by McKinley May
She does, and a self-satisfied smile pops up on her face.
I exchange goodbyes with Lexie before pointing at Rayne. “I’ll call you about next week, Raynie.”
“Can’t wait, Steel.” Her words drip with sarcasm, and I can’t stop the grin that breaks across my face as I walk back through the colorful restaurant.
I’m still smiling when I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. When I see who’s calling, that smile dissipates, instantly replaced with an irritated scowl.
I veer off towards the exit, not wanting to take this in earshot of any of my teammates. I push through the double doors and step into the night air as I reluctantly hit answer.
“Mom,” I say curtly.
“Hello, Vaughn. How are you, honey?”
Her fake, syrupy-sweet voice grates at my eardrum like nails on a chalkboard. The same voice that repeatedly mumbled how much she hated dealing with kids during my childhood, the same voice that’d call to tell my sister and me Merry Christmas after she’d shipped us off with relatives so she could have the house to herself for the holidays, the same damn voice we wouldn’t hear for months at a time when she left on vacation and didn’t bother to check in.
I fucking hate that voice.
“Fine,” I answer.
“I just wanted to call and chat for a moment, see how you’re doing.”
Ha.
Her twice-a-year phone call to pretend there’s any semblance of a relationship here. Usually she makes these phone calls around her friends, attempting to portray some “good-mom” facade.
Total bullshit.
“Everything’s good.”
“Great. Glad your freshman year’s off to a good start.”
“I’m a Junior,” I snarl in frustration, though I can’t say I’m surprised. I’d be flabbergasted if she even knew what fucking college I go to.
An insincere laugh reverberates over the speaker. “Oh, of course. I misspoke.”
No, you didn’t.
It's been all of thirty seconds and I’ve already had enough of this conversation, so I quickly get to the only reason I answer her rare phone calls.
“How’s Sydney?”
“Your sister’s okay, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” I spit out. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s hard to keep up with her after she moved out, sweetie. She’s very independent.”
I lean against the brick building, fuming. It’s one thing for my mom and I to have a shitty relationship, but that’s her fucking daughter.
And now that Sydney won’t speak to me, she needs someone there making sure she’s okay.
“I know she’s eighteen, but she’s still in high school, still a teenager. She needs someone to watch after her.”
“She’ll be fine. She can take care of herself,” she snaps out, the fake “mom-voice” disappearing in the blink of an eye. “Listen, I’m going to be in Europe for the next few months, so if you need anything—”
“I won’t.”
“Great.” I hear mumbled female voices in the background, and she quickly reverts back to suburban soccer-mom. “I need to go, honey, but it was wonderful chatting with you.”
“Yeah, wonderful.”
I hit ‘end call’ before she can say goodbye.
15
I feel like crap.
And I’m normally the type to suck it up and deal with illnesses, push through the pain.
But when I woke up this morning feeling like complete and total death, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not when my lungs felt like I’d spent the night chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes, and the pounding in my head rivaled that of a rock concert.
This cold is no joke.
Every year when Fall approaches, I find myself stuffed up, light headed, and hacking up a lung.
It’s become a sort of annual tradition for me, like celebrating Christmas. Only instead of stocking stuffers and gingerbread cookies, I get runny noses and sore throats.
Really great stuff.
I skipped all my lectures today and spent the morning sending out frantic texts to my study buddies in each class, trying to sweet talk them into taking notes for me.
Luckily, they’re all the nicest people ever, so I’m currently lounging on my bed opening their emails and note documents. I don’t plan on studying much tonight, though, so a quick skim is all I plan to do for now. A little R&R is the only thing on my agenda for the evening.
I’m almost through looking over the last page of notes when something on the TV catches my eye. I’ve been watching the Giants vs. Eagles, but it’s not the game that distracts me from my note-skimming. What grabs my attention is a commercial for a sports drink featuring a dark-haired guy dribbling a soccer ball.
Crap.
Crapcrapcrap.
I totally forgot I made plans with Vaughn to do a short interview tonight after his practice. Plans I’m now going to have to cancel thanks to my foggy head.
I glance at the time. 9:07 pm. I’m supposed to be at the Treehouse in eight minutes.
I feel guilty canceling last minute like this, but after all the trouble he put me through to get the first interview, he deserves to be on the receiving end for once.
It’s only fair.
I reach for my phone and call him. He answers after a few rings.
“Hey, you on your way over?” His deep, familiar voice echoes over the speaker. “I’ve got the house all to myself tonight, so no distractions. I’ll be on my best behavior, too. Fully clothed.”
The guilty feeling rushes back. “Don’t kill me, but I’m not going to be able to make it. I have a cold, I’m gross, and my nose is running like a faucet.”
