She takes both our lists and hangs them on the refrigerator, next to our leasing agreement. The three hand-scribbled papers act as the strangest display of our bizarre relationship.
Cocking her head, she examines them. “Heads-up, Shay, I’m an expensive girlfriend. Fake or not. I can’t help it.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got money.”
She playfully smacks the counter. “That’s what I like to hear!”
I grab her empty plate along with my own and begin washing them in the sink.
“Do you ever let your dishes sit for a minute? You don’t have to do them the second you’re done using them. It’s okay to relax, Ryan.”
“I like an organized space.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” She stays silent for a moment, and I can sense her watching me. “Why don’t you date? You could have any girl you want. You’ve got that sexy protective thing going on. Plus, you cook and clean.”
Stilling, I pause with a plate in my hand, the water rushing over it. Indy has had no problems telling me exactly how she feels about me but hearing that she thinks I’m sexy hits differently. Like because we’re starting to know each other and we live together, the words hold more weight. But that could be me overanalyzing the girl opposite the kitchen island whose company I might enjoy more than I let on.
“I don’t have time right now. I have more important things I need to get done first.”
“So, eventually you will?”
“Maybe after I retire. I’m not sure. I haven’t thought too much about it.”
Lie. Bald-faced lie. I’ve contemplated this decision for years. If I ever open myself up in that way again, it’ll be well after I’m retired. It’ll be when I’m just a footnote in the history books. It’ll be once I can leave my house and not feel like a zoo animal on display. It’ll be once the only thing to gain from me, is me.
But that’s if I open myself up again.
“I hope you do,” she says softly. “You’d be good to someone. You’d make someone happy. I can tell.”
The untrusting part of me is screaming with the hidden meaning of her words. Because of how much money you make. Or you’re so well-known any girl would love to be on your arm. But there’s something about the kind smile Indy is wearing as she watches me do the dishes that makes me want to believe my gut. That she means I, as a man, as a normal everyday person would make someone happy, and I haven’t let that thought invade my mind in a long time.
8
INDY
Roomie
Do you have a dress for tomorrow night? These things are kind of fancy.
Clearly Ryan doesn’t know me very well yet because I have an outfit for every possible life event.
Wedding guest? Check.
Funeral? Check.
Formal fundraiser with Chicago’s pro teams? Check.
An afternoon spent at a bookstore where I’m casually browsing the shelves, appearing effortless and academic. When all the sudden, a handsome man down the aisle makes eye contact, shyly smiles, then holds up the same book that’s in my hands. Specific, but yes, I have an outfit for that too.
I’d love to buy a new dress, but I’m working with a budget these days.
Indy
I’m sure I have something in my closet.
And here I was about to offer my expensive girlfriend the opportunity to take my credit card out for a spin.
Now that you say it, I’m pretty sure my entire wardrobe got lost in the move.
That’s weird because your bedroom door still won’t close thanks to all the clothes sitting on the floor.
Oh, that’s where it all went! Lucky you, I’m covered for this one.
Great. And Blue, I’ve got to tell you something.
Oh God. What’s wrong now? My mind is racing with the endless possibilities. Something happened to Stevie. You need to move out. I found someone else I would rather have as my fake girlfriend.
That last one has crossed my mind more than a few times this week, that Ryan will change his mind and back out of our deal. Because if I’m being entirely honest with myself, I want this to work. I might even consider myself desperate for this to work thanks to the revolving thought of showing up stag to Maggie’s wedding and running into Alex with her on his arm.
???
I killed your flowers.
My chest deflates with an odd sense of relief. He really is dramatic, but I’ll play into it.
Ryan!
I tried! I really tried to keep them alive, but I think I watered them too much and drowned them. Then when I went down to the flower stand today to buy the same ones in hopes you wouldn’t notice, they didn’t have them. So I bought you some called Black-eyed Susan? Which is the weirdest fucking thing to call a flower.
My cheeks are sore from the splitting grin on my face. The idea of Ryan Shay, NBA superstar, leaving his apartment and facing the streets of Chicago to replace my flowers which he tried so hard to keep alive that he over watered them is beyond charming. As if I were a child whose parents wanted to protect my feelings and thought I wouldn’t recognize a new goldfish in my fish tank every week.
Sorry.
That’s okay. I like Black-eyed Susans too. Thank you for trying.
Heading out for warm-ups. See you at home.
I pull my book off the nightstand, needing a fictional boyfriend to distract me from how much I liked hearing see you at home from my very real roommate.
This is the third book I’ve read this week and I couldn’t tell you what any of the heroes were supposed to look like because somewhere along the line, in my mind they all end up being 6’3”， with light brown skin, ocean eyes, and a particular knack for home organization.
I don’t know what’s going on. Yes, I’m attracted to Ryan. I’ve always been attracted to Ryan, but he’s infiltrated my mind this week more than he should.
Maybe it’s the prospect of pretending to be together or living side by side that’s causing these unrealistic fantasies to pop into my mind, but the likeliest culprit is that hug in the kitchen from last week when I felt what he’s packing down below.
He was hard. I was wrapped around him, and he was hard.
I’m just pent-up and frustrated that Alex is the last man I’ve been with. The only man I’ve been with. I haven’t gotten laid in almost seven months and that’s all this is. I’m living with a stunning man, athletic, tall, and knows his way around the kitchen. It would be stranger if I didn’t have these thoughts.
It’ll pass. I just need to figure out how the hell to disassociate sex from love. I’ve never done it before, but I am so depleted, so damaged still that my heart has nothing left to offer. All the while my body is reminding me something is wrong. That I’m twenty-seven years old and haven’t been able to orgasm in seven months. I feel broken, in more ways than one, and I’m almost desperate to prove to myself that I’m not.
A normal night game on the West Coast means a very late flight home for us tonight. Ryan is on the East Coast, so his game starts in fifteen minutes and suddenly the idea of watching sweat drip down his body on my television screen is the only possible solution to pass the time until I need to get off this bed and into my work uniform.
A quick search pulls it up on the TV in my room. Number five is in the corner of the court during warm-ups, two basketballs in his hold, each one bouncing against the hardwood with speed and accuracy. Slight flexes of his hands change their direction. Between his legs. Across one another. Behind his back. Long slender fingers rule every movement.