Changing Teams (8 page)

“You must think I’m an idiot,” she rasped. “Or some kind of a whore.”

“Hey, baby,” I said, pulling Britt into my arms, “I don’t think either of those things.” I held her for a moment, my face pressed against her hair. She smelled great, in spite of that cheap conditioner she used. “Get comfy on the couch, watch some television. I’ll make us some dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am.”

With that I released her and hauled the bags into the kitchen. I managed to create something not entirely awful with the ingredients I’d bought, and not fifteen minutes later I presented my culinary masterpiece to Britt.

“It’s a quesadilla,” I explained, when she looked at the plate like it was an alien with nine heads and wavy tentacles. “I’m certain you’ve encountered one of these before.”

“Of course I have,” she admitted, “but they were never so…charred.”

It was a little black around the edges, but my momma had always told me that whenever you burnt food to call that adding a bit of Cajun mystique. “Well, you’re in luck, because this one’s cooked to perfection. Just cheese, since you don’t really like meat.”

Britt nodded, though she made no move to take the plate. I set it and a beer before her, then I returned to the kitchen to get my own dinner, balancing a jar of salsa and a tub of sour cream along with it. When I returned to the couch, I saw that Britt hadn’t touched her food. I set my plate and condiments beside hers, and took her hands in mine.

“Talk to me, darlin’,” I implored.

“I’m just freaked out,” she said. “I’ve been modeling for those art classes for months, and Ben has always been cool. A little awkward, but cool. He sees you with me, and he turns into a psycho stalker.”

I refrained from mentioning that Ben had probably always been a psycho stalker, with Britt just too kind to call him out on his bad behavior. “You’re a pretty girl. Sometimes, men just can’t handle it.”

“That’s stupid.” Britt sniffed. “If you can’t handle yourself in public, get therapy. That’s what therapy’s there for.”

“I agree,” I said, not that I’d ever gotten one ounce of therapy for my many issues. I was dealing with them all supremely well, as evidenced by the sad girl in my apartment that I wanted more than air or water or sunlight, despite the fact that I’d lived as a gay man for the past thirteen years. Bringing her here wasn’t complicating my life at all.

“I mean, it’s an art class,” she continued. “An art class! His students are there to learn design and composition, not to watch him ogle the models. Teachers have a duty to their students. What he’s doing…it’s just sick.”

I extended my arm, and Britt tucked herself against me. “I’m sorry, baby,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “You’re right, a teacher has a moral and ethical obligation to his students. But creeps are everywhere, no matter what field you’re in. Our job is to identify them, get them out of our lives, and move on.”

“I’m sick of moving on,” she declared. “I just want to make my own life free of these assholes.”

“What kind of life?” I asked, all the while wondering what she’d moved on from.

“I want to make a living as an artist. A real living.” She fingered the hem of her shirt. “I don’t want to model any more. My dream is to draw comic books.”

“Really?” I asked, downplaying that my heart had just swollen to three times its normal size. “Then why don’t you make the change?”

“Well, for one thing modeling is what’s paying me right now,” she replied. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, I just don’t want to do it long term.”

“I get that,” I said. “So what are you doing about your art?”

“Honestly? Nothing. Nothing at all.” Britt traced small circles on the back of my hand. “I’m so busy going to these stupid shoots and casting calls and sitting for life drawing classes I hardly have time to draw or paint anymore.”

“Maybe you should make time,” I said. “What about having a gallery opening of your own? I’m sure Michael would help you arrange one.”

Britt smiled tightly, then she kissed my cheek. “Thanks, Sam.” She hugged me a bit tighter. “Okay, I’m done being a downer. Where’s the remote?”

“Um…” Since the remote wasn’t in its usual place on the coffee table, I searched around my apartment and ended up finding it in the bathroom closet, of all places. I clicked on the television, and asked, “Tell me, my lady, what shall we be watching tonight? Romantic comedy?” I queued up the latest movie adaptation from that romance author everyone was obsessed with. Personally, I thought he told the same story in every book.

