Zip, Zero, Zilch
Page 18
“Sorry,” I murmur around the cupcake in my mouth. But I’m giggling.
“Some day,” he says quietly, “do you think you might talk to me without tapping? Just me and you. No pressure.”
The whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been tapping the countertop, the back of the chair, or even my toe against the floor. “I…c-c-c-…” I close my eyes and try to squeeze out the word. “Can’t.”
He grins. “You just did.”
I don’t know why I did that. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders after telling Sam about my family and how I got my name. And about my disability.
“You’re just being nice,” I say, tapping my toe.
He kisses me. It’s a quick kiss. It’s fast and it startles the shit out of me. Then he finishes cleaning up the kitchen. I try to help him, but he brushes me away. “Want to watch the chefs cook-off show on TV with me?” he asks as he dries his hands with a towel.
I nod, and we go sit on the couch together. He’s on one end of the couch and I’m on the other. But this is good. I need this amount of distance, because Sam Reed is going to rip my heart into a million and one pieces. I’m sure of it.
Sam
She’s four feet away from me on the other end of the couch, but there might as well be an ocean between us.
I flip channels until I find the chef cook-off show I like. I settle back and lift my foot to rest on the coffee table.
“I love this show,” I say and look at her.
“Why aren’t you cooking in real life?” she asks. Her thumb beats a rhythm on the edge of the sofa arm.
“I do cook in real life.” I point toward the kitchen. Did she forget the meal she just had? I guess it wasn’t as good as I thought.
She grins. “I mean professionally. Why don’t you have your own restaurant or something?”
“It’s just a hobby.” I wave a hand through the air, like swiping a chalkboard clean. She just picked up on the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.
She shakes her head. “It’s not just a hobby.”
“I don’t have time for anything but football.” I turn the TV up a little louder and she stops talking about it.
After a few minutes of very awkward silence, she says, “Do you like football?”
I don’t look away from the TV. “Love it.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She lifts her feet up onto the couch. Her thighs are plump and perfect and I suddenly want to touch them. I have to fight to keep my hands on my side of the couch, because while she might like me, she’s definitely not at the same place I’m at.
“Stop it,” she says.
I jerk my eyes back up to her face. “Stop what?”
“Stop staring at my fat.”
“I wasn’t staring at fat.” I look into her eyes. “I was staring at those awesomely gorgeous legs, if you must know.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, stop it.”
“Can’t. Sorry. They’re awesome. And awesome things get stared at. Deal with it.” I grin at her. She’s not amused.
She puts her feet back down on the floor. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Don’t go.” I grab her as she tries to get up, but with my bum leg, I can’t chase her down. I grab her forearm and gently pull her back down, only this time she’s on the middle couch cushion. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. “I promise.”
She settles back against the sofa. “You make me nervous,” she admits.
What? “Why?”
“I don’t know how to take you.”
I shrug. “Just take me at face value, I guess?” I make it sound like a question, but it’s not.
“But you have so many faces.” She covers her own face with her hands and groans.
“No, I don’t.” I look at her. Really look at her. “I’m the same guy you see every single time I’ve been with you.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
She has been talking to me for about five minutes without tapping or banging anything. I look down at her feet. She’s tapping out a rhythm with her bare, pink little toes.
“I’m not angry,” I tell her.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m just a guy with a seriously hot chick on his couch watching the chef cook-off show.” I lay my hands on my stomach. “My belly is full, my apartment’s not empty for the first time in months, and I’m happy you’re here. Can you just live with that?”
She nods. She watches TV quietly for a minute. But I can almost smell the gears burning away in her mind.
“Are you going to see your mom? Now that she’s looking for you, I mean?”
She heaves a sigh. “I hope not.”
“I doubt she’s going to give up.”
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t. But if I wait long enough, she’ll do something stupid and end up back in jail.” She looks down at my boot. “What’s your prognosis with the leg?”
I wiggle my toes. “I go back to the doctor at the end of the week, hopefully to get a walking cast. Then a few more weeks and I can start training again.”
