You and Everything After (6 page)

“Yes, you can,” he says, squeezing my hand closed around the paper and looking at me, determined to get me on his side. My heart started kicking the instant he touched me, and the longer he holds my hand in his palm, the faster my pulse races. I haven’t begun my workout yet, but I feel a single drip of sweat form at my neck and race down my spine. My conscience is screaming at me:
you can’t do this
! I can’t do this because I’ll be breaking a promise I made to my mother, and because I told the doctors I would quit pushing myself so hard, and because Paige promised my parents she wouldn’t let me go overboard.

“Yes you can,” Ty repeats, squeezing my hand a little tighter, almost as if he can hear my inner battle. But he doesn’t understand. I have limits. I have responsibilities. And my body…it can’t handle any more pushing. It gets tired.

“I have MS.”

I say it so fast, I don’t hear the words leave my lips. But my breath is stripped away—it’s panic, the kind you get when you’re terrified, or when someone rips a painful bandage away.

“I have MS.”

I say it again, just to be sure I hear it this time. I won’t look at him because I don’t want to see the sympathy on his face. I don’t want to see that moment he gives up on me. I don’t want to see it, because I like the way he looked at me before—the flirting, the wanting, the desire, the kiss. Goddamn it, why did I tell him?

“Pussy,” he says, squeezing my hand even harder, and shaking it to get my attention. My eyes go to his on instinct, and there isn’t a single trace of pity on his face. His lips don’t twitch, and I can tell this isn’t a front. He isn’t trying to put on a strong face for me. He isn’t
pretending
that he doesn’t care what I just said. He honestly and truly doesn’t. He’s just calling me a
pussy
.

“Ty, did you hear me?” I ask.

“Yeah, I heard you. You have MS. I can’t feel my legs.
La di
fuckin’
da
. Are we training or what?” His expression hasn’t changed once, and the armor I just started to build up around my heart is already cracking.

I pull my hand from his and unfold the paper again to really take it in. Everything on here—every exercise and the time associated with it—is familiar. I know I can do it. I’ve done it before. I also know I may experience setbacks. And I know my body will be tired. But I want this. Maybe it’s because Ty’s the one believing in me, and maybe that’s making me want it even more. It’s probably the
wrong
decision based on a medical plus-and-minus chart, but it’s the right one in my heart.

“Where do I start?”

The way his mouth slides into a prideful smile melts any remaining doubt away, and I take a slow, deep breath, my chest almost puffing at feeling strong
and
wanted all at once.

“We need to get your miles back up,” he says, grabbing my bag from the small shelf and tossing it to me. “No weights today. Today is all about the treadmill.”

I follow him to the aerobic machines, and everything feels lighter, yet nothing between us has changed. And I think I like that most of all. “Oh, by the way,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, “my parents have a suite for the first home game. They’re taking Nate and me, and we have extra seats. I’d like you to meet them. Wanna go?”

It may not be the right move, and I may be blowing any
future strategy
, as Paige would say, but I smile and let my eyes light up anyway, because Ty is actually doing it—he’s earning me, like I’m something to be earned. “I’d like that,” I say.

He nods in response, like it’s no big deal, but I also hear him exhale heavily, and I can tell asking me made him nervous.
I
make him nervous. And I like that, too.

Chapter 6

Ty

I have never done a load of laundry in my entire life. Not once. Ever. Nate calls it my gift, my
one
super power.

Mom always takes care of it when we’re home. It’s her thing. She always says she loves the smell—the way the fabrics feel when she pulls them from the dryer—and the warmth. I get it. When I was a kid, I used to love tagging along with her while she did the weekend chores, and we’d always end up in the laundry room. I would sit in the corner, in the basket filled with freshly dried towels, and eat a bowl of grapes. Something about the dryer sheets lulled me to sleep. To this day, when I’m at home, Mom practically bakes my blanket and pillowcases in the dryer, and I swear to god I sleep like a damned baby.

