by Mariah Dietz
Ace takes a deep, shaky breath revealing that she’s either fighting tears or is already crying. My pace increases, brining me closer to my truck. Frustration for my slowness has my words tangling together, uncertain of what to say and if I should say anything since she’s driving. With Ace it’s always been easier to communicate face-to-face where I can see that she’s okay because my best friend will always try to lie and tell me she’s fine.
My sunglasses are somewhere in my truck, but I don’t look for them because the sun is such a small concern to me as I put my truck into gear and head toward the highway with Ace still silent on the other line.
We don’t say a single word as we make our trips to the same destination, and when I pull up beside her small, white car, she still doesn’t say anything as she turns and looks up, her eyes spilling tears and her lips fighting to smile as she verifies it’s me before unlatching her seat belt.
I’m out of my truck in a second and pulling her door open in the next. She hugs me and I hold her tighter, feeling her muscles tighten as she tries to fight the emotions that have prevailed—emotions she hates succumbing to.
“You don’t have to be tough,” I tell her.
She buries her face in the crook of my neck, and her cries grow louder and more forceful as she shakes her head. I tighten my grip on her, drawing her closer in an attempt for her to feel and use my strength. To show her that I can take her pains and harbor them.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Ace shakes her head again. “I’m fine.” She sniffs and pulls back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I’m…” She stops, staring at my foot.
“Oh no! Did you go in? What did they say?”
“They don’t know yet, but I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I have to go see a surgeon tomorrow to discuss my options.”
“I feel like a jerk now,” Ace says, wiping at her cheeks again.
“Don’t.”
She takes a shaky breath, and nods. “I feel like such a jerk for calling you. I’m sorry. Max is in class right now, and Kendall’s at work, and I just really needed to be around a familiar face.”
“Stop apologizing. Tell me about your visit with your dad.”
Her chin quivers. “I know I can talk to him anywhere, but sometimes I just feel closer to him at the cemetery where I can sit beside him. That probably sounds really morbid…”
I shake my head. “No. It doesn’t.”
Ace sighs. “I just wanted to tell him that I’m feeling really confident about choosing to become an ob-gyn. It feels right.”
I pull her against my side, holding her close. Time hasn’t made finding the right words any easier. I’m still clueless. So I just hug her tighter.
Ace takes another breath, this one deeper. “How are things going with Leela?” she asks.
“She wants to try and be together.” The word ‘try’ seems so much louder than my other words. Is that the right term to use? Is that what we’re doing? Trying? “We had lunch together, and it was good. She’s funny and smart and very driven. At times she reminds me a little of you—except she’s way cooler,” I tease.
Ace laughs.
“Sometimes, it’s just hard to talk to her. I feel like we have these moments where we’re connected and we can laugh and enjoy each other, and then we move or time does, and suddenly it’s like we’re going in opposite directions and everything becomes uncertain.”
“Give me an example.”
“Like after we hung out today I walked her to class, and it was just weird. I felt like I was twelve because I didn’t know if I should hold her hand or set up a time to call that was acceptable so her parents didn’t get upset.” I sigh, realizing that’s likely a valid concern. “Why are you laughing?” I ask.
Ace’s arm goes around my waist. “How long has it been since you’ve been in a relationship?”
“I’ve dated.”
“I’m not talking about hooking up or casual dates. I mean, like dated a girl.”
“What decade are we in?”
She punches me in the gut, just enough to serve as a warning and to make me laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says. “I feel like it was just yesterday that I was having this conversation with Jameson. Do all men really need to be told they have to apply effort before they’re in a relationship?”
“Likely more than once.”
She dramatically slaps a palm across her forehead. “It’s normal to have it be awkward at times. You guys don’t know each other yet.”
“Yeah, but I hang out with you and Kendall all the time and it’s not weird.”
“But we know each other!” she says. “We have common interests and a past. You two have known each other for a week!” We stop in front of a trail that takes us through a path of desert plants. “Don’t be discouraged if you don’t feel like everything is easy and perfect and right all the time. I can’t even count the number of awkward moments Max and I shared before we began dating, and then several more once we did. Trust me, things are supposed to be awkward. It’s just part of dating. Part of life.”
20
Wes
Leela: I hope your appointment goes well. ☺
I read the text from Leela and grin. Last night we talked on the phone for twenty minutes while she drove home from work. Our conversation was light and easy, but having her message me now, fifteen minutes before my appointment with the surgeon, demonstrates something that feels significant. She not only remembered that I was going but is making an effort to communicate with me though I know she’s at work right now.
Me: Thanks. I hope work passes quickly and as painlessly as possible for you.
Leela: I’m working with Jasmine today, which makes it go by fast.
She hasn’t asked me yet if I have a job. I’m guessing she already knows I don’t.
