by Kars, C. M.
“Daddy, remember when we went swimming, and I got scared when you went underwater for so long? Then I turned around and you were there! It was funny.”
Hunter’s smile is tired. He drinks deep from his glass of water. When he sets it down, his eyes go to my glass. I push it forward to his side of the table. His blue eyes clash with mine, before his eyebrows droop down low. In retaliation, I snag his coffee cup and take a few sips. He drinks it black, like I do. Good man.
He demolishes my glass of water, and excuses himself to go to the washroom. I wait anxiously with Matty. The food comes, I tell myself I’ll wait five minutes before going to check on him. I forgot he just got out of the hospital.
Matty starts humming as he starts digging into his eggs I cut for him. I’m a little paranoid that he might choke on the bacon, but I know how to do the Heimlich, like that means anything. If life wants to shit on you, she fraking will, and in a big way.
“Daddy, are you tired?”
Hunter gets into the booth across from us so hastily, his knees bump mine. I wince, and settle deeper into my seat, back flush to the vinyl.
“No, buddy. I’m good. How long was I gone? You’ve destroyed your plate.”
Matty nods, bobbing his head up and down. He’s eaten all his scrambled eggs, and bacon without choking. No toast. If he’s going to have the pancake – we have to play this game of give and take.
I plop a fluffy yellow pancake on his plate, cutting it up into squares. Hunter lets me cut, but takes my hand away from the syrup dispenser in favour of pouring it himself. Matty gets a light drizzle of it over his pancake and starts demolishing it within seconds.
He probably doesn’t know what he’s missing – inundating a pancake with maple syrup is foreign to him. He can’t miss something he’s never really had. I’ve eaten three of my pancakes. Hunter eyes the leftovers even after he’s swallowed the last bite of egg, toast and sausage he’s rolled together. I pass him one at first, startled when his eyes on me are intense and maybe a little angry.
“Do you want it or not?” I growl. I’m sick of everything being my fault.
“Resisting temptation only goes so far.”
“What? Fine, Hunter. Bloody crucify me for giving you a damn thing. Give me the bloody pancake, I’ll eat it.”
We play fork-war, scratching our utensils against the plate in that awful sound that makes my whole body erupt in goose-bumps, and my eardrums ring. Hunter wins.
“There’s that word again,” he says, shovelling in the pancake that’s now in strips. He only put the tiniest of drizzles of syrup on the thing, but it looks like he’s enjoying it. I wonder how long he’s been diabetic. Does he know what he’s missing?
I ruffle Matty’s hair, styling it into a Mohawk with my hands. “It’s a bad word in geek-speak.”
Hunter wipes his face with his napkin. The movement is refined, cultured. “Like in Vulcan or something?”
My heart stutters, something in my lower belly pulses.
“Figures you know Spock. So logical and emotionless all the damn time.” I stop fiddling with my napkin when I see the change come over him.
His shoulders tense, his nostrils flare. A muscle ticks at either side of his jaw, keeping time with his anger. Well, shit.
“Spare me your wrath, Dark Overlord,” I snarl, leaning over the table, elbows and forearms flat to the surface. I’ve forgotten about Matty. “I made a comment. You don’t have to bloody combust and get your curlies in a twist.”
I’ve entered the danger-zone. A badass isn’t just one thing. A badass can be a guy who owns the clothes he’s wearing, from the finest of fabrics to a pair of ratty sweats.A badass is a person who doesn’t give a fuck of what anyone thinks of him or her. In one sentence: a badass is someone who can take care of themselves in any situation.
Hunter is a badass.
I’m not. But I want to be so, so badly.
“Calm yourself, man. What is so bad here? You’ve got an awesome kid.” I point to Matty. “Awesome company,” I point to myself. “You’re the only one ruining the party.”
Hunter’s jaw works, but he keeps his mouth shut. Point... me?
I order more water when the waitress does her courtesy call. Hunter doesn’t even look at her, his eyes stay locked on Matty. It’s like I’m dead and gone – I don’t exist anymore.
