STROKED LONG (12 page)

“He doesn’t eat candy, Mom. Or cookies for that matter. He’s kind of a health freak, and we are just work acquaintances.”

“Is that why his picture is front and center in your living space?”

The canvas Bodi stroked on two nights ago is sitting in the faux fireplace in my living space, hiding all the knick-knacks and decorations that occupied the space previously. I initially put it up there to dry but I can’t seem to take it down now.

I don’t think I’d ever had as much fun as I did the other night with Bodi. He was awkward, testing his limits,
obviously
stepping out of his comfort zone when it came to joking around, but it was endearing. From the way he pulled on the back of his neck to how quickly he retreated his hands to his pockets when he got a chance, everything about him reminded me of a little boy stuck in a man’s body . . . a very hot man’s body.

And then that laugh. Holy goat nipples, it sounded like some erotic melody coming from his mouth. It’s deep, with a touch of husk, and a whole lot of sexy. The type of laugh that will drive any woman to her knees, begging to hear it one more time.

“It’s just drying, Mom.” I dig into her cookies and plop one in my mouth. I’m not an Olympian. I don’t care what goes into my body, as long as I work it off in a step aerobics or Zumba class later then I’m good to go.

“Is that so? Seems to me like you used basic acrylic paint which would have dried easily within hours.”

Damn it, sometimes I forget my mom is an artist as well. “What do you want me to do with it? Throw it in the trash? Toss it on the ground and use it as a floor mat?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you take it to bed with you as a cuddle buddy,” my mom teases. She’s an artist and also a sassy mom who doesn’t ever let anything go. Can you tell?

“Why would you even say that?”

I don’t know why I ask that question because all it does is spur her on. Sitting up straight in her chair at my two-person dining room table, she prepares her speech. I can see it in the way she cocks her shoulders back, ready for battle.

Fanning her face with one hand and using the other as a pretend phone, she says, “Oh Mom, Bodi is such a good man. He’s funny, yet shy, and he’s so strong. You should see his muscles. What a swimmer. And he’s helping me with this foundation thing, and I actually heard him laugh the other day—”

I hold my hand up to her. “Okay, you’ve proven your point. And for the record, your impersonation of me is rather horrid. I do not sound like that.”

Polishing her nails on her shirt, she examines them and says, “I thought it was rather uncanny actually, if you ask me.”

“It was absolute piss.”

“Oh sweetie, you always fail to remember that you came out of me, through the birth canal and straight out of my vagina. As much as you want to deny it, you are a mini-me, and if I want to do an impersonation of my daughter I will nail it every time. It’s far too easy for me.”

Mini-me is correct. I look just like my mom from my blonde hair to my big brown eyes and share her quirky, artistic personality. I only have one trait from my dad: a terrible driver and road rage.
Oh shit. That’s two traits.
Living in Los Angeles has not been healthy for my temperament when driving, pretty devastating actually. The pounding my steering wheel has taken is unfair to the old thing.

“But that’s beside the point. Tell me you don’t like Bodi. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t like him one bit.”

She’s got me. She knows I won’t blatantly lie to her face. A little denial here and there, maybe, but when she tells me to look at her and make a statement, yeah, I can’t lie.

“Fine,” I concede. “I like him—”

“I knew it!” My mom claps in glee, happy with her ability to read the obvious.

“But it’s not that easy, Mom.”

“Why not? He’s an eligible man, and you both have some things in common. Have you tried flirting? You know, flip your hair, put your finger in your mouth kind of stuff.”

“As appealing as that sounds, Mom, I have not. I don’t typically like to present myself as a salami-eating ditz.”

“Then why do you always wear short dresses?”

“I do not!”

Throwing her head back, she laughs and grabs another cookie. “Oh sweetheart, you’re too easy.”

“For the record, my dresses come down to a respectable length. Just above the knee is nothing to scoff at.”

“Yes, I know, dear. But back to the main topic. Tell me about Bodi. Why isn’t it easy with him? I would think since you are a brilliant and beautiful young woman he would want nothing more than to enter into a courtship with you.”