You think my addiction to the smell of warmed lavender would be enough to learn how the whole process works. But as much as I love the end result, I absolutely loathe the manual-labor part of laundry. It’s just so…tedious! It’s not like dishes or vacuuming, not that I do any of that often either, but at least when you do the dishes, it’s done…in like…fifteen minutes. Or you put them in a machine and just come back later and pull the dishes out when you need them. Laundry, though—laundry requires waiting. And carrying. And folding. And sorting.
 

While I was in Florida, I was usually able to get someone to do my laundry for me. Nate’s taken care of it for the last month, throwing my laundry in with his. He says I’m so good that I even have him trained. I know he’d do it again. I know he’d do it every week, for the rest of the semester. But I just saw Cass go into the laundry room, and suddenly here I am, halfway down the hall with a full basket of laundry in my lap.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here!” I shut my eyes and release a breathy laugh when I hear myself speak. I’m so fucking lame.

“Oh, hey,” Cass says, jumping at my voice. She’s sorting her laundry, so I pause and watch.

She’s wearing tiny running shorts and this thin T-shirt that makes me want to toss water on it just to watch it stick to her skin. We haven’t really talked much since our training session a couple days ago. I have a feeling she thinks I’m freaked out because she told me about her MS. But I’m not. I haven’t gone to see her because every time I do, I want to kiss her. But then I think about her one stipulation, and I wonder if me—and all of my
crap
—won’t find a reason to hurt her once I’m done. That would be the end of it, too. No more training sessions, no more not-so-random laundry room run-ins. I don’t think I want to be done with that.

I’m starting to realize there’s a difference between
wanting
her and
needing
her. Problem is, I’m victim to both. I want her, God do I
want
her. But lately, I need her too. I
like
needing her. It feels…I don’t know. It just feels. But if I blow one side of the deal, I’ll lose the other. It’s a delicate balance, and kissing her—that would tip the scales for good.

“Right, so I just shove all the clothes in this one and then pour in…what? Like, two cups of this stuff?” I’m not even close. Even I know this much. But I thought it would be better to play full dumbass rather than have her see me flounder and look foolish for real.

“Uh, yeah, if you want to repeat that episode of the
Brady Bunch
where Bobby floods the laundry room with bubbles,” she says, giggling and taking the full cup of soap from my hand, pouring almost half of it back in the bottle.

“That’s a classic,” I say, making my move, pushing back and waiting for her to take over.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Get over here. You are going to learn by doing, not by watching,” she says, reaching her hand to mine. I come willingly, hungry to touch her, but my fire is put out quickly when she pushes the detergent back into my hand.

“What, no hands-on instruction?” I tease. She smirks, but she also rolls her eyes, so I give up on the overt flirting—for now. “Okay, okay, fine. I put in this much, but where?”

Cass points at a small drawer on the side of the machine, and I pull it open and pour in the soap. “Now what?” I ask, honestly clueless. She’s laughing at me genuinely now.

“WOW,” she mouths, big and slowly.

“Hey, don’t make fun of me for not knowing how to do domestic shit. That’s not nice. I’d like to see you swap out an air filter and put in a quart of synthetic,” I say, practically growling when I’m done with my testosterone-filled comeback.

Cass is staring at me with her hand on her hip. “That make you feel better?” she asks, her mouth pursed, and her eyes doing that slow blinking thing that my mom’s do when she’s about to tell me to knock it off.

“Yes,” I actually growl and beat my chest once for added effect. “Yes, it did.”

Without pause, Cass proceeds to talk me through every single step involved in swapping out a goddamned air filter and putting in a quart of oil on a sixty-seven Dodge Charger. A sixty-seven Dodge Charger that “yes, you can switch to synthetic from ten W forty…if you know what you’re doing!” And somewhere in the middle of it all, I admit to myself that there’s a really good chance that I’m falling for her. It was at about the point that her lips slowed down to delicately toss out the words
valve covers
and
oil filter cap
.

