Page 24 of Blitz

I press the button for the elevator. I’m not a small woman, I’m average height, but I feel impossibly tiny next to him. Everything about him is huge. I’m engulfed by his presence, as well as his physical size.

I love it. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed him.

He stands perfectly still. He doesn’t fidget. His eyes are glued on the little buttons above the elevator doors as we click down to the fifth floor. The doors open and he thrusts his arm between them, holding them open.

“After you.” His voice is as rough as gravel.

I step over the threshold, and he joins me, jabbing at the button for the ground floor. The elevator is tiny, made even smaller by his presence. He hugs the wall, careful not to touch me.

The slowest elevator in the history of the world lurches into motion. This is the closest we’ve been in—years. He smells like cedar and sandalwood and something else uniquely Tucker. I can’t get enough.

It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen him, since he kicked me out of his house. I don’t know what to say to him. The silence between us is deafening. I swallow, and it sounds so loud in the quiet stillness of the metal box we’re trapped in.

We tick down a floor. He’s not looking at me. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his eyes trained on his feet. I want to catch his eye, to catch his attention. Any little glimmer of attention, good or bad.

One more level. Does he miss me? Whether he hates me or not, his feelings are certainly forceful. Tucker has always loved hard. When he lets someone into his life, he wholeheartedly embraces them. It feels good to bask in the warm glow of his affection. I hadn’t realized until just now how much I missed it.

The elevator lurches to a stop, the doors creaking open with a steely groan. He holds the door again, letting me pass through first.

Our walk through campus is silent. At this time of day, there’s barely anyone left on campus. They’ve all gotten a kick start on their weekend. It’s a Friday night. I should be getting ready for dinner and then a party. Settling down to study doesn’t feel right.

But it means I get to spend some time with him, so I’ll gladly sacrifice some partying time if it means we get to spend the evening together.

I rather thought he would head for the study rooms on the second floor. Instead, he makes his way towards the dining hall. We both badge in with our student athlete access cards. Again, he holds the door open for me.

Without a word, he makes a beeline for the sandwich bar. I follow at a more sedate pace towards the snack area. I’m not quite hungry enough for dinner yet. I’m fine with an apple and a cheese stick to tide me over for the next hour or two.

I expect him to select a big table where we have space to spread out. He surprises me again by picking a small table built for four towards the back of the dining hall.

His tray is laden with not one, not two, but three peanut butter sandwiches and a protein shake. I know he’s an emotional eater, but that seems like a lot.

I can’t judge him. I can’t worry about him. That’s not my place anymore.

He grunts and pulls out his sociology textbook. “Chapter four?”

Our course is focused on the American family. I know his family history: two white lesbian moms who adopted two black boys as toddlers, both starting out as foster placements. Throughout the years, his moms have fostered at least a dozen other kids, though none have stayed longer than a year or two. He has no contact with his biological mother—as far as I’m aware, she’s still in jail, where she’s been since he entered into the system when he was two years old. There’s no biological father listed on his birth certificate.

I don’t have that intact nuclear family unit that everyone seems to think is so ideal. My parents split up when I was a baby and have both remarried, both happily. My twin brother and I dutifully shuttled between their houses growing up. My dad has four more kids with his new wife, a kind and polite woman who is not what I would consider warm, but is a decent and effective wife and mother. My mom is busy helping to raise my stepfather’s three kids, who are—fine. We’re not close. They’re in that awkward preteen stage where they hate the world, each other, and themselves.

I didn’t go home often when I was in school in DC, and I’m even further from home now. Georgetown’s campus is only a few miles away from my mom’s new house, but it was usually easier to stay at school in the athlete’s dorm than deal with her and the stepkids’ drama. Micah is in South Carolina. My dad is busy with the babies. I don’t even know where home is anymore.

I wonder how Jamal is doing. From Micah, I know Tucker’s brother is in the NBA now. He’s living the life. If my brother can get his shit together, next year he might be in the NFL.

Three years ago, I never would have thought my brother could be a professional football player. Half the time, I still can’t believe it. All of the draft predictions think he could be selected in the first one hundred players. Maybe even in the middle of the second round. That’s just insane. My little brother is a fully grown man now. He’s not so little anymore.

I clear my throat. Tucker looks up at me mid-bite, his dark eyes full of guilt. He slowly lowers his sandwich back to his plate.

“Have you talked to Micah lately?”

He grunts, which I take to be a no.

“He’s doing well.”

He makes a noise that could politely be called questioning.

“You should call him.”

He takes another enormous bite of his sandwich.