Tyson picks me up in a car— one of those mid-sized SUV things that still feels entirely too small to contain someone of his size. He smiles when he sees me out by the front gate of my apartment complex, like doing something so normal amuses and pleases him. I can’t tell if I’ve gotten better at reading his stone-faced gazes, or if he’s merely started expressing more emotion in front of me.

“Hi,” he says when I get in. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. We’ve never been in such a small space before, so isolated, and it makes me suddenly shy. Tyson reaches over and takes my hand, though, and I feel my hesitation melting away. What’s there to by why about, anyway? He’s seen every part of me, put his hands and mouth and body against mine in a variety of ways. Moreover, he’s gotten me to walk away from what used to be my most defining, but frustrating characteristic— my ultra responsibility. My good girl status. My fear of letting go.

“Like the car?” he asks after a moment.

“Um…yes?” I answer, looking around. It’s nothing fancy, but it is immaculately clean. It’s only as I give the vehicle this once over that I see the UPC tag in the back window, and notice the “No Smoking” sticker on the dash. “It’s a rental?” I ask.

He nods. “I didn’t want the press to see my car and follow us. It’s not a huge hearing and my father won’t be there, so it might not attract much attention…but I wanted to be safe, especially since you’re with me.”

It’s such a tender expression that it floors me, and I put my other hand over Tyson’s, sandwiching his enormous palm between mine. We talk as we make the two- hour trek, and the conversation rarely turns to sex. As much as I enjoy all things carnal with Tyson, it’s nice to have such a simple, basic conversation— like a palette cleanser after last night’s marathon session. I also get the impression that he needs this sort of conversation to quell his nerves. Powerful and confident as he may be, I can feel tension rising from him, tension that thickens with each mile. By the time we’ve pulled up to the massive courthouse framed by soaring buildings, it fills my lungs like water vapor.

“I don’t see any photographers,” I say helpfully.

“You never do, till they’re out taking pictures,” he says, gazing at the courthouse as we wait for a light to turn. “They’ll pop out of nowhere if we take the front steps. The judge closed the session to the press, though, so if we can get in and out without being seen then we’ll be fine.”

“Is there another entrance?” I ask.

He nods. “Yep. I only found it a few months ago. Before that my brothers and I all took the front steps together. Show of solidarity, you know. Plus, when there were three of us, the camera flashes didn’t feel quite so blinding.”

I look away— I don’t know how to respond. I knew Tyson felt isolated when his brothers stopped supporting their father, but now I can tell it’s more than that— he feels abandoned. I picture him and the other two Slate brothers walking side by side up the stairs, each as broad-shouldered and strong-chinned as the next. They probably looked like their own miniature army, charging on an enemy stronghold.

Only…now it’s not clear who the enemy is. The courthouse? Or their father? And no matter who the enemy is, how could Tyson’s brothers abandon both him and their mother to face that enemy alone?

Tyson pulls into a parking deck and takes a ticket, then parks in a faraway corner with flashing fluorescent lights— the sort of place that I’d never in a million years park my own car. He glances around, then we climb out and head toward a door labeled “impound enforcement office”. There are hours posted on the door, and even though we’re early, it’s unlocked.

“The staff gets here an hour before they open. The judge suggested I start using this entrance at the last hearing,” Tyson explains as we slip inside. We wind through stairwells and hallways until I’m thoroughly turned around. The courthouse has been added on to and expanded so many times that the second floor on one end of the hallway becomes the third on the opposite end— but Tyson moves through them with practiced skill. I notice, though, that the deeper we delve into the building, the farther ahead of me he walks. At first I attribute it to his longer stride, but then it becomes clear to me that he’s intentionally keeping distance between us. Just enough that, should someone spot us, he could easily pretend I’m just another courthouse patron who happened to be walking behind him.

I wanted to be safe, especially since you’re with me. I thought he was protecting me, when he said it, but now I know he’s protecting himself just as much. I can’t fault him for this, can I?

He knows I don’t want the drama or the attention.

Still, when he asked me to come to court with him, I thought I’d be…well…with him, not jogging behind him to keep up.

We round a corner into a long, wood-paneled hallway lined in courtrooms. There’s a buzzing noise from the opposite end of the hall, and I realize that it’s photographers and a small crowd consisting of Dennis Slate supporters and haters. I can’t quite see them, and they can’t quite see us, but the clatter of shutters and heavy chants of “Clear the Slate!” or “Infamy isn’t innocence!” give them away. Tyson glances back at me and swallows.

“Oh, honey! I’m so glad you came!” a woman calls out, and pushes through the small pack of attorneys and officials waiting outside the courtroom. She’s Tyson’s mother, obviously, and is so impossibly tiny in comparison to him that I shiver at the thought of her giving birth to not one, but three Slate boys.