Scales. Are. Tipping.

“Right, so, I sort the whites from the darks then, and put them in here,” I say, swallowing my pride—with an actual swallow—and replaying the hottest damned dressing-down I’ve ever had.

“You’re getting it,” she says, pulling herself up to sit on the counter, her legs swaying back and forth like wind chimes while she watches me do my first solo load of laundry in my entire life. I’m actually kind of proud.

I look at her over my shoulder, and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth while she tries to hide her smile. I like the way she’s looking at me.

Time to test the scales.

I press the start button and the machine begins to whirl and buzz quietly. It also says
forty minutes
. “Forty minutes?” I protest, but Cass just laughs, and then pats the counter next to her. I see her eyes flash when she realizes what she’s done, but I won’t let her feel bad.

“I’m good down here,” I say, making a joke out of it and positioning myself right in front of her, moving my hands to grab the meaty calves of her legs. “Damn. Those feel like weapons.”

I let my grip loosen, but I don’t move my hands away, and she doesn’t ask me to.

Cass

He’s touching me. And it’s not like the way he touched me in the gym, when he pressed my muscles to make them work harder. That touch was purposeful. This is a thoughtful touch, a strategic touch—an opening that he is taking.

“So, how do you know how to change the oil on a sixty-seven Charger?” he asks.

“I drive one. Back home. That’s my car,” I say, and his top lip curls just enough to make his left cheek dimple.

“That’s hot,” he says, and I laugh at his bluntness. It’s probably my favorite quality about him, the way he just says things—whatever he’s thinking. There’s no filter, no
wall.
That’s how I operate, or at least how I
try
to.

“I know,” I say back, matching him. I match him.
We. Are. A. Perfect. Match.
These thoughts have flooded me ever since I told him I had MS, and he acted as if I said I liked pepperoni on my pizza.

His gaze lingers, and his smile grows a little bigger. I can see him chewing on the sides of his tongue, small twitches working in his jaw as if he’s deciding whether or not to say something. He looks at me like this for a while, and his hands stay locked to the underside of the bottom of my legs. Eventually, he starts to tap at them teasingly with his fingertips, causing them to sway toward him as if he were toying with a balloon.

“How are the weapons feeling this morning?” he asks, giving each leg one more rub and squeeze before letting his hands fall back into his lap. My skin grows cold and tingles, wondering where he went.

“Good. I was tired yesterday though. But I think I can go again today.” I’m exhausted, but my stomach is doing that urgent fluttering thing that is making me say irrational things and convince myself that I’m fully recovered from our first killer workout—all because I simply want to spend more time with him.

“Liar,” he smirks. He knows I’m bullshitting, and I feel the burn of embarrassment starting to move up my neck. “I won’t judge you, just so you know. Humans, we get…tired.”

I twist my mouth and squint at him, not sure what he means.

“You’re tired, because I probably worked you harder than you’ve ever been worked. And it’s okay. You’re allowed to be. I won’t think it’s because of the MS, which I know is what you’re afraid of,” he says, his brow lowered and his eyes zeroed in on mine. “I won’t think you’re weak. Ever.”

My head nods in agreement and my lips form a relieved smile. I don’t tell him that he’s off-base, because as much as my
real
reason for pretending I’m not fatigued is to be near him, I do also worry that he’ll think I’m weak. I worry because everyone else in my life thinks I now have limits. Ty is the first person
who
, so far, doesn’t set them for me.

Ty catches a glimpse of my opened notepad and anthropology book next to me on the table. I had planned on getting a little of my homework done from the first day of classes, but that was when I thought I’d be in here alone for the next hour. My plans changed the second he said “Hello.”
 

Before I can reach for the book, Ty takes it in his hand, and begins flipping through a few pages.

“Ah, undergrad classes,” he says, sighing dramatically. I know he didn’t mean anything by his statement, but suddenly I feel embarrassed, and maybe a little inferior, by the fact that I’m not yet nineteen and he’s twenty-two, by the fact that I’m taking one-hundred-level courses and he’s getting an MBA.