“You know, it’s not hard to figure out who the real four year old is here.” I say, equal parts elated and appalled at what just came out of my mouth. I’ve never spoken to a guy like this before. Okay, fine, a guy I’m attracted to.
Hunter’s eyebrows pole-vault the expanse of his forehead and end up high. “Did you just compare me to Matty?”
My lower lip might have trembled, and I know I’m blushing. I notch my chin higher, and pretend I’m more powerful than Dumbledore. “Yes. I did.”
Hunter leans back against the vinyl, his stupid long legs causing his knees to collide with mine. “You think you’re brave, dealing with me and the kid for one night?”
What the hell? “Is that a joke?” I ask, ignoring Matty’s humming, and the way he makes our side of the booth sort of bounce as we swings his legs.
Hunter’s face might as well be carved from marble; his features give nothing away. “I’m not the one who always has their nose in a book.”
Smackdown. I have a death grip on my fork, and I’m trying to decide which eye to go for. “What? You’ve seen me, like three, four times? Yeah, I read a lot. Big deal. You’re just pissed I took care of you yesterday. Swallow down that excess testosterone, Hunter, and say thank you.” I don’t know how these words are coming out of my mouth. I mean, yeah, I know how, but fraking shit, I’ve never never spoke to anyone like this. I’ve never been this snarky, or angry, or defensive. But Christ, I feel like I could take on Lord Voldemort and Crowley in one go right now.
His mouth twists then flattens, and he does the unthinkable. He laughs. At me.
I get a searing pain behind one eyeball, and feel the muscle right under my eyebrow start to twitch. Pulse, pulse, pulse. I sink my teeth into the inner meat of my lip, and try to breathe through my nose. Maybe he’s not laughing at me. Maybe he’s not making fun of me. Fuck this.
I throw a twenty on the table and lean over to kiss Matty on the cheek, telling him I have to go. I don’t say goodbye. If I don’t say it, I can pretend it’s not really there.
I bought a spinning bike a month ago, and had it lugged over to my new place when I moved in.
I kick my own ass anywhere from half an hour to forty five minutes a day. I spin on that thing, running through my workout playlist over and over, concentrating neither on the words or moments of the day.
No, I’m thinking about the fraking arsehole next door and I’m thinking of Matty.
I’m punishing myself for hoping, for thinking I could keep on existing in my dream world, in my safe haven of books and movies. Even two weeks after Hunter’s gotten out of the hospital, and we had our disastrous breakfast. Jerk!
This is real – having a university degree and stuck working a shit job because you’ll take anything you can get until you can move up. This is real – sweat and sore muscles because I have the tendency to enjoy chocolate a bit too much. This is real – wanting something you can’t have and trying to deal with it.
Doesn’t help that I got to interact with a sweet little kid who happens to share fifty percent of the arsehole’s DNA. And I fell in love with that little kid – his giggles, his smile, the way he called me beautiful without expecting anything in return. Matty made me happy even if I was stressed to the max. I hoard things that make me happy, hence the substantial collection of movies and books, and all sorts of nerdy things that bring a smile to my face.
Now, I’m spinning to Marianas Trench’s ‘Desperate Measures’, huffing my breath out while the beads of sweat pouring down my face are earned rewards, my body fat saying goodbye in salty tears.
When forty-five minutes are up, and I can stand on my own tw
o feet, I head to the shower, peeling my clothes off that are now soaked in sweat. When I’m done, I secure a towel around my chest and take a good hard look in the mirror.
I note the slightest indentation underneath my cheekbones, the shape of my eyes. I notice the boring brown color of my hair. If I were to peel the towel off, my boobs wouldn’t be anything extraordinary, my ribcage isn’t narrow and even though I have the slightest inset where a waist should be, you can’t see my hipbones or ignore the pudge around my belly.
I didn’t win the genetic jackpot; I’m sub-average. I’ve let myself get hurt over and over because I thought I deserved it, because I’m not beautiful. I’m the ugly one in the family, so I have to do better. I have to be smarter, funnier; I have to be a better friend, a better kid. I have to do whatever my parents say, even if I’m miserable.
