Page 39 of Penalty Shot
“It’s fine,” I say and have to summon my meager acting skills to seem unaffected.
Texting Randall the last few weeks has been a welcome break from the everyday. All my friends are part of the world of theater, one way or another, so having someone outside who doesn’t try to fix or solve or advise me—he just listens and lightens the load—was a precious gift while I struggled with my insecurities.
Randall might have started out as a one-night stand to, as Lily so delicately put it, “end a dry spell.” That is no longer true. Somehow, although I have no sense of the demands of his life and he has little understanding of mine, we’ve been exactly what the other needed.
The sexy fling Randall and I shared is in the past, because today we are much more. I don’t want to lose this connection we’ve made. If I give in to the physical chemistry with a person I consider a friend, what then? A few hookups would ruin something special.
Even if we try to figure things out as more than friends, I’m positive that won’t last. He’s a playboy with the face of a prince and a naturally carefree personality. I’m a workaholic who has neither the time nor the ability to be a decent girlfriend. Dating is incompatible with my job; or at least the way I do my job.
That’s my predicament, really. Dating someone from inside the theater community can feel almost incestual and claustrophobic. Dating someone beyond the performing arts sector can be exhausting. In the past, I constantly had to justify my passion as an obstacle to being a decent girlfriend. No matter what angle I consider, pursuing more than friendship with Randall will only lead to disappointment.
Which is why I better get us out of this bedroom where my bed might as well be a neon sign. I can’t stop looking at it.Protecting our friendship from the volatility of another fling is the right thing to do.
“I’ll take Naomi down the stairs, since you’re so chicken.” I cuddle baby squishiness against my chest. “Now that your hands are free, I need a favor,” I say when something occurs to me.
“What?” he asks, looking hopeful.
Lifting my chin toward the desk, I indicate the Sharpie. “I need an autograph from the great Randall Haughland.”
His mouth tilts up while he picks up the pen. “Where do you want it?” He licks his lips, as if he’s asking me where I want that perfect mouth. Randall’s voice has lowered to a sultry whisper.
“Where do people usually get autographs?” I manage.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I almost sayyes, sir,barely stopping myself in time.
“Right above the number is a good place,” he says.
Our breathing increases in tandem. We’re standing in place but might as well be sprinting.
“Can I move your hair?”
“Yeah, sure, since my hands are full.”
Randall’s fingers graze my ear while gathering my hair over my left shoulder. Heat blankets my back. The hand that moved my hair wraps around the long strands. I remember the sting on my scalp when he took me like this. From behind, my hair in his fist. Like he read my mind, Randall tugs slightly. My body clenches in anticipation. I have to stop myself from rubbing my thighs together to relieve the pulsing ache.
The Sharpie rasps against fabric in confident strokes. I imagine what it would be like for Randall to sign his name not on the jersey, but on my skin. How the pen’s felt would create a cold trail in contrast to the heat of his fingers. How the black ink would seep into my pores and mark me like a thing.Histhing.
What the hell is wrong with me right now?
When he finishes, he caps the pen and steps away.
“Thanks. Now I can count it as a collector’s item,” I say to distract myself from inappropriate thoughts.
He doesn’t hear me, because Randall has already left my bedroom.
Walking away from Elise’s bedroom, throat filled with sand and pants too tight, is a form of sweet torture. The smell of her hair as I moved it to the side, the silky slope of her neck, the submission of her body as I wrote on her back. Marking her with my name felt good in all the worst ways. I didn’t trust myself not to take things further. Much further than any two people who promised to befriends without benefitsshould go.
Good thing I don’t need to worry about keeping up my end of the dinner conversation, because Elise and her friends can talk nonstop about everything under the sun. Conversations went from world politics to modernist drama to the history of James Bond. Elise tries to include me, but I barely keep up. It’s dizzying how smart all these people are.
There are other things I can do with my mouth. Mostly stuff it, because Geraldine made a feast. There are potstickers and tofu cubes, some kind of noodles with vegetables and sesame seeds, as well as stir-fry chicken that reminds me of restaurants with those big open grills. But way yummier.
“What’s your favorite dish?” Elise asks me. “Of all time.”
My usual meal involves a version of grilled meat, but that doesn’t seem worth saying.
“I’m really loving this tofu dish,” I answer honestly.
