them in mine.
“Wait.” I pull the shirt down. “I love you. And I want you, but when we do it, if we do it, it won’t be in a place like this.
I’d have to be the world’s biggest dick to take advantage of you in a locker room.”
Cami dons a look of confusion. “Did you say that you are the world’s biggest dick or that you have the world’s biggest dick?”
I laugh. I can’t help it, and that’s what I love about her—
one of the many things I love about her. She’s always trying to make me feel better. No matter what. I tightly grip her arms and shake her gently to make sure she’s looking at me and knows that I’m serious.
“Camille,” I start, “I love you. I am in love with you.”
She takes my face in her hands. “I love you, but don’t call me Camille. I hate being called Camille.”
Moments.
I don’t think it is the number of years a person lives that matters, but the number of moments they experience and how those moments come together to form who you are, or were, and what your life meant. This is a moment. Standing in the stadium locker room, the rain pounding against the metal roof.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
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With Cami’s hands pressed against my cheeks and her eyes smiling and weeping at the same time, because she loves me.
I kiss her. The taste of fear and love and optimism is intoxi-cating, and I wish I could drink this moment, this kiss, into my body somehow and taste it forever.
It’s too intense, and Cami steps away. She takes her nearly dry shirt and turns around. I watch as she pulls my shirt off, and without putting her damp bra back on, pulls her shirt over her body. Then she turns around.
“It’s probably good that we didn’t make love in here. If we did it on the floor, instead of athlete’s foot, we might have gotten athlete’s ass.”
I grimace in disgust, but laugh. “Whatever happens, I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Are you the world’s biggest dick, or do you have the world’s biggest dick?” She’s smiling, blushing.
“Well.” I kiss the underside of her wrist. “Both would be true, actually. I mean, I am genetically enhanced.”
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
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ou remember the plan?” Jimmy asks.
“Yeah, but I still don’t like it.”
We’re parked at the veterans’ hospital. It’s a mammoth brick building. The east and west wings are three stories high, while the center is four with a white steeple rising from its center.
“Well, tough shit, kid. Matt and I went over and over it, and with her office being in a secured area, this is the best way to get you in.”
“But what about you?” I’m okay with the part of the plan where Matt has an actual appointment with the doctor, thus assuring that she stays out of her office for a while. But I’m not comfortable with Jimmy’s part in this. Not comfortable at all.
“Did you know I wanted to be a teacher?”
“Yeah, Cami told me.”
“Uncle Sam was supposed to put me through college. I was going to be a good teacher. I was going to make kids feel capa-ble, you know?”
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He looks at me, and in his deep brown eyes, I see the spirit of a dead dream floating around. Lost.
“Instead of an education, I got a fucked-up brain. I worked so hard just to learn how to turn letters around in my head so I could read them, and now by the time I get to the end of a paragraph, I can’t remember what the first part was about.” His face, covered with thick stubble, smiles. “But I can do this. I can help you. And, hey, a few days of Klonopin and cartoons won’t be so bad. Won’t be the first time.”
“What if they—”
“Give me a lobotomy and a dose of electroconvulsive shock therapy? Nah. I’ll just act crazy for a little while. Once I turn all normal again, they’ll hold me for observation, give me a few dozen pills, then save Uncle Sam a buck by sending me on my merry manic way.”
I’m not comforted. Jimmy’s normal isn’t exactly normal.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, genuinely. “Something could happen to you. You might not get out