Shaking my head at myself, I pick out a shirt that says ‘Burdened with glorious purpose’, topped off with Loki’s horned helmet. I put on sweats, ready to spend my Sunday evening relaxing in front of the TV. I’ve got NCIS and Hannibal taped, although I’m opting to watch everybody’s favourite cannibal bright and early tomorrow morning before work.
A tentative knock hits my door, echoing about my place. I stop breathing – thinking it’s Hannibal Lecter that wants to taste me. I’m still new to this building, so I really shouldn’t be having any visitors. My friends are too well trained to barge in unannounced, so that leaves one option.
My heart stumbles in my chest, my feet sluggish and numb as I move to the door. Nobody at the peephole. I open the door a crack, keeping the chain locked like it’s supposed to really stop someone who wants to come in.
Matty’s standing in front of my door, bouncing on the balls of his feet, the chunk of hair on the top of his head flopping around with his movements. I close the door quick and take off the chain. I lunge for my keys and purse on the counter, stuff my feet into flip-flops and make my way out, turning to lock up. So many thoughts run through my head.
Is he dead? Is Hunter dead? Am I going to be able to carry him out to the elevator again? What the frak is this guy doing to himself?
“What happened, Matty? Is your Dad okay?”
“N-n-no... He’s not. He yelled at me, and I got scared, Sera.” The little guy’s face is white on white. When I’m done locking my door, both his hands wrap around one of mine. I can feel him tremble through my palm. Christ, why can’t Hunter just regulate his sugars?
Matty lets us in, and my gaze moves to the couch, where Hunter’s sprawled, one foot touching the ground, the other pointing towards the opposite armrest. He’s looking up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed. The living room is dark – I have to make my way over to him with the patio’s approaching-dusk light. I settle myself on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do. I can’t get him up all by lonesome – I need his help.
Matty’s at my side, tugging on my hand. “His number is two-dot-nine. He hasn’t taken his in-su-lin. I’ve been watching.” My heart hurts that he has to know that at four years old, and that it’s wrong.
“Actually, buddy, we need to get him something to eat. You have any honey?” I might be a bad person, sending him scampering off to get it from the cupboard. I hear a chair being scraped across the floor, and leave him to it. My attention can’t be divvied up effectively between Hunter and Matty. I have to deal with the one who’s in the most danger – the big lummox lying down next to me.
Nabbing his glucometer from the coffee table in front of me, I get it ready and puncture his index finger after swabbing it. I take his blood just to make sure Matty didn’t read the number wrong.
Five seconds feels like five days. Five days in which all my earlier whining means nothing, all my epiphanies are completely insignificant when this guy is fighting for his life. I’m being forced to acknowledge that my problems are nothing compared to his.
“Hunter?” I put my hand on his arm, give him a shake. He doesn’t even budge. I get up and get my whole weight behind the motion only to be my clumsy-ass self and lose my footing with my flip-flops on the carpet. I land on him, hearing him let out an oof. But I get a glimpse of those beautiful baby blues and Bill Conti’s ‘Getting Strong Now’ belts out in my head. “Hunter, can you hear me?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes are opening and closing, so slowly like he doesn’t know whether I’m real or not. My hand goes up to his face, feeling the stubble there scratching against my palm. That gets his eyes fully open, and his lips part.
“I need to give you food,” I tell him, not noticing how hard his body is beneath me, or how warm he is. I’m a professional. I can’t help looking at his body, the way his shoulders fill out the entire width of the couch, the leg whose foot is on the ground somehow feels like it’s caging me in. Not the time, definitely not the time.
“If I eat, I’ll vomit.” Hunter’s voice is low and rumbly, like he’s just been sleeping instead of his body starving for nutrients, too weak to move.
I move to get off him, settling my ass on the side of his couch so that a part of a butt-cheek is touching his ribs. And some fine ribs they are.
Matty comes over to me, carrying the plastic teddy bear bottle of honey.
“I told you, I’m going to throw up if I eat anything.” The words are so weak and tired, I know I have to act fast.
