Down 'N' Derby (18 page)

             
“Great.  Ready for Ricky Bobby,” I asked in my best Frenchy accent. 

             
“Ugh, I love that movie.” I started it, finally figuring the buttons out.  I swore I knew how to work the DVD player before he got here. 

             
I dozed off halfway through Ricky Bobby and woke up looking up at a Maddox’s chin.  He was doing that thing where he tried not to laugh and the dimple was more pronounced than the other night.  I reached up and put the tip of my finger in the recess of it and he flinched.  But he looked down at me and smiled.  I realized then that my head was on a pillow in his lap and I’d been covered with a blanket. 

             
“You fell asleep during Ricky Bobby and then slumped over so I got the pillow and blanket out of your room.  You’re so damned cute when you’re asleep.  You talk in your sleep too.”

             
I sat up and turned back around to reprimand him.  “I do not.”

             
He laughed, “You do.  It’s very endearing.”

             
“Ugh, you’re gonna have to record it next time.  That’s the only way I’ll believe you.  Wait, what did I say?”

             
He shook his head, laughing, “Nope, I’m not telling.  Anyway, you don’t even believe me.  Are you hungry?” he asked.  I was.

             
“I am.  What’d you have in mind?”  He probably wanted pizza again—I’d created a monster.

             
“Whatever you want.  Or I can cook if you don’t feel like going out.”

             
“Wait, you cook too?  Something’s gotta give here.  You’re too perfect.”  I couldn’t believe I’d said that out loud.  I mean, I’d been thinking it the whole time but to tell him was—well—kinda rude.

             
“Trust me, I’m far from perfect.  The cracks in me are so deep, I’m nearly broken in half.  But I can cook.  My parents own a restaurant and you start cooking at an early age in the Black house.  So, out or in?”

             
“I doubt I have any groceries.  I can’t cook worth a flip.  Let’s go to the grocery store.  I’ve gotta see you in action.” 

             
“Ok, let’s go,” he said. 

             
“I can’t go like this.  I look like I just rolled out of bed.”

             
“You’re beautiful.  Plus, imagine all the thumbs up I’ll get from guys.  They’ll think you just rolled out of bed with me,” I slapped his shoulder for that one. “But one thing, you have to do something about those slippers.  They’re just God awful.”  I looked down and stuck out my bottom lip.  I loved these slippers.

             
“Fine.” I stomped to my bedroom and changed into a pair of pink zebra striped flip-flops with zebra striped hearts on the straps, grabbed my purse and went back in the living room. 

             
“Ready?” He asked with a grin as he looked down at my footwear.

             
“What?  Do you have a problem with these too?”  I was so proud of myself for being a smartass to a guy.  I wanted to pat myself on the back and that wouldn’t be awkward—nope.

             
“Nope, but the hearts are cute,” he said.  “So tell me what your favorite thing to eat is.”

             
We drove to the nearest grocery store and I watched him shop like a pro.  I told him my favorite meal was chicken alfredo over angel hair.  I saw him buy chicken, pasta but then he skipped the pasta sauce and I thought I’d tripped him up.  “Um, you know the alfredo sauce was back there, right?” 

             
He laughed and shook his head, exasperated with me yet again.  “I make alfredo from scratch.  None of that bottled garbage.”

             
“Ok, I give up.  I’m just gonna follow you around and then sit back while you cook.”

             
He pushed the cart down and expertly picked out all of the ingredients.  Before he reached for something off the shelf he would move his fingers like he was weaving a magic spell for stuff to appear.  It was funny as hell.

             
We checked out and I got the stink eye for trying to pay.  He relented and let me help bring in the grocery bags and then went to work.  I stood and had to move back and forth every time he needed to get around me in my tiny kitchen.  About the fifteenth time we did the ‘you go, no you go’ dance he huffed out a breath and then lifted me by the waist and propped me up on the side countertop.  “There, now we don’t have to dance,” he chuckled.

             
“Booo, I like to dance.”

             
“Noted,” that’s all he said as he made what he called a basic white sauce.  Poor thing, he was trying to teach me how to cook but it just wasn’t going to happen.  But I loved to hear him try.  Something about his voice changed when he was serious, it grew not deeper but more fervent, steady in its course. 

             
He plated everything and by the time we sat down to eat my mouth was watering.  And when I put the pasta in my mouth it was pure heaven. 

             
“Holy crap, you can cook.  This is the best pasta I’ve ever had.”

             
“Thank you and I’m glad.  Other than my mom, Falcon’s the best cook of the family but I do my best.”

             
The rest of the meal we just ate.  We didn’t talk and it almost felt like we didn’t have to—we could just be, and that was ok.  After we were done we cleaned up together, like we’d done it for years.  He said he needed to get something from his car and a few minutes later came back with his iPod.  He plugged it into my speaker by the couch and switched the songs until he came to a slow one that I didn’t recognize.  But I listened to mostly older music.  He looked at me and smiled.

             
What are you up to now?

Chapter 30

Mad

Being good to her was easy—she tried to make it hard, but it was so damned easy.

             
This was the real shame.  This girl claimed to love to dance and yet, when I put on music, held my hand out to her—she was confused.  Such a shame.

             
“Come on Storey, don’t leave me standing here like a moron.  Dance with me.”

             
Her eyebrows bunched, then she corrected them and hesitantly walked towards me.  She took my hand and I swore every time I touched her and didn’t get twitchy it was a new miracle.  She was my miracle.  And until she told me differently, I would touch her every chance I got. 

