Raw (5 page)

But I have to.

The squeak of the laundry basket tells me Nikki is now standing. “I know, babe. But you’re good at it. And those kids might not think it now, but they’re lucky to have you. And I’m proud of you.” My heart swells and I smile. I really love this lady. “Now, hurry the hell up so we can supervise our very own street rat tonight.”

She leaves me to condition my hair in peace and my mind drifts back to the previous night. Before I allow myself to go there, I burst into song to distract myself. Well, that, and to distract my friends from the fact that I’m feeling down.
 

Blue, a little like a two dollar ho, and still shaken from last night’s attack.

My unique rendition of
Ginuwine’s
Pony should do the trick. When I say unique, I mean I can’t hold a tune to save my life. But I like to sing. So fuck everything that doesn’t make you happy. I’m going to sing my
out-of-tune
ass off.

Wrapping a robe around me and making my hair into a towel turban, I walk right down the hall and into the lounge-slash-kitchen to find Dave sitting slumped on the sofa staring into nothingness, while Nikki has a one-sided conversation with him from the kitchen. He hasn’t shaven for at least two days, and his eyes are bloodshot, a dead giveaway of just how much this break is affecting him. He takes a swig from the sparkling wine he holds in his hand.
 

Poor baby.

Without a word, I walk over to him, take the sparkling wine from his hand, place it on the coffee table, and climb into his lap. Sitting with my legs draped across his lap, I wrap my arms around him and pull his head into the crook of my neck.

No one gets Dave like I do. I know this because he tells me. I also know this because Dave talks to me. He tells me things he freely admits no one else knows. I am his confessional. And he is my therapy.

We have a strange, yet completely functional relationship.

I love him as if he were my brother. I wish he
were
my brother. The one God gifted me I left behind a long time ago. And he was a good brother. The type of brother a sister would be proud of.

I remember as a kid that he would always put me first. He would give me the bigger half of our split chocolate bars. He would never let anyone pick on me. He would tell me the best and scariest stories. He made time for me. And I miss him.

I know Dave needs affection. He needs affection like I do. We’re affection-whores. But we’d never admit it to anyone. Our hard shells protect our soft interiors.

Dave sniffles. I feel wetness run down my neck. I let him silently pour out his sorrow. After a few minutes and no more tears, I whisper into his ear, “Want a
cocoa à la Lexi
?”

Nodding into my neck, I feel his smile on my collarbone and I smile to myself. He’s sad, but not broken. We can fix this.

Cocoa à la Lexi
is a fancy way of saying cocoa laced with hard liquor. It’s my specialty. And I know how Dave likes it.

Lots of chocolate. Lots of cinnamon. Lots of booze.

Standing, I walk over to Nikki in the kitchen and pull out a pan to warm the milk. The kitchen timer dings, and smiling, she pulls open the oven door and the smell hits me like a brick to the nose. Turning to her, I gasp, then whisper wide-eyed, “Double choc, peanut butter niknaks?”

Laughing through her nose, she places the brownie tray on the kitchen counter and scoffs, “Well,
duh
! I think this occasion called for it. Don’t you?”

Let’s get something straight.

There is no occasion in the history of man that doesn’t call for double choc, peanut butter niknaks.

Christening, bar mitzvah, wedding, funeral, Ramadan, the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, AA meeting, the resurrection of Jesus, G8 summit, family reunion… these brownies would be welcome at any of the above. And I make it my business to invent occasions to enjoy these babies because Nikki is a hard nut to crack. When I say that, I mean the bitch is
mean
! She can be a softie, but not when it comes to double choc, peanut butter niknaks.
 

She does
not
make these brownies willy-nilly.

Watching me watch her niknaks like a fox watching a chicken out of the safety of its coop, she clears her throat. When I look up at her, she motions to the pan in my hand.

Right!
Cocoa à la Lexi!
Coming right up.

Maybe tonight won’t be as hard as I thought it would be. That is, until Nikki’s brow furrows and she steps closer to me with a scrutinizing eye. Reaching up, she touches my cheek, then my lip with a gentle touch and mutters, “Babe?”
 

Shit, fuck, crap!

My face flames and she steps back to search my face. Turning her head to check on Dave, she pulls me into the corner of the kitchen and whisper-hisses, “Talk.”

So starts
Whisperfest 2014
.

“It’s nothing. I swear. Don’t make a big deal. I don’t want Dave to freak out.”

She whispers back heatedly, “If you don’t want me to say anything, I suggest you tell me what happened so there will be less freakage on my part, and I won’t need to alarm our sweet-yet-sad David.”

Slapping her shoulder, I hiss out, “Shhhh! He’ll hear you!” Not having taken an inch of my dramatics, she glares at me while tapping her foot. And I cave. “Okay, so you have to promise not to freak out.”

But as soon as I say that – of course – she freaks out. Wide-eyed, she steps back and whisper-shouts, “Who did this to you? Was it George? It was George, wasn’t it? I told you I didn’t want you living next to an unstable dude!”

