I mean, the last couple years got better. Years and years of balling with the same people, and they start to get to know you a little. But then I moved out to Woodside.
The point is, I feel safe with Nya, less lonely with Nya. And it’s hard to give that up. But Carli. Carli makes me feel . . . everything.
“Well?” Nya says, sounding frustrated.
And it’s the kind of everything that’s not going away.
“Hello! Earth to Rex! What is it that you gotta tell me?”
I take a deep breath and push out, “I met somebody else.”
“Who?”
The question comes at me with lightning speed. I want to say, This girl you don’t know to keep things vague, but the ache in my throat won’t let me call Carli something so impersonal. “Carli.”
“Carli?”
I can hear her face twisting up.
“Who’s Carli?”
“You don’t know her.”
“Did you have sex with her?”
“Whoa! Hold up a second,” I reply, trying to think of why she would ask that. I didn’t even think sex was on her brain. We never even got past touching above the waist with our clothes on.
“Well, did you?”
“No.”
“Did you kiss her?”
“No.”
“How long have you been talking to her?”
“I haven’t been talking to her. I—”
“Well, when did you meet her then?”
“Tonight.”
“At the game?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait, is it that girl from the video?”
“You saw that?”
“Of course I saw it. Everybody saw it. So, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what exactly happened?”
“I caught her and—”
“So you already knew her?”
“No.”
“Sooooo . . . you caught her and what?”
“I felt something.”
“You felt something?”
“Yeah.”
“Felt what?”
“I don’t know . . . something deep.”
She cracks up laughing in a way I’ve never heard her laugh before—hard and high, like she has her head thrown all the way back. “You felt something deep? That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. And for a girl you don’t even know? Everybody said you were an asshole, but I didn’t know I was dealing with a fool, too.”
My ear throbs with that familiar word—asshole—with the unfamiliar brand-newness of Nya. It’s like she just smacked me upside the head through the phone. This can’t be Nya. I wish I could clap back and call her a fraud, but shock has dulled my anger.
“But what can I say? You are the Rex Carrington. At least I got to try you out for myself. If you would’ve waited another two weeks, I would’ve given you the goods. But too bad for you, boo-boo.”
No anger at my back, a fresh wound starts to spread just beneath my skin. I push it down to the place with the million other hurts I don’t have time to deal with and hang up. Then I grab my juice, my plate out of the microwave, and sit at the counter on one of our uncomfortable-ass barstools.
Every time I have to sit on one of these, it pisses me off. Who buys concrete chairs? I would sit at the table, but those chairs aren’t any better. All the furniture in this house is uncomfortable. My father says it has to match the house’s modern style. Man, he can get on somewhere with his modern style.
Our old tiny house, with all of its worn upholstered furniture and wallpapered rooms and halls, where Mom had once walked and ate and slept and talked and been . . . where she’d been . . . was perfect if you ask me. But my father didn’t ask me. He sold the house without—you know what, I’m not even about to start.
After a couple of bites, I look over at the opening to the hall that leads to my father’s room. One look, that’s all I’ll allow myself. Sometimes, after I’ve been out here a while, he’ll come out of his room and ask me about the game. And I’ll ask him about the hearts he looked at that day and if he had a surgery. And we’ll actually have something that resembles a conversation.
Okay, one more look, but that’s it. The entry to the hall looks like an empty picture frame. The frame is modern (of course) with a wide, dark wood trim. And inside the frame, there’s a white wall, illuminated by a small recessed light. Doesn’t look like the frame is getting a picture tonight.
I eat my last bit of arepa, wash it down with juice, and carry my dishes to the sink. But before I rinse my dishes and put them in the dishwasher, I lean back against the counter and look at more pictures of Carli on her brother’s IG feed. Her gentle face is the perfect antidote to tonight’s roughness.
I have to give big ups to her little brother. Carli’s social media is on lockdown, but Cole’s is wide open. And he’s a sharer, a big-time sharer. A big-time lover, too. Seems like every few weeks, a new girl takes over his feed. Not completely, though. Carli constantly gets play.
But tonight, Cole’s posted a bazillion pics of their whole family together. Old vacation and family outing photos . . . things like that. And it’s not even throwback Thursday. The gallbladder thing with Carli must really have him thinking about how much he loves his family. How perfect they are. What I would give to know that feeling for even one second.
After finishing my dishes, I head upstairs to my room. But before I reach the landing in the middle of the stairs, where my father’s frame disappears from my line of vision, I turn around and look one more time.
Two minutes later I’m still standing here, staring at nothing.
This is stupid. I’ll go knock on his door. If he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t answer. Wouldn’t be the first time.
I walk back down the stairs and then down the hall that leads to his room. There’s a slit of light underneath his door, and when I get closer I hear the faint sound of the TV. My knuckles are about to hit the door when I stop and think about how much he hates me.
The thing about it is, I don’t blame him for hating me. I don’t blame him for never wanting to be around me or talk to me. I get it. If I had never been conceived, Mom would still be alive. It’s my fault she’s not here. I’ve always gotten it.
But right now I need to share Carli with someone who won’t laugh. Even though we have no history of talking about girls, and I’m pretty sure the conversation will be awkward as hell, I want to sit on my father’s bed, like one of his patients, and talk about what I feel in my heart.
The slit underneath his door turns black, and the TV silences.
I lower my fist. It’s all good. I’ll go out back, lie under the trees, and talk to Mom, like I always do.
CARLI
I’m sitting in the gym after school on Wednesday, half reading a magazine and half watching my team run through plays. Even though I can’t practice, Coach Hill still wants me here because I’m the captain, the leader of the team. I swear every time she reminds me of that, which is every chance she gets, an alarm goes off in my head. An alarm that’s been sounding since Saturday. A reminder to tell her and the team that I don’t want to play anymore. That I’m not coming back to play after the surgery tomorrow.