She’s even shorter than Trishelle, with a tidy bob haircut and a red suit. She’s wearing a matching red pin that bears the logo of the sports franchise Dennis Slate played for back in his glory days. Tyson hugs her; her head barely comes up to his chest, but she presses her cheek to him and closes her eyes like she’s trying not to cry.

“I’m here for you, Mom,” Tyson says.

She nods, looking discouraged. “Well, I’m here for your father. I wish your brothers had come with you. They aren’t even returning my calls.”

Tyson sighs. “We’ve talked about this. They don’t want to hear you talk about Dad anymore, and that’s all you want to talk about.”

“How can I talk about anything else?” she answers, before her gaze finally flicks towards me.

“Is she with you?” Tyson’s mother asks.

“Yes,” Tyson answers in that unreadable voice. “This is Anna Milhomme. Anna, this is my mother.”

“Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Slate,” I say quickly, and reach forward to shake her hand. My ultra-responsible nature might not always be the most fun thing in the world, but it does mean that I know how to make a good first impression with parents, bosses, landlords, and professors. Her handshake is as firm as my own, and I understand from that single touch that while she may be a loving and devoted wife, she’s no shrinking violet.

“Anna Milhomme. Mil-homme— French?” she asks.

“I suppose. I’m not totally sure of the origin,” I answer.

“You should look into it, Anna. Where you come from is everything,” she says, elbowing Tyson a little as she says this— another dig at him for distancing himself from his father. “I wasn’t aware that you had a new girlfriend, Tyson.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tyson says quickly. Very quickly. There’s a burn in my chest that I ignore, forcing a smile instead. I open my mouth to explain that I’m just a friend, but Tyson continues, “She’s my minder from the team.”

“What’s that?” Mrs. Slate asks. I want to ask the same thing, frankly.

“The team doesn’t want any more drama, so they sent Anna to make sure I get in and out without any interviews or reality producers or whatever,” he says dismissively. “Sebastian’s school wanted to do it for him too, I think, but he was so close to graduation it never happened.” His voice takes on a note of irritation, like I— the minder— am irritating at best, and straight out annoying at worst.

The burning in my stomach moves to my chest and up my throat. I feel sick.

“Oh. Well, Anna, Tyson rarely gets into any trouble. That’s Carson’s purview, usually. Though I think playing with the pros has cured him of that.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Astrid’s influence,” Tyson answers.

“Perhaps. Maybe that’s why they sent a pretty girl to mind you, Ty— they figured that having one around worked for Carson,” Mrs. Slate jokes. Despite the fact that it’s a compliment, I feel sunken from this entire conversation. Not being called his girlfriend I could handle, but to be reduced to an assigned keeper and nothing more?

I blink a few times to keep tears from welling up, and smile again at Mrs. Slate. I can’t look at Tyson— I’m afraid I’ll see something in his eyes that makes me unable to contain my hurt, or, worse yet, see nothing in his eyes at all. Don’t be ridiculous, I berate myself. He never said you were his girlfriend. He was clear, in fact, that you aren’t. You were okay with that. You are okay with that. The whole minder thing is just a story to make it easier. What did you expect, that he’d introduce you to his mother as the girl who he fucked for six hours straight last night?

We finally enter the courtroom, and despite the high stakes nature of the hearing, I have to admit that I’m too caught up in my own emotions to pay close attention, especially considering the fact that I don’t really know all that much about the case. From what I do hear, though, the fact that Carson Slate has retracted his alibi means Dennis is more or less screwed. Without an alibi, the defense’s case is built around character witnesses and little else. It’s a quick affair, and soon we’re being shepherded back out into the hallway. Mrs. Slate is talking animatedly with the lawyers while Tyson watches, waiting for a moment to say goodbye to his mother.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he mutters to me when the silence between us becomes deafening.

“Sure,” I say immediately— politely. “I mean, it was for the team, after all.” I mean it as a joke— I even try to chuckle as the words leave my mouth. But it isn’t a joke, and Tyson’s eyes flit to mine so fast that I know he hears the pain in my words.

“Anna—“

He’s cut off by his mother calling his name, and the massive team of lawyers ushering him over. He gives me a “one minute” sort of glance, and heads their way. They talk in hushed voices, circled up just like a football team before a big play. Tyson begins to shake his head; his mother smacks him on the arm, first gently, then harder. Then she begins to cry.

