Page 17 of Moved
“See you later.” I jogged up the stairs, took a shower, and changed into yoga pants and a V-neck tee. Then I kept myself busy with studying.
When I went back down stairs several hours later, his door stood open. The TV quietly broadcasted the anthem. I sat in the second chair, curled up, and settled back. Racer didn’t say anything to me so I focused on the TV and watched the game for a few minutes. A Mariners outfielder missed a ball and cost them a double.
I groaned. “If this is how they’re going to play, I need a beer.”
Racer snorted. “Not happening.”
“Oh, come on. Dad let’s me.”
“I’m not your dad.”
No kidding. “It’s just not the same without a beer. What if we share one?”
“No.”
“You can have the can.”
“No.”
“Just a sip?”
“No.” Agitation was creeping into his voice.
“I promise I’ll be quiet for the rest of the game...”
He sighed. “In the fridge. Top shelf.”
I grinned, hopped off the chair, and did a happy dance all the way to the kitchen. His grumbling only amused me more. He had no idea what was coming. I’d done this to my dad so many times.
The pfft of the can opening sounded like the next round bell in boxing. I took a large gulp because it would annoy him, strolled back to the living room, and handed him the can. He glanced at the river I left on the can, shook his head, and drank deep.
He finished the can in five minutes. In fifteen, his eyes drifted close. I waited another ten before sneaking to his bedroom and grabbing my phone. Silencing the camera option, I stood in front of him and took two quick shots. His head lay back in his chair, the beer held loose in his hand, and his mouth slightly parted. Seeing him in the picture, my heart did a funny little flip. He looked cute. Not so angry. I almost felt bad for him, but it didn’t stop me from sending a text to my dad.
I put the phone back on his dresser after turning it to silent. I couldn’t have the vibrations giving me away. Then I went back to the living room and sat in the chair to watch the game. The taste of beer mingled with the taste of victory.
****
When the game had ended, I tiptoed to my own apartment. He didn’t even notice. Too many days of interrupted sleep topped off by a beer and a ball game. It did my dad in every time.
My paper was almost finished when I heard him swear downstairs. I jumped up and dashed to the bathroom, which I had ready. Clothes flew as I speed-stripped and turned the faucet on. A shiver ran through me at the touch of the icy water. But I was safe. Standing there, I listened. The sudden pounding at the bathroom door almost made me yip.
“Racer?” It wasn’t hard to sound uncertain when my heart was trying to beat its way through my lung.
“You—”
He hit the door. Wood crackled. Ooh, I’d made him so mad.
“Why?” he finally shouted.
I quickly dunked my head under the warming water, wetting it completely before turning the faucet off. In the silence, his harsh breathing filled the room.
“Are you standing in my bathroom?” I dared a peek around the curtain. Yep, he was. His eyes had gone black and a vein protruded from his forehead. I reached around the curtain for my towel, unable to look away from the evidence that he wasn’t like me. I wrapped it around myself and stepped out.
“Why what? And why are you in the bathroom with me when I’m naked?”
His eyes focused past his rage and drifted over my towel. He growled, his frustration evident, but didn’t back out of the room as I’d hoped. Not good. I’d over estimated his need to adhere to polite rules. I blamed that misjudgment on the hamper. He needed to cool down.
“No more games.”