“It’s this or an ambulance.” I squeeze an amount onto my finger, turn to him and instruct, “open wide.”
He can’t even do that, like his body’s just conserving enough energy to speak to me. My pulse ratchets up another notch, blood pounding loud in my ears. I poke my finger between his lips, getting the honey through and swiping it along the inside of his cheek. My body has stopped shaking so long as I have something to do.
“Just swallow when you have to, and don’t worry about anything else. Matty, look in my purse for my phone, please? Thanks, buddy.” I keep my voice calm, no use making the kid go into hysterics. I put more honey on my finger this time, swiping it on the inside of his other cheek. I even go back and swipe some of it into his gums, rubbing it in as much as I can. I keep doing this for five minutes, hoping I don’t spike his sugar back up too badly. All while Hunter watches me with his blue, blue eyes, and I start to see him in them, instead of his low blood sugar.
Hunter grabs my wrist, my finger about to dive into his mouth again. “No more.”
I frown at him. “You’re feeling a bit better?” I can’t tell if his color has gone back to normal since the lighting is so bloody awful, but his eyes are wide open and he’s focusing on me, also looking to be aware of his surroundings.
Hunter licks his lips and stares at me. “I thought you would have gone for the glucagon or something.”
I shake my head. I didn’t even think of the glucagon. “I knew this would work. Happened to my mom, once. I gave her honey like this ‘cause the pack had expired. She was okay after that.” I frown again. “Will you let me take your sugar again? I don’t want you moving unless you have to.”
Hunter’s eyes flare open, his eyebrows popping up high. “Again?”
“Yeah, I did it before. So I need to do it again.” I frown at him. “I’m going to need my hand to do that, Hunt.”
Hunter watches me as he moves my hand closer to his mouth, sucking on the finger that has honey on it, and bloody fucking hell! Something like need pulses in my lower belly, and I take in a sharp breath. My spine starts to tingle, and I’m pretty sure I have a mini-seizure after I feel the sweep of his tongue on my finger. My poor, poor Batman panties.
When he’s done, I can’t look at him. I end up grabbing his big paw in my lap, do the whole alcohol swab again lest he got honey on it that’ll skew his reading. His sugar’s back up to four point one. My whole body sags forward, my elbows digging into my thighs as they take my weight.
Matty’s little body pushes into my side, letting my knees lock and sliding my heels directly in front of me, I let him come around me to sit with his Dad. I get up, a little dizzy but
ready to go home.
“Where are you going, Sera?” Matty asks my retreating back, and my shoulders come up close to my ears, like I’m expecting to get hit.
I turn, wondering what the right answer is. I settle for simple. “I’m going home. Your Dad’s fine now, kiddo.”
Matty shrugs off Hunter’s paw around his waist, and comes running towards me, panic twisting his features into something so stark and raw it hurts to look.
“What if it happens again?” His entire hand is wrapped around my pinky, pulling me back to the couch. I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t. I sigh heavy and long, but the message is lost on the kid. I can still feel him shaking through my hand, a vibration of fear that makes his entire body sing.
I look up to where Hunt’s now sitting up on his ass, back to the couch’s armrest, long legs out in front of him. Couldn’t squeeze my giant ass between his feet and the opposite armrest if I tried. Then again, I think Matty would have difficulties. His hood has completely fallen off his head, and he’s staring at me with no expression on his face. He’s gone back to being an asshole.
The skull-trim makes him look dangerous. Combined with his looks, there’s a volatility about him that’ll always make him the craziest and scariest badass in the room. And I was sitting next to that, playing nurse.
Go, me.
The badass facade’s ripped away when he uses a hand to wipe down his face. Even after he’s done, his eyes stay closed, his breath coming out faster and harsher. My dumb feet bring me closer to the couch, and I sit on the edge of the seat, turning my body towards him.
I don’t know what to say. Sorry that you’re sick, and that you’ll never have a day off from it for the rest of your life? I end up just grabbing his hand in both of mine, giving them a squeeze, a small smile on my face.
I’m holding his hand! I’m actually holding his hand and he’s not pulling it away!
