Playing with Fire

Even though it drove me nuts, not knowing what we were, I refused to ask him. I didn’t want to be one of those chicks. The needy, submissive types that flocked to him so often. One of the reasons West was attracted to me in the first place was because I refused to throw myself at him like everyone else in this college town.

As for him ignoring me at school? As much as I hated it, I didn’t want it to change. I still didn’t want people talking about us. I was still scared of the uproar it could cause.

The first hint that we were more than just friends with benefits came on a Tuesday night, of all days. I was on the phone with our electric company over an unsettled bill I knew I’d already paid. I was cooped up in the kitchen, going over the bill with the customer service representative. Grams kept tapping my shoulder, saying that she wanted me to help her get in the shower.

“Some daughter you are, Court. Your momma’s asking you for help.”

“Give me a sec … ah, Momma.” I patted her hand distractedly. West was leaning against the fridge, watching us with his arms folded over his chest nonchalantly. He hated when I pretended to be my mother, even though he pretended to be whomever Grams thought he was at any given moment. He explained that it was different. That he hadn’t been raised by her, didn’t care if she remembered him or not.

“What? No, I don’t … this is not true. I have the reference number for the transaction. Of course I paid.”

“Lord, Courtney! I stink!” Grams boomed over the representative’s words on the line. “Help me.”

I was getting flustered. I couldn’t afford to pay the bill twice. Grams kept moping around me, getting in my face. I dropped my forehead to the kitchen counter, closing my eyes and drawing a breath.

“Hold on a moment … Momma,” I murmured, more to myself than to Grams. “Please.”

“Come on, Savannah, let me help.” West stepped in, and I turned around, my phone still pinned between my shoulder and ear, glaring at him hard, as if to ask, are you out of your mind?

Grams, however, seemed content with his idea, linking her arm in his.

“You don’t mind helpin’ an old gal, do ya’, West?”

She remembered him and not me today? Fun.

“Ma’am, it’d be my pleasure.”

“No peekin’.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. Shaw.”

They tromped out of the kitchen before I had the chance to object. Grams could manage a shower most days—I’d put a wooden chair under the water spray and all she needed was to reach for the shampoo and soap—but it was vital she had someone in the bathroom with her in case she fell.

West would have to see her naked. To help her in and out of the shower. Lord.

Ten minutes later, I had settled the bill with the electric company and taken the stairs to the second floor, two at a time. I peeped into the bathroom through the cracked door, not making myself known.

West was leaning against the sink, his back to the shower, telling Grams about one time when he gave his mother’s blind cat a shower when he was four. Behind him, Gram cackled in the shower breathlessly, sitting on her wooden chair, enjoying the stingy stream of water on her back, running a sponge over her arm.

“Lordy! You couldn’t have. Christ, I would’ve whooped your butt good if I was your momma.”

“She wanted to, Mrs. S. Trust me. The only thing standing between her and whooping my ass was my speed.”

That made her nearly topple over with laughter. I smiled, my chest tightening, something warm rushing through every blood vessel in my body.

As if sensing my presence, West’s eyes shot up and met mine.

He smiled, but didn’t comment on my snooping.

“All right, I’m ready. Hand me my towel, young man!” Grams swiveled in the chair, turning off the water. West plucked the towel from the hook and handed it to her, his eyes still on mine.

She patted herself dry, and when she had secured her bath towel around herself, he helped her to her room while I slipped back into mine, letting them have their moment.

Half an hour later, I tucked Grams into bed and made my way back to my room.

I found West plopped down on my bed, tossing one of my old pompoms like a ball in the air, catching it every time. I sat at my study, powering up my laptop and logging into Sheridan University’s website to see if Professor McGraw had answered my latest email. My guess was that she hadn’t. She’d been ignoring my pleas ever since she’d made up her mind about not letting me pass without taking part in the play. But I never could send that text message to Cruz Finlay. Standing onstage was just something the phoenix in me wasn’t capable of. Not yet.