I roll my eyes and shift my seat on the couch. “No one calls it a courtship anymore, Mom. And it’s not that easy because Bodi is a little darker than he seems on television.”

Shifting in her seat as well, my mom leans forward, clearly interested in the conversation. Whispering and looking around, as if there are other people in my tiny five-hundred-square-foot apartment, she says, “What kind of dark?” She pauses and leans forward just a little bit more. “Like . . . drugs?”

Of course my mom would go there. She’s quirky and open about practically everything. But drugs, oh boy, don’t even talk about drugs around her. Pretty sure if she had the opportunity, she would team up with McGruff the Crime Dog and take to the streets to end drug use.

“No, Mom, not drugs. He’s an Olympian for Christ’s sake.”

“Athletes lead secret lives sometimes.”

“And Olympians are constantly drug tested, so him doing drugs is not even something you should be considering.”

Sitting back, she exhales loudly and pretends to wipe sweat off her brow. “Whew, that’s good. You don’t approve of drugs.”

“Does anyone approve of drugs?”

Casually she answers, “Druggies.”

How can anyone argue with that?

“Fair enough. But no, it’s not drugs. He had a troubled childhood.”

“Oh, that’s so terrible,” my mom answers, her hand over her mouth. “What happened?”

“I don’t really know the details. All I know is he lost his parents when he was young. You can tell when interacting with him that the loss still affects his day-to-day routine. There’s been a few times I’ve noticed he’s on the verge of a panic attack. Interacting with others, being social doesn’t come easy to him. Actually, most of the time it’s very awkward to talk to him.”

“You don’t make fun of him, do you? Ruby, if you dare tease him—”

“Mom, why would I ever make fun of him? That is absurd. I actually try to help him out as much as possible.”

“How so?” Taking a sip of her lemonade, she settles in for my explanation. And that is why I appreciate my mom. She listens actively. Attentively.

“For instance, the other night when Bodi was here painting his canvas, before we got started he noticed I didn’t lock my front door. Someone else wouldn’t care as much, but he seemed fixated on the door being locked, to the point that he zoned out on me, and his breathing started to become erratic.”

“Interesting. I wonder if it has anything to do with his childhood. What did you do?”

“I locked it before he could fully retreat from the night we were just starting to have. Once the door was locked, he seemed to enjoy himself. He actually joked around for the first time since I’ve known him.”

Placing her fist under her chin, my mom smiles and says, “Oh really? And how did you like this joking around? Did it make you weak in the knees?”

“No.”

Yes, oh my God yes. That little chuckle of his, the slight quirk of his lips, yes, I was very weak in the knees. I’m surprised they didn’t boil over into noodles.

“I thought you didn’t lie to your mother.” I hate when she’s right.

“I would say it’s more denial than lying. I’m not ready to voice my infatuation quite yet. But if you must know, everything about him is gorgeous, Mom. Not just his looks, but his mind, his soul—no matter how torn apart it might be right now.”

With a smarmy look, my mom replies, “Lucky for him, you’re really good at sewing.”

We spend the rest of the night searching the Internet for pictures of Bodi. It’s massively inappropriate, and if Bodi ever found out I was ogling over his abs with my mom I would be absolutely mortified.

Before my mom leaves, she pulls me into a hug and says, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart. You seem to be doing well.”

“Emotionally I am, but fiscally I’m going to have to figure out something else. I have one of the smallest apartments in the city, and I can barely afford it. I need a little side job to supplement my income while I search for a career, not just a job.”

The loving warmth of my mom’s hand pats my cheek, her face endearing as she speaks. “I have faith in you, Ruby. I know you will figure everything out. But you will let us know if you need help with rent; we will not have our daughter living in squalor, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mom.”

Little does she know, I would never take her up on that offer. I want to make it on my own, even if that means doing weird side jobs to get my bills paid. Oh, Los Angeles, why do you have to be so expensive?

With a quick clean up in my living space, I get ready for bed and sink into my mattress, thoughts of Bodi clouding my mind. I so desperately want to know what happened to him when he was a little boy. Not because I’m nosey, but because I truly want to know how to make his life better, how to make it easier, how to remove the pain that taints those beautiful eyes of his every day.
But could I? He’s what he is today because of what happened years ago. How would I have the skills to help him heal?