George, my bipolar neighbor, would never lay a hand on me. The guy loves me! Being a caseworker, the first time we spoke, I picked up on his behavior right away. I’m sure he wasn’t used to what he got from me.

A hug.

I told George that I worked with a lot of people who suffered mental illness, and that if he felt a panic attack coming on that I would be there for him; all he needed to do was call. Which he has done. And I’ve always been there to help talk him down and soothe him from the overwhelming state he finds himself in. He has never – I repeat –
never
been violent towards me. So I’m a little pissed at Nikki right now.

I glower at her, “Don’t you do that, Nikki! That’s not cool, babe.”

“Do what?” she responds, exasperated.

Staring her down a moment, I state, “Stereotype.”

Brows rising, she whispers, “Holy shit. I totally did, didn’t I?” Taking a step away from me, her brows bunch. She’s obviously upset with herself. And now I feel like shit.
 

Taking her hand, I sigh, “Babe, I’ll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I’ve got cocoa to make, you’ve got niknaks to slice, and we’ve got to come up with a way for Dave to make this right with Phil.” Gesturing to my face, I tell her, “This…is not a priority right now.”

Her eyes search my face, and I add, “Do I look like a withering mess right now?”

Rolling her eyes, she responds sullenly, “Well, no.”

Nodding, I agree, “Exactly, Nikki. Priorities.” She throws me a curt nod. I feel the need to add quietly, “Because what I’ve got to tell you…it’s not pretty.”

Her face turns anxious, but she covers it quickly. Clapping her hands together, she opens the fridge, hands me the milk and orders, “Right!
Cocoa à la Lexi
. Now, lady!”

This is one of the reasons I love Nikki. She knows me well enough to know I’ll talk to her when I’m ready. And we don’t keep secrets.

So why am I thinking of a suitable lie to tell her about the state of my face?

Pushing that thought aside, I go about making my famous concoction and pouring the steaming goodness into mugs. Placing the cocoa and bite-sized squares of niknaks on a tray, I walk them into the lounge room and put them on the coffee table.

Not even looking up at me, Dave reaches forward and takes a mug. Robotically, he puts the mug to his lips and sips. Two, three, four sips later, the robot comes back to life. “Damn, girlie. No one does cocoa like you do.”

Smiling gently, he looks up at me, and his face turns stunned, “Baby! What happened to your face?”

Lying like a pro, I shrug and say easily, as if rehearsed, “Tripped on the last step down and planted my face into the brick hall.” He gasps, and looking up in thought, I add to lighten the mood, “Not as much fun as it sounds.”

Dave chuckles, “Shit, Lex. Only you would do something like that. Queen klutz, you are.”

Smiling through my split lip, I glance over at Nikki. Her eyes narrow at me, and unease climbs over me. Clearing my throat, I take my mug and announce, “Right! Well I think the first course of action tonight is finding a way for Dave to tell Phil he wants him to move back in.”

Dave smiles at me so warmly, so brightly, that I’m suddenly reminded that there are people I also have that I can talk to about my issues. My mind stills on this thought.
 

People I can talk to.

Talk to.

Talk to them.

Don’t talk to them.

They would never understand.

I don’t want them to understand.

Twitch is mine. Just mine. And right now, I like it like that.

That night, my eyes flutter.
 

Then widen in alarm.
 

Then soften with my sleepy smile.

His hand rests gently on my hip as he maintains his distance, his body away from mine.

Closing my eyes, I listen to his steady breathing as he sleeps.

My last thought before I fall asleep is, “
He came back.
”

The next morning, Twitch isn’t there when I wake. Again. But it doesn’t bother me as much.

I’m thinking less and less about
that
night, and more about my hero.

My
distant
hero.

I find myself purposefully making my way to the park for lunch in hopes of seeing him. And today, I do see him. My spine tingles in recognition, I lift my head, and there he is.

Today is unlike other days. It is unlike other days, because his hood is down.

When I smile and lift my hand in a wave, I feel like slapping my forehead with my palm. Embarrassed, I lower my hand quickly and watch as he turns and walks away.

I don’t miss the smile he tries to keep hidden.

Biting my lip to hold in my own escaping smile, I lift my face to the sun, and once again, take in its light.

Roused from my sleep, I enter the world of consciousness. Snuggling into something warm, I breathe deeply. And smell him.

I love his smell.

Nuzzling into the crook of his neck, I feel him move, then hesitate. I steady my breathing and place my hand on his tee-covered chest. Still, he hesitates. Feigning sleep, I lift my leg over his and feel his body shake in silent chuckles.
 

I want his arms to come around me. I want him to hold me tight. I silently wish for him to make a move.

But he doesn’t.

He rumbles, “Get back to sleep.”

No longer able to conceal my grin, I whisper into his neck, “Sweet dreams, Twitch.”

My eyes flutter and I lose my battle to stay awake, just to memorize the feel of his body against mine.