I abhor phone calls, but I have some pride. I took that phone from him, and don’t ya know, chatting with Ziggy was weirdly okay. After that, I felt like we had enough foundation for me to act on my idea.
Lost in thought, I slam right into a familiar chest. Warm, spicy, solid. I have to fist my free hand not to grab him by the shirt and kiss him.
“Francesca.”
I smack his stomach. “That’s Frankie to you, Zenzero.”
“Whatever you say, ladybird.”
My eyes roll so hard it hurts. “Hopeless.”
Gently, Ren grasps my arm and steers us to the side of the hallway as Andy and Tyler walk by. I usually don’t sense when people are coming or going around me if my focus is otherwise occupied. I’m that person who’ll stand in the middle of the hallway, gabbing, oblivious to blocking your way.
“Everything okay?” Ren asks quietly.
Clearing my throat, I set my hand on my stomach. “Actually, no.”
The look of sheer panic that immediately tightens his face makes sympathy rush through me. I bring my hand to his chest, an intuitive gesture of reassurance, but then I pull it back when I remember where we are. “I’m okay overall, but my stomach—it’s no bueno.”
He tips his head. “Your stomach? Did you eat something bad? Do you have a virus?”
“Ren. Relax.” The fact is that twinging cramps have been bugging me since last night, sharp and persistent. I’ve also been an achy, creaky mess for the past week, too. I’m due to start my period, so it’s not entirely surprising. It makes it much less difficult to feign discomfort. Because I am uncomfortable, just nothing that would normally keep me from working. When you live with chronic pain, you get used to living through it. You just do life, until you collapse. Then you pick yourself up, change around the meds, and try again.
“It’s…lady stuff,” I tell him.
He visibly relaxes. “Oh. Okay. You know, I’m not delicate, Frankie. You can say you have cramps and you’re getting your period.”
I smile at Ren, delighted by his attitude and somewhat surprised. It’s a natural bodily function. I don’t see why we have to wrap it up in euphemisms. But long ago, I learned that’s what’s expected, especially from men. It’s nice to know that with him, I don’t have to play that game.
“Okay. Yeah. I have horrible cramps, so bad that I’m nauseous. I’m heading home.” Holding his eyes for a brief moment, I slip my fingers inside his, careful that it’s hidden from anyone’s view in the hallway. “Good luck tonight. Hat trick or bust, Bergman.”
He grins. “As always, I can only promise my best.”
Isn’t that true. It’s all anyone can do. And so few of us are comfortable admitting that. When I release his hand and start to turn away, Ren calls my name.
“Yes?”
Stepping closer, he drops his voice. “Can I come over tonight?”
“I mean…like I said, I might be out of commission.”
“I know that. I just want to stay with you.”
My heart does a pirouette inside my chest. “Oh. Well, sure. But let’s be real. My bed sucks compared to yours. How about I’ll meet you at your place after the game?”
Ren opens his mouth to speak, pauses, and smiles politely at one of the team coordinators as she passes. When she’s gone, his eyes return to me. “Just go there now. Use the soaker tub in my room, relax. Okay?”
“Okay.” We hold eyes, and Ren’s jaw tics. I know he wants to hug. Kiss. He has this habit of swaying me in his arms when we hug that’s not only dreamy but soothing. “Bye,” I whisper.
He squeezes my hand, then releases it. And I walk away with a sinking feeling that grows with each step. I don’t like leaving him without kissing him goodbye.
Who the hell are you?
Good question. Something’s shifting inside me, a mere week into this little experiment. One in which I’m prying open the ironclad doors of my heart and letting someone in. Something inside me doesn’t just want to creak those doors open oh-so-slightly. It wants to fling them wide open in welcome. It wants to trust love and tell the universe, do your worst.
Because there’s no arguing, eventually the universe will.
Okay. So, meeting Ren’s parents in person was a shit ton more stressful than I thought. I felt like some sneaky teenager who’d almost been caught making out in the basement. They don’t know I’ve savored their son’s breathtaking body with desire guiding my hands. They don’t know that he makes his mother’s cinnamon roll recipe for me and kisses my forehead every morning when he hands me my coffee. They don’t know that I’ve laced profanity with his name so many times as he made me come apart.
And if I have my druthers, they never will.
I also felt a tad awkward, first because I snuck Ziggy’s number from Ren’s phone, texted her and asked her if she was okay with my idea—which I simply presented as an opportunity to get her parents out of her hair and talk, girl-to-girl. While the idea was born out of wanting to get Ren’s parents to a damn game already, fact is, I do want to be a friend to Ziggy, to give her some encouragement I could have used when I was first diagnosed. I’m reaching out not only because of this heart-spinning feeling I have for Ren, but also out of genuine concern for Ziggy and a wish to know her better.
So, then came calling Mrs. Bergman, explaining I was a good friend of Ren’s who knew Ziggy and wanted to offer to hang out with her as another woman on the spectrum, have a heart-to-heart. I told her Ren wasn’t in on this—that I wanted to surprise him with their presence. After which Mrs. Bergman sounded pretty wary. I asked her to use Willa and Ryder as a character reference and call me back.
She called me not even ten minutes later, sounding a lot nicer than before.
See, Willa and I are friends. So there.
When I got to Ren’s beautiful childhood home—sprawling calm, a sea of creamy white walls and natural wood, it was surreal to put a face to his mother’s voice, to see Ren’s eyes and cheekbones in her features. Then greeting his dad with that booming voice and wide smile that I knew instantly he’d given Ren, along with his wavy, copper-penny hair, and broad, powerful build. I was so nervous, my palms were slick with sweat, and my heart was banging against my ribs.
But once they left, most of my anxiety left with them, leaving just enough nervousness about doing right by Ziggy as I try to reach out to her.
She stares at the TV, watching the hockey game. The second I glance at the screen, I can pinpoint Ren. Taller than everyone, swooping around the goal. A lick of russet curling around his helmet.
“One day I want to be able to go,” she says quietly. “I can tell he’s sad I never come. That I make it pretty much impossible for Mom and Dad to go.”
I don’t say anything right away. I don’t know all of what happened, except that Ren said Ziggy was in a dangerous place at some point. Seems best to simply give her space to talk and process, especially when I don’t know the particulars.
I don’t touch Ziggy, either, or even sit terribly close. I can tell she doesn’t like it. Since the moment I walked in, she’s kept at least six feet between us. Her parents didn’t hug her goodbye, either. Just kissed her forehead and left.