“Ack, not in a million, billion years.” Britt snatched the remote from my hands, and flipped through the channels. “I hate romances, really. I want to watch something fun, with monsters and explosions and maybe an axe murderer. Ah, this is perfect.”

I glanced at the screen, and saw that we were about to watch
Evil Dead,
the original version with Bruce Campbell
.
God, just when I thought I couldn’t love Britt any more she went and outed herself as a geek.

“You do like horror movies, don’t you?” Britt asked. The look in her eye told me that if I claimed preference for the romantic comedy, she would severely reevaluate our relationship and possibly kick my ass.

“I sure do, darlin’,” I said as I sat beside her. Once she fit herself against my side we clinked beers. “And I’ll have you know that
Evil Dead
is my second favorite movie.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’m warning you, it’s not a horror movie.”

“Tell me, already.”

“
Empire Strikes Back.”

Britt nestled closer, then she admitted, “That’s my favorite too.”

***

“Yeah, that’s it. You’re getting it. Finally! Took you long enough, you little shit. Now just move a little faster—”

I woke with a start, shaking as if I’d run a marathon as sweat poured off me like rain on asphalt. A quick glance assured me that I was safe in my apartment, and that my nightmares had only been in my head. Thank fucking God for that. As my breathing slowed and my heartbeat returned to normal, I realized I was sleeping on the couch instead of in my bed. Britt was sleeping with me.

Thank fucking God for that too.

I took a moment to look at Britt, her honey brown hair mussed with sleep, her cheek pressed against my chest right above my heart. Why weren’t all of my mornings like this? Why couldn’t I just be myself around her? Then again, who knew if Britt would even want the real me? Maybe all she saw in me was her safe gay friend, the one she could take with her when she modeled nude without fear of him hitting on her. Maybe Britt only wanted to be my fag hag.

No, that wasn’t it. Ever since we’d first met, Britt had seen through all the false layers I’d built up over the years to the real me, the Sam I hadn’t been sure still existed. And damn it all if the real me didn’t want to come out and introduce himself to her.

I tried stroking Britt’s hair, but my hand shook so much I worried I’d wake her. Knowing that I needed to burn off some of the leftover adrenaline from my nightmare, I slid away from her and entered my bedroom. After throwing on my running gear, I grabbed the blanket from my bed, carried it to the living room and tucked it around Britt.

“Sam?” she mumbled.

“Mornin’, baby,” I said. “I’m going for a run.”

“You’re running now?” she asked, cracking an eyelid and looking toward the darkness outside my windows. “It’s like, the middle of the night.”

“It is
not
the middle of the night,” I said. Three a.m. was way past the middle. “Gotta clear my head. You stay cozy, okay?”

“Okay,” she murmured as she burrowed underneath the blanket.

I ran for about half an hour, the scenery whizzing past me as I thought about nothing at all. That was what I loved best about running; it absorbed all of my attention, leaving me unable to think about anything but placing one foot in front of the other. I’d started running when I was a kid, back when both of my parents had been deployed to Afghanistan at the same time. Running had comforted me when I was a scared, confused kid; now it comforted a scared and utterly befuddled man.

I got back to my apartment just before four a.m. and was greeted by the heavenly scent of coffee, not that I’d put any coffee on before I left. Deciding to investigate the situation, I entered my kitchen and found my coffeemaker working away, and my fridge door flung wide open.

“I thought you said you were from Iowa,” Britt said from the other side of the refrigerator door.

“Sioux City, born and bred,” I informed. “Why?”

“You said Iowa was all about the pigs, but you don’t have any bacon.”

“I thought you didn’t care for meat.”

“I told you, bacon is in a class by itself.”

I chuckled, then I reached above the fridge door and opened the freezer. “Bacon’s in here.”