“You’re going to go back to playing?”
“Some day,” he says quietly, “do you think you might talk to me without tapping? Just me and you. No pressure.”
The whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been tapping the countertop, the back of the chair, or even my toe against the floor. “I…c-c-c-…” I close my eyes and try to squeeze out the word. “Can’t.”
He grins. “You just did.”
I don’t know why I did that. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders after telling Sam about my family and how I got my name. And about my disability.
“You’re just being nice,” I say, tapping my toe.
He kisses me. It’s a quick kiss. It’s fast and it startles the shit out of me. Then he finishes cleaning up the kitchen. I try to help him, but he brushes me away. “Want to watch the chefs cook-off show on TV with me?” he asks as he dries his hands with a towel.
I nod, and we go sit on the couch together. He’s on one end of the couch and I’m on the other. But this is good. I need this amount of distance, because Sam Reed is going to rip my heart into a million and one pieces. I’m sure of it.
Sam
She’s four feet away from me on the other end of the couch, but there might as well be an ocean between us.
I flip channels until I find the chef cook-off show I like. I settle back and lift my foot to rest on the coffee table.
“I love this show,” I say and look at her.
“Why aren’t you cooking in real life?” she asks. Her thumb beats a rhythm on the edge of the sofa arm.
“I do cook in real life.” I point toward the kitchen. Did she forget the meal she just had? I guess it wasn’t as good as I thought.
She grins. “I mean professionally. Why don’t you have your own restaurant or something?”
“It’s just a hobby.” I wave a hand through the air, like swiping a chalkboard clean. She just picked up on the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.
She shakes her head. “It’s not just a hobby.”
“I don’t have time for anything but football.” I turn the TV up a little louder and she stops talking about it.
After a few minutes of very awkward silence, she says, “Do you like football?”
I don’t look away from the TV. “Love it.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She lifts her feet up onto the couch. Her thighs are plump and perfect and I suddenly want to touch them. I have to fight to keep my hands on my side of the couch, because while she might like me, she’s definitely not at the same place I’m at.
“Stop it,” she says.
I jerk my eyes back up to her face. “Stop what?”
“Stop staring at my fat.”
“I wasn’t staring at fat.” I look into her eyes. “I was staring at those awesomely gorgeous legs, if you must know.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, stop it.”
“Can’t. Sorry. They’re awesome. And awesome things get stared at. Deal with it.” I grin at her. She’s not amused.
She puts her feet back down on the floor. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Don’t go.” I grab her as she tries to get up, but with my bum leg, I can’t chase her down. I grab her forearm and gently pull her back down, only this time she’s on the middle couch cushion. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. “I promise.”
She settles back against the sofa. “You make me nervous,” she admits.
What? “Why?”
“I don’t know how to take you.”
I shrug. “Just take me at face value, I guess?” I make it sound like a question, but it’s not.
“But you have so many faces.” She covers her own face with her hands and groans.
“No, I don’t.” I look at her. Really look at her. “I’m the same guy you see every single time I’ve been with you.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
She has been talking to me for about five minutes without tapping or banging anything. I look down at her feet. She’s tapping out a rhythm with her bare, pink little toes.
“I’m not angry,” I tell her.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m just a guy with a seriously hot chick on his couch watching the chef cook-off show.” I lay my hands on my stomach. “My belly is full, my apartment’s not empty for the first time in months, and I’m happy you’re here. Can you just live with that?”
She nods. She watches TV quietly for a minute. But I can almost smell the gears burning away in her mind.
“Are you going to see your mom? Now that she’s looking for you, I mean?”
She heaves a sigh. “I hope not.”
“I doubt she’s going to give up.”
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t. But if I wait long enough, she’ll do something stupid and end up back in jail.” She looks down at my boot. “What’s your prognosis with the leg?”
I wiggle my toes. “I go back to the doctor at the end of the week, hopefully to get a walking cast. Then a few more weeks and I can start training again.”
“You’re going to go back to playing?”
