Page 20 of False Start
Her hands fall, and with them, so does her gaze.
I lean forward, and she backs away, giving me the space I need to walk toward the showers, where I remove my final piece of clothing. Dropping my underwear to my feet, I turn the knob, waiting for the water to become warm before stepping inside.
I still feel the heat of her stare behind me, overwhelming and nearly suffocating, but I don’t turn to face her. Closing the shower curtain of my stall, I make do with a bar of soap, the only thing I managed to bring with me while my heart was too busy hammering from the adrenaline of the confrontation.
Did I just do that?
Never the kind to speak up, always the doormat. Always accepting the conditions of my life for what they are and leaping over every hurdle thrown my way as if it was custom built for me. That is the reality of being raised by immigrant parents.Blend in.Don’t let them notice you.
Well, fuck that.
She notices me now.
The heat of the shower is enough to settle the brutal pumping of my pulse, and when I’ve dried myself off, I see the rest of the skaters have made their way back inside. They’re continuing on in the locker room with their after practice routines as if Harvey hadn’t kicked them out, as if there’s no sort of lingering weirdness or humiliation for me to mull over.
Was it just in my own head?
I’m already clothed and brushing my wet hair into a single braid to the side when I hear a husky voice behind me. “Hey, uh… Nia, right?”
“Antônia,” I correct before I turn around, finally having reached a point in my life where claiming the power of my name in its entirety feels healing instead of triggering.
I stare up at piercing blue eyes and matching hair. K-Otic is already dressed in fitted jeans with classic low tops and a gray v-neck, though I can’t recall having seen them inside the locker room. Their hair is wet, framing their face instead of slicked back like I’d seen before.
“Cool.” They look me up and down with an awkwardness that triumphs my own but somehow seems entirely attractive on them, almost purposeful. Resting their forearm on the lockers and leaning over me, their voice comes out almost like a hushed sound. “I’m Kade.”
“Hi.” It bubbles out of me like an awkward laugh. I never know the right way to respond to someone introducing themselves when they already know my name. I rush out the easiest brain garbage fact to pull from my head. “You’re fast.”
“Yeah,” they acknowledge, taking it just as a statement of fact and having no issue with it being a single sentence on its own. “Wanna grab a drink?”
“That sounds great, actually.” My eyes can’t help but glance over to where Harvey stood at her locker.
She’s long gone now, surely, but there’s an uneasy feeling lingering of something being wrong. It only takes me a few more minutes to gather my things into my bag, but Kade has no problem waiting.
They open the door, and as we step out into the rink, Ihear DreadPool’s voice. “I was gonna ask her out, but K beat me to it.”
I follow the sound of their voice to where they stand in front of Lonnie’s office, talking to someone out of sight.
“You heard K talk?” Harvey’s voice is full of surprise, though I still can’t see her. We walk toward the entrance where the two are talking aboutus. I can only imagine what her face looks like, but I avoid it like it’s my job.
“To her, yeah.” Just as DreadPool says it, we walk past them, Kade not bothering to spare a glance to their side as they push open the door and hold it for me.
They practically rip my duffel out of my hand, grabbing the passenger side door of their car before throwing my bag inside the trunk.
“Oh, I drove.” I point back at my car.
“You shouldn’t drive drunk.” Kade stands at my side, as if waiting for me to make a decision so they can shut the passenger side door. My bag is already firmly secured in the back of their Mustang.
I’m stammering, not a coherent response that can be translated into any meaningful sentence in my head.
“I’ll bring you back to your car in the morning,” Kade says with a chuckle, not letting me overthink and making the decision for me.
“Okay,” I sing, trying to mask my chronic anxiety but genuinely grateful to not be burdened with the paralysis that often comes with choices.
I’m only slightly surprised when we pull up to a red-brick townhouse just minutes from downtown. I can’t help but wonder what they do for a living to be able to afford rent so close to the heart of Devil Town.
“I need to feed my cat first. There are a few bars in walking distance,” they say, but I’m well aware.
“I know.” I present it as fact, not as superiority.
