Page 50 of Whirlwind
“You really do like him, though?”
“I really, really do.”
“Then I’m ecstatic for you, and I’ll make sure you don’t get too lost in being an NHL wag.”
“Oh no, I don’t think I’m that,” I protest.
“You might end up being that, though. I mean, you’re already having sleepovers,” she says. “Besides, you do all the fun wag stuff with me and Isla already, anyway. You might as well get the rest of the benefits.”
“What are the rest of the benefits?”
“Orgasms, mostly.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s divine, my friend,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
Those aren’t words that have been common in my life. My father never said them. My grandmother showed it on a couple of occasions, most notably when I received my acceptance to the University of Washington. She may not show her support on a regular basis, but she always tried when it mattered most.
I should call her soon. It’s been weeks since we last spoke, which isn’t uncommon for us, by any means. But she’s gettingolder and she’s the only family I have. Well, the only family I acknowledge having, anyhow.
Every time we talk, she asks me if I’ve met a handsome young man yet. No matter how many times I’ve told her I wasn’t interested in finding random lost men, she still asks. She’ll be thrilled when I tell her about Tyson. She worries about me being across the country, alone, and without a man.
She can’t acknowledge that it was a man who hurt her and I both. Nor does she accept that men never stepped in to save either of us.
She’s old school that way, I’ve come to accept her for who she is. Flawed, incapable of learning, fearful. She loves me, though, in her way.
“Thank you. I’m proud of myself,” I tell her. “I went over there with a belly full of determination, almost threw it all up once I was standing in front of him.”
“You didn’t, though,” she says.
“Nope. When he’s close enough, and especially when he touches me, I forget most of what makes me so afraid. Is that weird? It feels weird.” I’m not good at being dependent on anyone.
“It’s not weird. You’re not used to it, but it’s normal. Human touch and oxytocin are good for you. Consensually, of course.”
“They do say you need four hugs a day for survival,” I say. Though, I’ve never gotten that many on any day in my whole life and I’m still very alive.
“Yeah,” she says. “Eight for maintenance and twelve for growth. Seems like bullshit to me, though, I do love a good bear hug.”
“Between Zan and Damian, you should be the most grown person around.”
“Right? But we both know I can still be as immature as hell.”
“We both have our moments,” I say. “But that’s what makes us fun. We can’t be classy and serious all the time.”
“When have either of us ever been classy?”
“Yeah, okay. Good point.”
There’s a lot for me to think about when it comes to Tyson. We can’t predict the future, of course. So, I can either fret and worry that this won’t work out, or I can take each day for what it is and enjoy that I can grow and heal with Tyson. Even if we aren’t meant to be together forever.
12
Tyson
Since my night with Kit, I’ve been living like I’m on a high—like there’s more air in my lungs, more blood in my veins. Colors seem brighter. Everything feels sharper, more in focus. It makes me feel insane, but it’s like I’m remembering things I’d forgotten.
I’d swear she’d slipped me drugs, if I didn’t know better.