             
I moved closer to her, put my hand in the crevice that was her waist.  Its curve was perfectly shaped for my hand.  She swayed even closer to me, putting her hand on my shoulder.  Her head only came up to my chest.  She took full advantage of the placement and rested it on top of my sternum.  We danced to You by The Pretty Reckless and when the song was over, I could’ve sworn I saw her wipe a tear away. 

             
I don’t know why I chose then as the time for a confession.  Maybe I wanted to make her feel better.  Maybe I just needed to share something bad about myself.  I didn’t know why.  But my mouth made the final decision for me.

             
“I have trouble with people touching me.”

             
“What?”  She gave me a look that said, ‘He’s lost it.’

             
“Since I was about nine.  When people touch me, it gives me the heebs.  I get twitchy, uncomfortable—it feels like ants are crawling under my skin.  Friends, family, strangers, it doesn’t discriminate.”

             
She stepped back and I thought I’d killed whatever was blooming between us with my admittance.  It was too soon. 

             
“I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.  I shouldn’t have touched you.  I won’t do it again.  I’m sorry.”

             
Of course—of course she thought it was something she did and now she was apologizing again. 

             
“Ugh—I did this all wrong,” I reclosed the space between us and took her hands in mine.  “I should’ve said except with you.  I don’t like when people touch me, except you.  I don’t let people touch me, except you.  Remember at the beach, I asked Nixon to help you up?” She shook her head no. “Ok, remember after we went for sushi and you tried to write your number on my hand?”  Bingo—I saw it register on her face. “I was afraid.  I liked you so much already and I was scared shitless that if I touched you, I would feel the twitchy thing.”

             
“But you did,” she was confused again.  Her beautiful forehead scrunched up with the emotion. “You touched me in the trailer, I held your hand, we danced.”

             
“I know.  I had to.  I had to know what you felt like.  I had to know if I could touch you or not.  Because not knowing was infinitely worse than any physical sensation I could’ve felt.  So I did.  Touching your ankle in that trailer was the first time in almost ten years that I’ve been able to touch someone or be touched without that gnawing itchyness.  And now it’s hard to stop myself.”

             
She laughed, “You touched a lot more than my ankle in that trailer.”  I laughed with her, “That’s true.  I was just drunk on the relief of it all.  I was drunk on the feel of you under my palm.”

             
She was quiet for a few minutes and moved to the couch to sit down.  I sat in the chair next to her.  I couldn’t read the look on her face. 

             
“Why me?” She looked up at me, her warm brown eyes always doubting. 

             
“I don’t know.  I just feel this need to take care of you—to make you happy, if I can.  It supersedes my—crap.  I trust myself not to hurt you.  I trust myself with you.  You must think I’m nuts.”

             
“Can I just—can I just have some time to process this?” 

             
Time to process.  Time to process what a whack job I was—fine. 

             
“Yeah, of course.  I’ll go.  Call me when you’re—call me if you want to.  How about that?” I got up, grabbed my iPod and headed towards the door.  I didn’t look back.  I’d be damned if I was gonna look back and see pity or weirdness plastered to her face.  I wouldn’t be able to handle it.  I shut the door behind me and I didn’t have to wait long to hear the deadbolt.  She made sure there was a barrier between me and her quickly this time. 

             
I stopped at the address for my dad’s apartment on the way back to the motel and the note was gone.  Maybe he’d call the next day.  I got to the motel, showered and made plans for the next day.  I didn’t want to count on her to call.  She probably wouldn’t. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

             
Two days later I hadn’t heard from either one of them—Storey or Einer.  I’d decided this morning to get up at five a.m. and go to Einer’s apartment, or whoever lived there. Maybe he would be there that early. I knocked on the door and it opened almost instantly to reveal a man in his late forties.  He was dressed in a flannel button down shirt and jeans even though it was blistering outside. 

             
“Einer Macon,” I asked.  He had salt and pepper hair and a set of bright blue eyes. 

             
“Yeah, I’m Einer Macon.  Can I help you?” I’d tried to prep myself for this but my chest felt like it was caving in on me. 

             
“Um, yes Sir, I’m Maddox Black.  Did you know Sela Landry?  It would’ve been about eighteen or nineteen years ago.”

             
“Come in young man.  Yes, I recall knowing a gal named Sela.  I met her at a party or a crawfish boil—something.”

             
I walked in and the place was a pig sty.  There were newspapers, still folded and unread stacked fifteen or twenty high and lined the wall.  The furniture was old and even when it was new, it wasn’t nice.  Plastic milk crates were topped with plywood and made a shabby coffee table. 

             
“Sit down.  So, how is Sela?  Does she miss me?”  I was right, he’s a sleeze.

             
“Um, she’s as fine as she can be, I guess. She’s dead—has been for eighteen years.”  I shifted on the plaid couch and he sat across from me. 

             
What do I do, just blurt it out?  Where’s that sapsucker Nixon when I need him to crack a joke and then spill the beans?

             
“Sir, I believe I’m your son.  Sela had a baby eighteen years ago and named you on the birth certificate.” His eyes snapped to meet mine and his facial expression evolved into something different.  Even his posture changed from relaxed to rigid.  Maybe I’d pissed him off. 

             
Then he started laughing. It began as a belly laugh and progressed into a full blown cackle, until my stomach turned.  There was something very wrong here.  His face was unrecognizable from the man who’d answered the door, the man from just a few minutes prior.  The front door opened and in came a man maybe a few years older than me.  He immediately put up his defenses, I could see it in his eyes.