Playing with Fire

“Now that we’re even, let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here. I’ve got shit to do.” He stood, dumping his slushie in the trash.

He turned off the grill, getting ready to scrub it. I glared up at him, dumbfounded.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

“You couldn’t look me in the eye since I saw your arm, and I needed to counter-embarrass myself for you to feel equal again. So I indulged you. Shared a secret with you no one but East knows. But East doesn’t count; we grew up in the same town and were born two days apart. He is practically my twin brother. My family is broke as hell, and I fight not because of the perks or the pussy. I need to keep a roof over my parents’ heads. My mom needs her antidepressant meds, and, as you must know, healthcare is goddamn expensive.”

I swallowed and looked down. I felt so pathetic in front of him, with the dementia-stricken grandmother and big-ass scar. But now that I knew his family was poor and his mother was battling depression, his life didn’t seem like something to envy anymore. He wasn’t untouchable, unreachable, or protected by an invisible glow.

“Your parents must be so proud of you,” I grumbled.

“Not even a little.” He let out a humorless laugh, dumping a rag into my hands, signaling for me to get off my butt and help. “But that’s another story, and you’ll have to show a lot more than scar tissue for me to trade that secret, Tex.”

By the time I got back home, Marla had put Grams to bed. She was drained from today’s trip to the emergency room. She wasn’t used to spending so much time out of the house anymore.

I took a quick shower while Marla tidied up. Then I hugged her at the door, clutching her extra hard. “Thanks, Marl. You’re a trooper.”

“Don’t mention it. Now tell me, whatcha gonna do, honey pie?”

“Probably watch Netflix and chill.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, sweets. I mean about the old bat. In the long run. This is not sustainable, sweetie. You must know that. You can no longer take care of her. I appreciate you did it through high school, but your grandmomma needs constant care. She is a danger to herself. And to others,” Marla said pointedly, raising one eyebrow as her gaze drifted to the left side of my face.

I ducked my head down, rubbing the back of my neck.

“I’ll think about it,” I lied.

I wasn’t going to think about it. There was nothing to think about. Grandma Savvy had raised me. She’d tucked me into bed every night, and kissed my boo-boos better. Sewn a replica of the prom dress I wanted because the original cost too much. She’d dedicated her entire life to me, and I wasn’t going to bail on her when things got tough.

I just had to step up my game. Spend more time with her, shower her with more attention.

I was closing the door after Marla when a foot was shoved between the gap. The person on the other side let out a pained grunt but didn’t remove their foot from between the door and the frame. My heart leaped in my chest.

The first thing I worried about was not having makeup on.

As opposed to, you know, having an axe murderer barge into my house un-freaking-announced.

“Who is it?” I demanded. The gap was too narrow for me to see them.

“Karlie. Secret code: Ryan Phillippe. Open up.”

We didn’t have a secret code, but this sounded like what we’d have if we chose one. My nineties-themed heart stuttered. I snorted, swinging the door open. My best friend wiggled her eyebrows with a sultry smile, a dripping bag full of takeout in her raised hand. Since our town only offered a diner, the food truck, and a pizza parlor, my guess was we were in for Italian.

Karlie knew I’d had a rough morning from our text exchange when I’d asked for West’s number, so she’d shown up.

I yanked her inside, smothering her with a hug. She patted my back awkwardly.

“Anyone ever told you you’re an amazing friend?” I ruffled her thick, dark curls with my breath.

“Everyone, and frequently. I come bearing offerings. Pasta, cheap wine, and gossip. We’ll start with the food. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

An hour later, we were lying on my living room couch in an advanced state of food coma, the TV flickering in the background.

I patted my stomach, staring at its hard roundness. I was svelte and small, and sometimes when I had a case of food baby, and my stomach would get all curved, I’d cradle it in front of the mirror and imagine myself as Demi Moore on Vanity Fair’s cover (another favorite nineties nugget). Normally, it made me laugh. But tonight, a little buzzed from the wine, and a lot worried about my grandmomma, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever be pregnant. If I’d meet someone and make a life with him.