not ’til I can actually do something about my pervy thoughts, anyway. I can’t begin to tell you how frustrating it is to be trapped inside this useless body around a woman I’m so damned attracted to. She had to help me get onto and off the toilet last week. God, it was so fucking embarrassing.”
Keane cringes. “So much for a ‘meet cute.’”
I chuckle. “I just wish I knew what I wrote to her. It must have been something pretty outrageous because she refuses to tell me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Cheese Head,” Keane says. “Whether you’re on painkillers or not, drunk or stoned or sleep deprived, you’re always the same classy dude. Like Superman. You’re like ‘Truth, Justice, and the American way!’” He holds up his fist. “I’m sure you just told Lydia she’s beautiful or something.”
“I dunno. I’m so insanely attracted to Lydia, God only knows what depravity might have slipped out of my subconscious in a moment of drugged-up weakness.”
“Description of this goddess, please,” Zander demands, snapping his fingers like he’s summoning a butler.
“Hot. As. Fuck,” Ryan replies.
“Hot. As. Fuckity Fuck,” Keane adds.
“Details, please,” Z says, snapping again.
“May I do the honors, Eldest Morgan Sibling?” Keane asks me politely, like we’re at a tea party and he’s asking to pour my tea.
“Please do,” I say. “Just don’t make me sic Ryan on you.”
“Gotcha.” Keane looks at Zander. “Remember Mrs. Dunne from ninth grade English?”
“No fucking way.”
“Way.”
“Lydia is that hot?”
“Hotter. Lydia is Mrs. Dunne, only slightly younger and with fuller lips and lighter eyes and way, way bigger tits.”
“Keane,” I say sharply.
“Sorry.” He looks at Z. “Way, way more bountiful breasts.”
Zander says, “So Lydia’s black?”
“Biracial,” I say. “White mom. Black dad.”
“That counts as a sister in my book,” Zander says.
“Call her whatever you want,” Keane says. “All I know is the woman is smoking hot.”
Ryan says to me, “So have you told Lydia she’s in your crosshairs yet? Or are you waiting ’til you can actually pull the trigger to let her know you want her?”
“Oh, I’ve told her,” I say. “I didn’t break my head, motherfucker.”
“Atta boy,” Ryan says, chuckling.
“But it’s a non-starter for a while. Nothing can happen between us ’til I’m not her patient anymore. Some rule in her employee handbook says a current patient is off-limits to her.”
“Bah. Fuck her employee handbook,” Keane says. “Get to good will hunting, Matt Damon. Pull out your crossbow to-day.”
I sigh. “It’s a moot point right now. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not in any shape to sweep a girl off her feet. I want it to be good when I do it. Plus, not gonna lie, I don’t want her to re-break my bones in the throes of passion.”
Keane waves dismissively. “Bah. You’ve got fingers and lips, doncha? Well, then, you’re good to go right fucking now.”
“It’s more than the handbook and my physical condition that’s holding me back,” I admit. “To be honest, the girl’s a bit of a Jenga tower to me. I feel like if I make the wrong move, she’s gonna come crumbling down on me and I don’t know why. She’s got a skittish-kitten vibe.” I tell the guys about how I invited Lydia to dinner tonight and she said she had plans without further elaboration. And how her body language was really weird after she took that phone call today, and then didn’t give me the slightest hint about who was on the other end of the call. And all the other small times over the past week when I got the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling me, despite her being warm and open and earthy most of the time. “I’m thinking maybe there’s an ex-boyfriend at play here,” I say. “That’s the vibe I’m getting. Like her heart’s not completely available.”
“I dunno, man,” Ryan says. “From what I’ve seen, Lydia is totally into you.”
“I second that emotion,” Keane says.
I shrug. “Well, something’s holding her back. I’m not sure if it’s the stupid employment policy, or that I’m a broken pile of bones, or if some other guy has dibs on her heart. All I know is she lights me on fire, I can’t stop thinking about her, I miss her when I’m not with her, and I want to kiss her and fuck her like nobody I’ve ever met before. And yet something is holding her back, big-time, and I’m not buying that it’s just the physical-therapist-patient thing.” I run my hand through my hair. “Oh, man, I’ve gotta lock this woman down, guys. I’m going fucking crazy.”
“You know what you should do?” Zander says. “If you don’t mind me jumping in here.”
“Please do, Z. You, unlike your wife over there, only speak when you’ve got something of value to say.”
Keane flips me off.
“Give her space,” Zander says. “You’ve made it clear you want her, right? And she’s replied by saying it can’t happen while she’s your physical therapist. So give her what she thinks she wants, by the book, and I guarantee she’ll be the one coming after you. Reverse psychology, brother.”
Ryan nods. “Z’s right. It’s your best play. Be on your best behavior for a solid month. And then, at the one-month mark, make your move out of nowhere and she’ll be so relieved she won’t be able to resist you.”
“But what if what she said she wants is, indeed, what she wants?” I say. “What if she literally wants me to wait five or six months to make a move?”
“What are the odds of that?” Keane chimes in. “I mean, come on. You’re you. Break your bones, put you through a wood chipper, I don’t care. You’re still gonna be Mr. Dreamy McDreamy-pants to women. But, okay, for the sake of argument. Let’s say she’s a super straight arrow and she actually cares more about some stupid rule in her employee handbook than what her lady-boner is begging her to do.” He rolls his eyes at the thought. “Then it’s a no-lose. You’ll get points for being respectful of her wishes and the minute you’re not her patient anymore you can jump each other’s bones. I doubt it’ll play out like that, but if it does, it’ll be worth the wait.” He smiles and his dimples pop. “But I should add, in my experience, women only bring up rules when they want you to break them.”
I laugh. “Thanks, guys. Okay, I’ll be the perfect patient for a month and then make my move.”
“Keep us posted,” Zander says.
Before I can reply, my mother’s voice sings out from across the room.
“Good night, boys,” she says, entering the living room with Dad, Dax, and Kat.
Brief conversation ensues. We find out Mom and Dad kicked the Wonder Twins’ asses in Hearts. Ryan confirms he’ll get me safely off to bed and help me with whatever embarrassing things I might need assistance with—getting into my pajamas, getting on and off the toilet, etcetera.
My parents hug and kiss me and tell me they love me and thank God I’m alive.
And then, Mom and Dad Morgan finally head off to bed, leaving their stoned-as-fuck children to party on.