Page 39 of Left-Hand Larceny

“That’s not true,” he says.

“Isn’t it? You didn’t even ask if I wanted this job. You just made a phone call. And now I’m expected to be grateful and perfect, and I’m trying. I am. But—”

“I didn’t know you felt this way,” Dad cuts me off. I can tell he’s trying to meet my eyes, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’m being completely unfair. I’m also being more honest than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

“Because you don’t listen,” I say. “Not really.”

But is that fair? I’ve never said anything either. Not with words.

My mom, predictably, pivots. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with that player. Ragnar.”

I stiffen. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You told us his rehab is over.” She picks invisible lint off of her perfectly tailored pants.

“It is.” I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but it probably won’t be anywhere good.

“So, why are you still seeing him?”

And there it is.

“We’re friends,” I say. “I’m helping him with media stuff. He’s helping me with stats. It’s nothing.”

“Be careful with ‘nothing.’” Her voice sharpens. “You know how things went for Tristan and Victor when their relationship became public. That kind of attention isn’t good for your reputation.”

I don’t have a reputation. I’m an assistant trainer who got a job because her daddy is friends with the team owner. I do what I’m paid to do, and then I go home.

“You’re still employed by the team. The owner is our friend. We vouched for you. If there’s even a hint of impropriety—”

“We haven’t done anything wrong!” Did I want to? Well, that’s not the question. She gives me a look. “Then it won’t be a problem to maintain a little professional distance.”

I say nothing. Because it won’t matter what I say. It never does, but I pack up my things—including Fernie Sanders—and head to my room in the basement.

Technically, it’s my space—I pay a small amount of rent—but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’ve failed some unspoken adulthood test. I’m nearly twenty-six and still living in the same house where I learned how to ride a bike. Meanwhile, Ragnar moved to a different country at eleven. Started preparing for his career then. I’m basically done with a master’s degree, and not sure if I even like the cushy job I have.

I settle onto my bed and open my stats workbook again. The numbers blur as I try to focus. I can’t hold on to a thought long enough to finish the problem. It feels like every time I get close, my brain slides away from it like a sunscreen-greased kid on a slip and slide.

Eventually, I shove the book aside and flop onto my back, arms splayed. I stare at the ceiling. The same one I stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to as a kid. Then at the wall. Then at my phone.

My thumb hovers over my messages. I don’t want to bother him. I don’t precisely know his views on texting and he was the one to initiate the other day.

I don’t want to need him. Need help.

But I also don’t want to fail this class, and he never makes me feel small for asking.

I open the app.

Me:

Hey… random question. Do you remember anything about calculating standard errors? Or z scores?

I regret it instantly. I should’ve just looked it up. Or tried harder. Should have eased into the message. Made some smalltalk. Given him something out of this exchange. God, what if he’s busy? What if he sees my text and thinks I’m too needy? Or worse—too dumb? Or—

Oh.

The little typing dots appear.

…

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