The urge to talk to him is overwhelming. The need to see how he is takes over and before I know it, I send him a text as I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, images of his sweet face running through my mind.

Ruby: Hey Bodi, how was your day?

I don’t expect an answer; I don’t really expect anything from him in return. The purpose of my text message is to show him I’m thinking of him; he’s not entirely alone in this world. I know he has Eva and Lauren, but sometimes he makes it seem like he doesn’t even have them, like he’s completely alone.

But, he’s not. I’m here and I want him to know it.

My diarrhea mouth wants to commandeer my phone and take over my text messages. It wants to manipulate the conversation and go bat-shit crazy on him. But I don’t let it. The last thing I need is to have my ramblings recorded; hearing them in person is bad enough.

Sleep eclipses me, and I start to drift into slumber when my phone beeps at me. Startled and anxious, I shoot up, my sheets falling to my lap as I grab my phone.

As if my stomach is at the Olympic Gymnastic Trials, it somersaults with nerves as I read his text.

Bodi: All right. What about you?

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. He texted me back!
I received a text from Bodi.

Will this feeling ever dissipate? Will I always get giddy inside whenever I see or hear his name? Probably. He’s unattainable, a shattered human I so desperately want to get to know on a more personal level, despite his need to keep his distance.

Calming my inner fangirl slash crush, I text him back, keeping it simple.

Ruby: Good, had some cookies and painted it up at the club with the kids.

I steer clear of talking about my mom. I don’t want to rub my good fortune in his face. I’m not quite sure how he feels talking about other people’s parents, and since he’s texting me for the first time, I don’t want my first text back to him to be about someone he lost too early in his life.

In no time, he texts me back and for once I realize, we are having a text conversation. Lame I know, but it’s the little things with this man. The little accomplishments, the little milestones, that are making this journey of getting to know him that much more enjoyable.

Bodi: What kind of cookies?

Inwardly I smile and turn toward my nightstand, getting in perfect
texting at night
position.

Ruby: The kind of cookies you wouldn’t approve of.

Bodi: Indulge me.

Why am I
smiling like an idiot right now?

Ruby: Peanut butter cookies with chopped-up Butterfingers. They are my favorite. You have whey protein balls and I have these.

Bodi: Yours sound better.

Ruby: I’m not going to lie, they are. Are we still on for tomorrow?

We have plans to meet up about the foundation tomorrow night at Bodi’s place this time. Even though I believe Bodi had a good time at my small apartment, I’m almost positive he’s more relieved to be meeting at his condo. For one, it’s familiar to him; for another, there is more space and an actual living room, unlike my living/dining/bedroom space.

Bodi: Yeah. I’m making pizza. That okay?

Ruby: Pizza, I’m surprised you even know the word.

Bodi: It’s made with romaine lettuce as the crust, tofu for the meat, and tomato slices as the sauce. Really good.

Lettuce for crust? My entire body convulses from the mere thought of gluten-filled fluffy crust being replaced by water-saturated lettuce. I’m surprised he didn’t talk about using kale as well.

Not wanting to be rude about his gross pizza, I text back.

Ruby: That’s a different kind of pizza.

I make a mental note to eat before going to his place. Tofu, tomato slices, and lettuce will not do it for me.

Bodi: Would you eat it if I made it?

Thank God this conversation is through text message so he can’t see the cringe and disgust on my face.

Ruby: Of course. I love trying new things.

This is true, but I normally like my new things to have some sort of fat content in them.

Bodi: Do you really think I would make that kind of pizza?

What? Was he not serious?

Ruby: I guess it would surprise me more if you ate a normal pizza from Pizza Hut.

Bodi: That won’t happen. I’m making a regular pizza, just homemade. That good?

Thank you, Thor!

Ruby: Perfect. Do you want me to bring anything? I can bring you a head of lettuce just in case you want to use it for crust.

Bodi: I’m good.

Hmm, not even an “LOL”? He’s a tough cookie to crack.