Page 75 of Studs Up
The coffee table was old. I had restored it years ago, but the peeling wood laminate persisted at the corner. I picked at it even though I knew it would make it worse. He made everything so soft and easy, and that made it all so fucking hard.
“Yes,” I said, honestly. I still woke with nightmares and had panic attacks, but they were manageable when I knew I could call him, and he always answered. Always.
“Good,” he replied. “And just so you know. You can get sleep and lose games, too.”
“Not on your life, Reed.”
I imagined his eyes crinkling in a smile even though his lips refused to do so.
“You know,” I said, picking a bit more laminate off the corner. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know I don’t owe you a fucking thing,” he said. “But it makes kicking your ass a whole lot more fun when you’re at the top of your game.”
“Oh fuck off,” I laughed.
“Do you want to stop talking?” He asked, and his voice was getting lower, hasher, like he was right behind me again, whispering in my ear. But there wasn’t the heat of him or his hands on my skin.
“No.”
“Good,” he said. “Me either.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Look,” I could hear him shifting around on the other end. “I know you haven’t told me everything. And that’s fine. I get it. But you’ve been miserable, and now not so much.”
“It’s not your responsibility to make my life better,” I said.
“No, I’m making it my responsibility.”
Fucking hell. My chest twisted and burned. I wanted to reach through the phone and yank him to me.
“Even at three in the morning?”
“Even at three in the fucking morning on game days.”
God damn it. It was never supposed to happen like this. Not a single fantasy involved Nolan being a saint, a gentle lover, and the man I needed just so I could breathe.
…
A man in a brown uniform knocked on my door, handed me a flat package, and asked for my signature. There was no return address, and while they had never contacted me with a letter before, my heart pounded at what I would find inside.
I put it on the counter and stared at it. I could ignore it. Throw it out and pretend it didn’t exist. Or I could open it and find out what it was and how much they knew. I walked away from it. I didn’t want to know.
I went to the backyard and tried to weed, prune, and do anything but think about the package. No matter what I did, it burned a hole in my brain. My heart wouldn’t slow down, and my hands began to shake.
I was back in the kitchen without even thinking. I was so focused on the package that I wasn’t truly in control of my body. I had to open it. I had to know, even if it made everything worse.
I ripped it open, and my mouth fell open. Of all the things in the world…It was a plain piece of paper that had probably been stolen from a copier. On it was a very short list, scrawled in untidy handwriting.
It was titled:
How to Deal With Your Bullshit
It was followed by exactly one step.
Step one: Call Nolan, no matter what time it is.
I stared at it. I was in love with him. Head over heels, tumbling off a cliff into oblivion, never to claw my way out, in love with him.
