Page 39 of Stroked Long
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.
Ruby: Okay, see you tomorrow.”
I don’t really want to end our conversation, but I don’t know what else to say. I would love to play the “What’s Your Favorite” game, but I don’t think we are at that level yet. Plus, he might have an early practice tomorrow. I don’t want to keep him up.
Bodi: Have a good night, Ruby. Sleep well.
And sigh. Those two last words I can hear in his husky voice and like a pathetic lonely lady, I use it as a lullaby to put me to sleep.
Until tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
BODI
“Thanks, Coach. I feel really good.”
“You’re the best I’ve seen you in a while, Bodi. You’re loose, not so tense, making your strokes more fluid through the water. Can I chalk it up to the girl who was watching practice the other day with Lauren?”
“And here I thought these end-of-the-week phone calls were supposed to focus on the pros and cons of the week.”
“If there is an outside source making my practices with you easier, then I believe it’s something we should talk about.”
He’s prying, and it makes me uncomfortable, but I would never disrespect him by changing the subject. He’s been a father figure in my life since I lost my parents. He’s a role model, someone I’ve come to count on, so the least I can do is answer his question.
“Soo . . .” he urges.
“Her name is Ruby and she’s just a friend. We are working on a project together for the foundation Eva and I are starting. She’s been very helpful and insightful. She’s come up with some amazing ideas.”
“And . . .”
Yeah, I didn’t think he would let me get out of the Ruby conversation that easily.
“And she’s different.”
Fuck, how do I talk about Ruby without exposing all my cards to my coach? Firstly, I don’t have a firm grasp on my feelings for the vibrant and eccentric, blonde-haired, beautiful woman. And secondly, there is no way she will want to stick around once she opens my box of crazy, so is it worth going down that road with her? We might be better off as only acquaintances.
“Different how?”
I run my hand through my hair as I lean back on my couch. The smell of lemon Pine-Sol drifts into my nose, a scent I’ve come to know with aching familiarity. Gleaming hardwood floors, pristine tabletop surfaces, and crystal-clear windows surround me. There is not one speck of dirt in my condo, just the way I like it. I’m in control, I’m secure, I’m comfortable . . . except for this conversation.
“She doesn’t necessarily run away when I have a panic episode.”
“Has she seen one?”
I think back to each of my encounters with her. She’s seen some of them—Target and at her apartment—and I think I’ve hidden some, like when I met her at the club and she had glitter stuck to her face. Being social, meeting people, having to put on a “normal” face sends panic through my brain. I don’t want to slip up; I don’t want to show my true colors. Being on guard around the clock is never easy. It’s actually pretty fucking tiring.