He lets out an amused snorting sound. “Could’ve done without the visual, but it’s all good. Don’t sweat it.”
“Sorry, but it’s not cute. I look like I’ve been hit by a bus.”
He pauses for a second. “I guess you want a Rayne check, huh?” His voice is riddled with laughter at his own joke.
I groan. “Clever, Steel.”
“You feeling under the weather, Raynie?”
“Weather puns. So original. I’ve never heard those before.”
But I have to admit, I’m totally grinning. Good thing he can’t see me. He’d be loving that I’m entertained by his cheesy jokes.
“Are you contagious or anything? How bad do you feel?”
“I don’t think so. And I feel way better than I did earlier today. Still, it’s probably a good idea if I chill on the couch all night.”
“Understood. Rest up and feel better. We’ll reschedule.”
We say our goodbyes, and I shoot a quick text to Lexie asking where she is, hoping she’s on her way home so I have someone to keep me company in front of the TV.
My phone beeps a few moments later with her response.
Lexie: Sry, babe. Drowning @ a study sesh. Won’t be back til late. Feel better & I’ll make you some homemade chicken noodle soup tomorrow! Gotta get you better for your 21st<3
I toss my phone to the side, slightly disappointed. The thought of her Grandmother’s chicken soup recipe reminds me I haven’t eaten dinner yet.
Hell, I think I missed lunch, too.
When you forgot to eat your daily meals?
Yeah, that’s when you know you’re truly sick.
I open my laptop and order pizza from the local place down the street.
While I wait, I draw a bath, tossing in a multicolored, sinus-clearing bath bomb I stole from my mom. The thing must be magic because after a ten-minute soak in the tub, my head feels a million times better and I can breathe through my nose again.
I wash my face before throwing on my favorite comfy pajamas: an oversized t-shirt with a pug on it, a pair of teeny, black boy-shorts, and fuzzy, purple socks. I head into the living room to browse through Netflix, hoping there’s something on there to keep me occupied for the night.
Right as I’m about to begin my search, I hear a knock at t
he front door.
I open it up, expecting someone in a Patty’s Pizza uniform. I gasp in shock when I see Vaughn standing there, a reusable grocery bag in his hand.
I speak before I can reasonably assess what I’m saying. “You deliver pizza?”
He scratches the back of his neck, an intrigued smile tugging at his lips. “Uh, nope. No pizza on me. Sorry to disappoint.”
“What are you doing here?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice.
“I know you said you’re sick and hanging here tonight, but I wanted to bring you something to make you feel better. I’ll just drop it off and leave you to your resting.” He gestures to his full bag.
I step to the side and wave him in. “You can come inside.”
He walks past, towering over me. I feel somewhat embarrassed in my giant, raggedy shirt, my makeup-free face, and my hair still wet from the tub, but I brush the thoughts aside.
I'm sick, dammit. Of course I look like shit.
“Nice place,” Vaughn comments as he peers around the living room.
“Thanks,” I reply before pointing to his mystery bag. “Whatcha got?”
He grins and flips the bag upside down, dumping its components all over my couch. The items spill everywhere, more than a few falling to the floor with a loud crash.
I scrunch my nose. “What the hell, Steel! I wouldn’t have let you inside if I knew you were going to trash my apartment!”
He laughs sheepishly. “My bad.”
He leans over and scoops up the fallen items, placing them with the others and squishing them into a big pile on the couch cushions.
“Okay, so this”—he sweeps a hand proudly over the pile—“is called the Steel Sick Sack.”
“Steel Sick Sack?” A muffled giggle escapes my lips. “Sounds kinda gross to be honest.”
He flashes his perfect teeth at me and lifts his hands in innocence. “Hey, I didn’t coin the term. My sister did, actually.” His smile fades slightly as he goes on.
“When we were younger, we’d visit my grandparents every winter break for a few weeks. Both of us would always catch a cold when we were there. Every single time without fail.”
He sits on the couch and pauses, deep in thought. This is the first time he’s ever mentioned his family—usually avoiding the topic at all costs—so I stand quietly, waiting until he’s ready to go on. After a quick moment, he continues.
“One year, they handed us each a bag the moment we stepped through the door. We opened them up, and inside was basically a cold’s worst nightmare: meds, tissues, you name it. My sister aptly dubbed it the Steel Sick Sack and the name stuck. These things were freaking lifesavers. No sickness stands a chance with one of these bad boys.”
He tousles his thick hair and gives me a modest shrug. “I figured you could use one.”
I smile graciously. “That’s really nice of you, Steel. Color me shocked.”
“Plus,” he adds with an impish smirk, “I thought this would be the perfect anecdote when you mention my kind and thoughtful nature in your article.”
I grab a couch pillow and gently whack him with it. “How did I know there would be a selfish motive behind this?”