“I was just getting ahead, but…I can put it away,” I say, taking the book from him quickly, and zipping it up in my backpack along with my notes and pen. I like the heaviness of the pack in my lap, like a shield—so I leave it there, hugging it to my body while my legs dangle.

I wonder if I look as uncomfortable as I suddenly feel. He’s smiling at me, sort of. He looks uncomfortable too, and now I’m beginning to wonder if he’s starting to calculate all of the negatives that come along with our age gap. He keeps looking at his watch, nervously twisting it around his wrist, like he wants to leave.

He wants to leave.

“I could just come and get you. You know…when your laundry’s done?” I practically blurt out my question. He’s blinking at me, like he’s trying to decipher whatever language just spilled out of my lips. I’m pretty sure the dialect is young, naïve, and stupid.

“Are you…getting rid of me?” he asks, his head cocked slightly to one side as his eyes shift between my backpack and me, growing wider with each pass. Suddenly, he smirks as if he’s discovered something. “Wait a second…were you looking at a porno mag? Is that why you put your book away?” He grabs my backpack from my lap so fast that my reflexes fail their mission to grip it back.

“No, I swear. I was just studying,” I say through nervous laughter, sliding from my perch on the counter in an effort to get it back. I know Ty is just teasing, and at first we’re in a cute game of tug-of-war. But when he unzips the side and reaches inside—his fingers threatening to pull out the pamphlets and self-help books I just picked up from the library—my fight to regain possession grows more manic. Ty, however, still thinks we’re playing; his hands grip one end of the bag and mine the other. He yanks hard, his strong muscles really only knowing how to do one thing, and it forces the zipper open completely.

I thought I felt foolish about being younger. But that was
before
I made a floor display of every cliché low-self-esteem brochure printed in the state of Oklahoma. Naturally, the most embarrassing one is in Ty’s hands right now.

“
How to Love Yourself So Others Will Too
,” Ty reads, flipping the book in his hands and skimming his eyes over the description on the back. I take this opportunity to scoop everything else up in my arms and sit on the floor with my legs crossed, quickly stuffing things back in my bag. “Oh, this is good. Wait, listen to this one…”

He starts to quote a few of the passages, mocking the stereotypical affirmations and examples in the book. I know they’re stupid—and hearing them now, I’m not sure why I picked the book up. But reading it made me feel good an hour or two ago. “Wow, what class is making you read this shit?” he asks, finally putting the book down. His laughter cuts short when he sees me, my eyes buried in my lap.

“It’s not for a class,” I say, looking up long enough to get the book from him. “My stuff’s in the dryer. Just…just knock on my door when it buzzes done.” I leave quickly, clutching my things close to my chest and feeling ridiculous.

I don’t bother to zip my bag up again, instead carrying it all into my room and letting everything spill out into a pile on my bed. I don’t know what made me check all of these things out. It all started with the book Ty was reading, actually. My hands gravitated to it while I was looking through some of the health and wellness books. At first, my attraction was the same as Ty’s—I found the book amusing. But some of those cheesy sayings actually rang true, especially the ones about feeling inferior to siblings and how we use self-deprecating humor as a crutch. Next thing I knew…I had two books, four magazines, and a dozen brochures.

Ty’s knock on my door is soft. I hadn’t shut it all the way when I walked in, so he takes advantage and comes all the way into my room with little warning.

“Dry already?” I ask, doing my best to pretend none of
that
happened. I pick the pillow up from my lap, laying it over the embarrassing evidence.

“No,” Ty responds, moving closer until he’s at the foot of my bed. Without pause, he slides from his chair to the bed until he’s sitting next to me. He picks up the pillow, and my stomach sinks. His smile is soft as he scoops everything into my bag, and slides it all to the floor, closing the distance between us even more until his hand is suddenly cradling my cheek.