Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,61
my own skin.
I feel like that gawky ogre kids saw me as.
I feel like maybe if I wasn’t this size or this shape, my boyfriend might choose to spend more time with me.
I feel like maybe if I wore different clothes or shoes instead of just simple shit, he’d want me around the places and people who he’s around.
Maybe I wouldn’t think the idea of asking someone to spend forever with you was so crazy if the person I want to spend forever with was around more often, instead off dangling himself like a piece of prime-cut beef available to the highest bidder.
I carelessly toss the darts on the table and snatch my bag of chips back up. “Your turn.”
Gillette remains seated despite my announcement. “What gives?”
My eyebrows lift in question at the same time I slide the first glorious treat into my mouth.
“Where’s my lecture that’s as long as you are, you big Red Oak?”
I shove another chip into my mouth.
“Where’s the whole great and glorious Gandalf monologue?”
There’s no answer.
Just chewing.
Without warning, Gillette grabs the bag out of my hold and grins proudly. “No yeah, I wasn’t expecting my reflexes to pull that shit off, but holy fuck, that’s awesome they did!”
The glare he receives should have him handing my food back over, yet it doesn’t.
“Rhinehart, you only eat these when your shit’s out of whack or whatever.” He tosses his chin towards my body. “You don’t think we know that, but we do. They are your bad mood food that we, typically, don’t see you scarfing down unless we lost really badly on the ice or some shit is bugging you so deeply that even your Voodoo Priestess can’t fix it.”
“She’s a massage therapist, dick.” I successfully snatch the bag back. “Not a magical sorceress.”
“Magic fingers still count as magic.”
His retort scrunches my face in obvious irritation.
“Come on, man, for real. What’s going on?” Gillette reaches for the soda I’m a little surprised he’s having instead of beer. “Either do that shit where you tell me why what I wanna do is a bad idea so I can ignore it and do what I wanna do anyway, or tell me what’s eating you as you’re eating them.”
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
The absentminded statement shocks us both.
Putting the bag of chips down, knowing he’s right about the stress eating I try hard not to do, I dust the crumbs on my shorts and sigh, “I think you should marry Mo. She makes you happy. She makes you think. She also has no problem embarrassing the shit out of you, and that’s fun for everyone.”
He loudly laughs at the last comment.
“I don’t know that you should do the shit like fucking tomorrow, but it’s your life, Gillette. If now feels right to ask, ask. Only you know how you feel. Only you know what your instincts are saying. No amount of words or numbers or stern looks is going to change that.”
His lips purse to one side prior to him proclaiming, “I bought a ring today.”
“Figured.”
“Can you keep it at your place for me until I’m ready to give it to her?”
My head tilts slightly in question over the favor.
“Me and Mo don’t, exactly, have separate shit. Our shit is just like…our shit. There’s nowhere I could put it that she wouldn’t somehow find it.”
Deep, undeniable envy has me retrieving the chips, again.
“I’d leave it at my dad’s, but you know he’s moving, and I don’t want the shit to get lost in the process.”
I nod in comprehension and approval of his request alike.
“We can move it from my trunk to yours when we’re finished here.”
Another head bob is given.
“Now, onto your shit…” He waits until my eyes have connected to his, again. “You always listen to everyone else’s. This time, let one of us assist you.”
“How often do you use that metaphor?”
“Regularly.” There isn’t time to shake off the reply before he’s prodding again. “Speak, Iron Giant. My tiny human ears are listening.”
Rather than continue to deny that anything’s wrong, I simply shrug. “Just having a shit day.”
“No yeah, I can see that shit. You’re taking it out on that poor bag of chips. Did you just finish that shit in three handfuls?”
“These bags are tiny.”
“Those bags are for people who have normal hands – not shovels.”
His hit about my size, again, shrinks me in place.
“What the fuck, bro, I was kidding!” He kicks me in the shin. “I’m always fucking kidding! That’s the shit I do!”
“I-I-I