“Wes,” a doctor’s assistant calls, holding a clipboard.
I pocket my phone and stand. Though the boot keeps my foot locked at a ninety-degree angle, standing and stairs are still uncomfortable and at times difficult. Thankfully, nothing seems impossible, which has me clinging to the hope that they’ll tell me I’ll heal without any issues and be back to normal within a couple of weeks.
I go through the routine of having my vitals checked and reiterating what occurred before the doctor’s assistant assures me the doctor will be in soon.
I send Leela another text while I wait.
Me: This is at the sandwich shop?
Leela: That’s the one ☺
Me: What was your dream job as a kid?
Leela: I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. When I was five, my older brother, Troy, fell off his bike and broke his arm. The doctor who helped was so kind and so patient. I wanted to be just like her.
Leela: What was your dream job as a kid?
Me: I wanted to be a professional golfer.
Leela: Really?
Me: Yup. My dad used to take me out twice a week. He’d get beer, I’d get Coke with grenadine, and we’d play 18 holes. We had the best time out there.
Leela: Do you still play?
Me: Not as often. During the summers, I teach kids to play and still get my Cokes with grenadine, though ;)
Leela: You teach kids to play golf?
Me: And baseball.
Leela: Tell me something about you that isn’t perfect.
Me: Ha! I couldn’t tell you one thing that was perfect about me.
Leela: I’m waiting…
Me: I talk too much. I’m the slowest eater you’ve ever met. I’m really boring and prefer to listen to podcasts while I run instead of music. I talk in my sleep. While I’m reading, I’ll sometimes start reading aloud without noticing it—I was asked to leave a study group because of this.
Leela: They kicked you out for reading aloud?!?! What sort of oppressive and tyrannical study group had you joined? Be glad they asked you to leave.
Me: The two leaders were really good at Latin. I kind of wish I’d managed
to just shut up.
Leela: Ha!!!
Leela: Aren’t you going to ask for my list of imperfections? Spoiler, it’s a lot longer than yours ;)
Me: You could tell me you have 8 toes, and snore so loud your entire family has to wear earplugs, and I still wouldn’t care.
Me: Just don’t tell me you hate pizza. That could be a deal breaker.
Leela: I love pizza.
Me: I also know for a fact you don’t snore.
Leela: I do have a temper though.
Me: Of course you do. You’re a redhead.
Leela: What’s that supposed to mean?
Me: You know exactly what it means.
Leela: If Jasmine weren’t laughing, I’d be offended right now.
Me: I like her already.
A knock at the door has me typing a quick, final text.
Me: Doc’s here. I’ll talk to you later.
An hour later, I’m in the cab of my truck staring at an appointment reminder for surgery on Friday.
It seems impossible that in less than a week I will have gone from being fine to falling wrong and requiring surgery.
I scrub a hand over my face and check the time again for no particular reason. I don’t need to be anywhere. With a sigh, I scroll through my contacts, the desire to share my prognosis leads me to my parents’ phone number. I don’t want their pity or even their compassion, it’s the factual way my mom will summarize the surgery, and Dad will dictate my recovery time and list facts about how often the procedure is performed that will set my nerves at ease.
The unfamiliar ringback tone reminds me of how far away they are. Their answering machine picks up, and rather than leave a message, I hang up and head home.
The stairs seem more taxing and difficult, and though I hate to admit it, I’m sure it’s psychosomatic. I grab the same bag of frozen peas I’ve been recycling as an ice pack and head to my room where I toss them atop a pillow and remove the boot I’ve been stuck wearing. The swelling and bruising have both gotten worse, and the pain has remained a constant pulse all day.
My phone rings, and Max’s name is displayed across my screen. He tried calling while I was driving home as well. I consider ignoring him, but know that will likely only lead to the others calling me, and eventually someone stopping by.
“Hey.”
“Hey, man. How’d your appointment go?”
“Lame.”
“What did they say?”
“That because I’m a young and healthy athlete the best treatment is surgery.”
“Dude, that sucks. When do they want to perform the surgery?”
“Friday morning at seven.”
“Shit. Okay, well let’s figure this out. Landon gets off in about an hour. Why don’t we come by and help you pack up some things so you can stay here? There’s no way you’ll be able to manage all those stairs after surgery, and there’s always someone here at the house. We can help you out and take you somewhere if you have a class or something.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Don’t be dumb,” he says, cutting me off. “You know if you don’t come, Kendall and Ace will be over, packing up your shit.”
I sigh, dropping my head back against my headboard.
“We’ll see you in a few. Did you eat lunch? You want anything?”
“When did you turn into such a woman? You want to take care of me, feed me…”
“Watch it, asshole. You’re going to be at my mercy when you’re drugged and babbling about alien cats, and I’ll post that shit to every social media platform.”