He starts showing me all the items he got, from those fancy tissues infused with lotion to what seems like every medication from the cold and flu aisle.
“Holy cow, did they have to close the pharmacy after you got through?” I tease him, but inside I’m extremely impressed.
Vaughn Steel, a caretaker? Definitely wasn’t something I was expecting from him. To say I’m pleasantly surprised is an understatement.
“Seriously, this is great. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
He raises his shoulders as if it’s no big deal.
We both grab one of the immune-boosting drinks he brought. Before we can twist the tops off, a loud knock at the door startles us.
“Oh! Pizza!” I squeal out, rushing to the door.
I pay and thank the pizza boy, balancing the giant cardboard boxes in my arms as I gently kick the front door shut.
I turn to an obviously amused Vaughn.
“Damn, Raynie. Two large pizzas for one small girl?”
“I haven’t eaten anything all day!” I protest. My stomach rumbles to prove my point and he chuckles, reaching out to take the pizzas from my hands.
I follow him into the kitchen. Before I can stop him, he’s opening one of the boxes and inspecting the pizza inside.
“What the fuck, Rayne? Pineapple and ham?” He shakes his head in utter disgust. “You know the quickest way to ruin a pizza? Put fruit on it.”
I cross my arms in defense. “No way. Pineapple is the perfect addition to a pizza. It’s all about balance. It’s the sweet to the savory.”
“Disagree. Dinner is savory. Dessert is sweet. Pizza is dinner, not dessert, and therefore nothing sweet should ever be on a pizza.”
He sounds so absolute in his reasoning I crack up. “That sounds like an argument my brother would use on his middle school debate team.”
He narrows his eyes at me playfully. “Are you saying I have the mental capacity of a teenager?”
“Not at all.” I shrug, trying to hide a smile. “That would be a generous assumption.”
“Jesus, you’re extra sassy tonight, huh?” He eyes the unopened box. “Let’s see what else you got. I swear, if this is one of those cinnamon chocolate pizzas…”
He pops opens the top and a look of satisfaction sweeps across his face.
“See, now that’s what I’m fucking talking about. Meat Lovers: the perfect balance of savory to savory.”
I walk over to the pantry and grab a paper plate, flinging it like a frisbee in his direction. He catches it with one hand. “Have some!”
“You sure? I was thinking you’d finish both of these off within twenty minutes.”
“Very funny. Really, have a few pieces. I’ll eat the horrid pineapple one, and you can have some of the ‘good’ one.”
After stacking a few slices on our plates, we head over to the kitchen table. We eat in silence for a few minutes, both savoring our pizza.
I sneak a glance at Vaughn, once again surprised that he’s actually here. We’ve spent a lot of time together over the past month, but this is different. It’s one thing to get together for interviews or chat at the couple of random encounters we’ve had at Café Cappuccino and Más Mantequilla, but something about him being in my apartment feels way more personal.
And if someone had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be voluntarily spending time with him without working on the piece, the two of us just hanging out alone? Eating pizza together in my kitchen? I would’ve laughed straight in their face.
But here I am, thoroughly enjoying his company.
So. Damn. Strange.
He catches me staring and stops mid-bite, setting his pizza down before leaning back in his chair. A half-smile appears on his face. “You lied to me.”
“About what?”
I don’t know what the heck he’s referring to.
“You said you looked like you got hit by a bus.” He gives me a once over, eyes traveling from my fuzzy socks up to my bare face where they linger. His expression suddenly grows serious, eyes blazing with an unrecognizable heat. “I think you look beautiful.”
I choke on the bite of pizza in my mouth, my skin immediatly flushing with warmth.
It’s not the first time Vaughn’s made a comment on my appearance, but usually it’s in a teasing, light-hearted manner, as if he’s just trying to get a reaction out of me.
But nothing about the way he said that was teasing.
After coughing for what seems like forever, I finally catch my breath.
“I’ll be sure to make a note that giant dog shirts and frizzy hair are on your list of turn-ons,” I say hoarsely, trying to steer the conversation back to our routine banter.
It seems to work. His usual joking demeanor returns and he winks. “I like what I like. What can I say?”
We finish up our slices before he speaks again.
“So, how many siblings do you have? I’ve heard you mention little brothers a few times now.”
“Oh, because I can’t interview you tonight, you’re going to interview me?”
He cocks a dark brow. “It’s called conversation, Raynie. I know it may be hard for your reporter brain to understand, but normal humans ask each other questions with the intentions of getting to know one another. No voice recorder necessary.”
I cringe. “Sorry, that was bitchy. I have two brothers. Stone is the one I mentioned earlier. He’s in 6th grade, obsessed with soccer, and just turned eleven. The other one is six and the shy one of the family. His name’s Cedar.”