“Why can’t you do this one thing? After all he’s done for you! Your entire college career— your future professional career! It’s all because of that man, Tyson,” she says, voice shrill. One of the lawyers puts a hand on her shoulder, the gesture begging her to lower her voice lest the prosecutors hear. She brushes the hand off, though, and continues shaking her head at her son, her mouth a grim line. I hear him mumble something in response, something apologetic, but it clearly doesn’t soothe her. Mrs. Slate glares at Tyson, like she’s been betrayed on the deepest of levels, and then turns sharply on her heel. It’s as if she’s slammed a door in his face. Tyson watches her go, body stiff and uneasy. One of the lawyers says goodbye to him, but I’m not sure Tyson hears him.

It’s been a solid five minutes before he really moves again, turning his head to me, his eyes landing on mine immediately, like he knew I’d be waiting for him to look over. I don’t know what to do, what to say— I don’t even know how to move. Should I shrug? Give a pitying smile? Wave him over so we can leave? I can’t decide, and so I do nothing, waiting for him to walk toward me, then brush past me. He touches my arm lightly as he does so, signaling for me to follow him, and I do.

“So,” I say quietly once we’re back in the car, sitting in silence in the parking deck— he hasn’t even put the key in the ignition. “What was that about?”

“They wanted me to testify as a character witness. The fact that Sebastian and Carson have washed their hands of the whole thing is bad, so they’re desperate to get me to speak on his behalf. You know— talking about what a great father he is, how he taught me to play football, how he’s a great role model.”

“And you wouldn’t do it?”

“I said I would do it, but that I wouldn’t omit anything. The lawyers weren’t exactly saying I should lie under oath, but they didn’t want me to bring up anything that might look bad. So…nothing about the time he locked me and Sebastian out because we’d collapsed during suicide runs on the field. Nothing about him telling Carson that he’d rather not have a middle son at all than a son who couldn’t throw a solid pass.”

“Oh,” I say, breathing slowly. I lick my lips, then dare to ask the question. “Do you think he did it, Tyson?”

Tyson closes his eyes, and there’s a sharp clip to his voice. “I don’t know. I truly don’t. But everyone thinks I should know how I feel about his guilt or innocence. My mother, the lawyers, my father, the press— even you. Everyone thinks I should be able to answer that question, and I don’t know why. My father is more than my father— he’s Dennis Slate. He’s a whole person, and he’s bad and he’s good, and how can I know which one he’s more of when to me, he’s just always been my father? That’s why I won’t testify for him or against him— why I’m only willing to tell the whole truth about him and leave it at that.”

I nod, and after a long, long while say, “The kid whose kidneys I got? He died in a drunk driving accident.”

Tyson looks startled by the change in topic. “That’s awful.”

“He was the driver. He killed two other people who were in the car with him. And then I got his kidneys and survived. He wasn’t perfect, and I’m not perfect, and I’m alive because he did something horrible, and now I’m supposed to never do anything horrible to make it worth it, and it’s all just so complicated. No one is a single thing. No one is all good or all bad,” I say, shaking my head. I’ve never told anyone this before— not even Trishelle. I didn’t know myself until I tracked down my donor’s family years ago, and learned that the kid who I’d always envisioned as a straight-A student with a bright, sunny future, was far from it.

But did that mean his life was worth less than mine? Did that mean it was okay for my family to celebrate as his cried?

“The woman that died,” Tyson says slowly, “she was related to the girl my brother Sebastian married. Her aunt. I’ve always wondered how Ashlynn can be with Sebastian despite who our father is. Especially when our lawyers paint her aunt as this hussy who had random sex and did drugs and was happy to have an affair with a married man. But…Ashlynn shows up and sits with her parents and the prosecutors, and for a while, Sebastian would show up and sit with my family and the defense. And then they’d leave together, like they’d never been on opposite sides.”

“That’s amazing. I mean, it’s great, but also amazing that they can both…be like that,” I say, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall.

“I think they’ve always been more at peace with it than I am— the idea that a person can be more than one thing.” He turns to me now, and there’s a gentle note in his gaze that wasn’t there a few moments before. “I said you’re perfect, Anna, and I meant it— but you’re also imperfect. And brave. And sexy. And smart. It’s all of those things that I want. It’s all of those things that I had to have when I saw you that first day in the gym. Everyone is so eager to be defined as one thing— football player, or cheerleader, or businessman, or movie star, or whatever. But you…I could tell right away that you weren’t trying to define yourself. You were trying to escape definition, and you have.”

I smile back, the hurt from earlier ebbing away as his gaze warms the entire car. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Tyson.”

He takes my hand and kisses along my knuckles lightly, then exhales. “Let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”

“No argument here,” I answer, happy to go somewhere else— anywhere else— with Tyson. I don’t know what we are, exactly— I know I’m not his minder, or his girlfriend, or his sex partner, or just a friend.

What we are, I think, might defy a single definition just as much as who we are does.