I laugh. “I doubt I’ll be talking about alien cats when I wake up from surgery.”
“I guess we’ll find out in a couple of days.”
“Be glad you sleep on the second story,” I tell him.
Max laughs. “I’ll see you in a while.”
“Dude, you don’t need to come over. I can pack my own shit.”
“Good,” Max says. “I really didn’t want to touch your underwear. I thought that might change the dynamic of our relationship a little too much.”
“It definitely would.”
“We’ll just come by and help get your bags then, and anything else you want to bring.”
“I just need to pack a few pairs of clothes and my textbooks.”
“Okay. Well, we’ll see you in an hour.”
He hangs up before I can object again.
I look around my room. The walls are sparse. It still doesn’t look like I’ve moved into this space. The rest of the house has some character-albeit minimal, but my room looks like I just moved into it yesterday. Aside from sleeping in here, I spend practically no time in my apartment. Leaving to stay with Max and the others should feel like a relief—I spend more time there anyway—but instead, I’m unsettled over the idea. I wonder if this is how Max felt much of last year when I kept trying to help him.
Max and Landon show up an hour later with a takeout sack filled with food.
“Do you need anything else?” Landon asks, looking at my suitcase and book bag.
I shake my head. “I’m sure I’ll be feeling better by Monday.”
Landon stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t need him to, I can read his disbelief.
“Well, let’s get this show on the road then.” Max grabs my bags and takes two steps toward the front door before turning around when I don’t follow suit.
“I’ll follow you guys,” I say, grabbing my keys.
“Are you supposed to drive?” Landon raises his eyebrows.
“How do you think I’ve been getting around?”
“But now that you know it’s messed up are you still supposed to be driving?” Landon continues.
I shrug. “They didn’t say not to. Driving doesn’t bother it.”
His face is tense with unease, but he doesn’t question me again. We head out to the parking lot and they get into Max’s truck and wait for me to pull out before following me back to their house.
21
Leela
Thursday is my favorite day of the week because I’m done with classes by 10 a.m., allowing me a break alone, regardless of where I’m scheduled to work for the evening. And for the first time in a long while, our fridge is still packed with the food Mom got to bring home from work.
I pull into the driveway, a cloud of dust greeting me. I open my back door to grab my bag, and my mind wanders to Wes. I only heard from him once yesterday after his appointment, and rather than tell me what happened, he’d made a joke. I’m beginning to realize that humor is how he often deals with things, unlike my family who prefers the dramatic route. Troy has always dealt with his anger in threats, Luna with yelling—my dad is a combination of both, but with age, we see less of his temper. My temper—like my hair—comes from my mom. We’re the silent ragers. We get upset by something and stomp our feet and give the cold shoulder for a week.
My relationship with Wes is a challenge I’ve not faced before. When Derrick and I began dating, we were in middle school, and though I didn’t see him at school because I’d already begun going to private school, I saw him daily. It was easy to make our relationship work because while our goals didn’t coincide they also didn’t conflict. I’d do homework while he watched TV, and then we’d hang out. As we got older, hanging out turned into making out. Derrick knew my family and Jasmine, and they got along, so whenever we’d have a party or we got a little extra money and we’d have a barbecue, our same group of friends would be invited—and it always included Derrick. I’m fairly certain everyone except for Jasmine is still expecting us to get back together. I think everyone misses the ease and convenience of our relationship. I often wonder if my dad and Troy knew that Derrick had slept with a dozen other women while we were dating if they’d still be holding out hope just to make things turn back to the way things were or if they’d also realize it could never happen.
After Derrick and I broke up, I was so bitter and stuck in the past that I didn’t even loo
k at other guys, and then with school and work and my volunteer hours, I was stuck in tunnel-vision. I think of the advice Jasmine’s given me—encouraging me to apply myself to my relationship with Wes. I pull out my phone to text him, determined to put forth the effort.
A movement from inside the house catches my attention, and I pause, looking to the driveway to ensure my dad’s old truck and my Mom’s small sedan aren’t there. They aren’t. I drop my shoulders, hoping Troy isn’t over. I unlock the front door and head inside, a slight tinge of nerves making my movements more drawn out.
“Hello?” I call, stepping into the house.
No one replies.
“Hello?” I call again, louder this time.
More silence.
I flip on the bank of lights, though the trailer is light with the mid-morning sun.
“If you don’t respond, I’m going to call the police!” My heart thunders in my chest. “I’m calling them!”
“It’s just me, you paranoid freak.” Luna comes around the corner holding an ice pack over her eye.
My heart is still racing as I lean against the counter in attempt to not look spooked by her unannounced presence. “What are you doing home? And why do you have an ice pack on your face? Did you get in a fight?” I walk closer to her, and in turn Luna backs up.