“You froze your bacon?” Britt gasped as she straightened, as if I’d committed a most grievous sin.

“If I don’t freeze it, I’ll eat it all in one sitting,” I said, handing Britt the package. While Britt muttered on about the sacrilege I’d committed, I took in her appearance. She’d showered and had twisted her wet hair into a knot on the top of her head. Instead of putting her clothes back on, she was wearing one of my tee shirts. It was navy blue, and fell to just below her thighs. While she was decent, the sight of Britt in my shirt was nearly more than I could take that early in the day.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Britt said, misinterpreting why I was staring at her. “I was going to put on my NYU shirt, but I didn’t want to go through all of your stuff to find it. This was the first shirt I found that was, um, long enough.”

From that last statement, I inferred that she was only wearing my shirt. “No worries, darlin’,” I said. “May I ask why you were looking for bacon?”

“To make you breakfast,” she said as if it was obvious. “Cooking is one of my many talents.”

“Is it, now?”

“Sure is.” Britt put the package of bacon in the microwave and set it to defrost. “After my stepfather moved us to the house in New Rochelle, he hired a full-time chef. Since she—the chef, that is—was the only person in the house I liked besides my mom, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Chef Aggie taught me everything she knew.”

Beauty, brains, and she cooks. I watched Britt turn toward the counter and retrieve a few plates from the cabinets. “What’s on the menu?” I asked.

Britt glanced over her shoulder and fluttered her eyelashes at me. “It’s going to be a surprise. Well, except for the bacon. You already know about that.”

“Can I help?”

“You can help by showering.”

“Was my quesadilla really that bad?”

Another glance over her shoulder, another eyelash flutter. “Oh, you mean your Cajun masterpiece?”

“It wasn’t that burnt.”

“Mm hm.”

When I still didn’t move, Britt turned around and shooed me out of my own kitchen. “Go on, relax. I’ve got this.”

I took Britt’s advice and headed to the bathroom, where I spent the next twenty minutes standing under the hottest water I could stand. After I toweled off, I pulled on a pair of gym shorts and a tee shirt, then I followed the mouthwatering smells back to the kitchen. When I stepped into the room, my mouth watered for reasons other than the food.

Britt was bustling about the kitchen table, setting out plates and pouring coffee. She was still wearing my shirt, but she’d loosened her hair and it cascaded down her back in perfect bed head waves. At the sight of Britt barefoot as she set breakfast on the table, I finally understood all those adages about keeping women in the kitchen.

“Nice spread, darlin’,” I said. “Isn’t it a little early for such a big breakfast?”

“If it’s not too early for you to run, then it’s not too early for me to cook.” Britt looked from me to the plates and back to me. “Seriously, Sam, food is better hot. Eat.”

I smiled at her mother hen attitude and took a seat. On my plate was an omelet stuffed with spinach and cheese, toast, and Britt’s centerpiece, bacon. “This all looks amazing. Thank you.”

“I’m the one thanking you,” Britt said. “Now, eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I tucked into my plate, starting with the omelet. “This is probably the best omelet I’ve ever eaten.”

“Told you I can cook,” Britt said. “Try the coffee.”

I did, and was amazed at the black silk that washed over my tongue. “Did you go out for new coffee?” I asked. “I don’t have anything that tastes this good.”

“Actually, you do,” Britt said, then she leaned forward and whispered, “I fixed your coffee.”

“You surely did.” I took another sip. “You going to share your secret with me?”

“Only after you’ve cleaned your plate.”

I followed her orders, not that it was a hardship to eat such an excellent meal. Once we were both done, I took our plates to the sink, then I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even five a.m. “You know, I usually don’t wake up for another two hours,” I said.

“That just means we can have second breakfast later on,” Britt said. She rose and poured another cup of coffee; while her back was to me, she said, “I’m sorry for doing all of this so early. I just wanted to thank you, for, you know, earlier.”