Page 128 of Brace and Chase

Natalie was here—and bless her, she didn’t get offended at all—and the damn chef comes every second day to fill the house with delicious smells, but he begged our neighbors to stay with me so I’d have more pairs of eyes watching out for any of my symptoms.

They did stay, and we finally told them about us.

And . . . I love them.

They’re funny, gorgeous, and make great commentators while watching TV.

Those few days I couldn’t watch any screens, so they told me everything that happened in the Real Housewives of who-knows-where and that way I could participate in their nightly ritual of watching rich ladies be awful to one another.

It turned out having them over was a saving grace because when I got grumpy about getting a headache or having to avoid my phone, they’d calm me down. If Natalie couldn’t force me to do something, they did—and they used the terrible weapon of emotional manipulation. I was impressed.

My mood improved soon after, not only because Charlie came back for a week, though hey, that helped, but because I started feeling like myself again, and I was permitted one hour of screen time a day.

I used that hour well.

Research about gay sex can take you down many roads,let me tell you, but on one of the few helpful websites I found, I discovered the term edging. Or rediscovered maybe, since it sounded familiar. I read all I could about it, and when I was finally able to at least do hand stuff with Charlie, you can bet I put my new knowledge to good use.

It wasn’t that different from what I’d been doing before, but this time I was more focused and Charlie was even more desperate.

I loved it.

But what’s driving me insane now, after dinner, when I’m watching my team play an unworthy opponent and not decimating those assholes...

I feel like myself, but I can’t go back to being myself because my brain is so fucking fragile.

I write about a million things that need to improve so Timmy—who’s not honoring his nickname tonight—can read them during the intermission, and I send them to Laney and Charlie as well for good measure so they can get their heads out of their asses.

I’m beyond elated when my phone rings three minutes after the first intermission starts. It’s Charlie.

“Sweetheart,” I shout. “Thank?—”

“Shut up,” he snaps at me angrily. “Stop sending us instructions. We know what the fuck we’re doing. And go to sleep, we’ve got this.”

Then he hangs up.

All I can do is pout, then I decide that no, that’s not all I can do.

So I snap a selfie and send it to the team’s group chat.

Santa: Charlie’s being mean. Any of you want to talk?

I know it’s stupid. It’s insane to even be texting them while they’re in the fucking playoffs, but I can’t help it. I feel left out.

I get a bunch of laughing emojis in response and more than a few suggestions on how to fornicate with myself.

I send them a bunch of the emojis of the hand flipping them off.

They all suck.

But theydon’tsuck.

In fact, I suspect they did read my suggestions because Timmy starts fucking covering Charlie’s blind side and helping move the team up the ice.

They beat LA that night, and two nights later as well.

The next two games are in Vegas so I can actually go see them and be right there to tell them shit during the intermissions.

Gab offers me a seat in her box but I refuse—politely—and choose to sit on the bench instead. Far back next to Jeff, I watch the action with new eyes.

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