“Aloo? Alia!”
I startle, glancing up from the blank screen of my phone that I’ve been staring at for. . . I don’t even know how long. All I know is that Irsia is wearing a look of worry mixed with amusement and I find none of this funny.
A kiss isn’t supposed to decimate my capacity to function like a normal human. On the outside, I suppose everything looks the same. I have the same muddy brown eyes half the Indian continent does, my hair is still black and sits below my shoulders, and I walk, talk, and eat the same way. But I feel different.
How Cal made me throb with want, with only a kiss, has become the singular point of focus of my life since last night.
Was it only last night? It feels like a century has passed since then and my entire being vibrates with the need to have him touch me again.
“Do you have a hangover?” Irsia asks, gently smoothing the frizz over my head.
A handsome hockey player hangover, yes.
“I’m okay. Just thinking,” I mumble.
“About?”
How to get laid.
Nope, can’t say that. I wet my lips, racking my brain for something else.
“Coach Rodriguez emailed me again.” Well, crap. I guess that’s been playing in my subconscious despite trying to ignore it.
“Again?” Irsia pulls out the ice tray from our freezer while I settle at the barstool across the counter, my pajama shorts tightening around my thighs when I fold my legs under my bum.
“Mmhmm. She messaged me a couple days ago to follow up.”
“And?”
My silence is damning; the clink of hex-shaped ice cubes dropping into our cups only highlights the fact that I’ve not replied to her question. Irsia studies me through slitted eyes, blowing a curly strand out of her face in irritation when I maintain an impassivelook. She huffs, focusing on pouring an equal amount of cold brew into both glasses.
“You have nothing to hide from, Aloo. Open the email. She’s probably trying to keep in touch.”
“Probably,” I repeat, observing the dark liquid transform as swirls of the vanilla creamer Irsia adds dance and mingle together with coffee. With a straw stuck through the lid, she passes me one cup before adjusting her camera bag.
“Another assignment?” I ask.
“Quinceañera for the governor’s niece,” she informs me, snagging her car keys off the holder nearby. “There’ll be cake, which already makes this job better than the boutique opening fiasco from last week.” With a kiss on my cheek, my cousin rushes off to work. A self-made artist, Irsia’s photographs have been featured in some well-known bridal magazines. She is still sought after for wedding and bridal photoshoots, but the last time she worked something like that was before she was widowed. I watch the swish of her dress disappear as the door closes, leaving me to my thoughts.
Sipping on my coffee, I trudge into my bedroom. As though by design, my gaze shifts toward the desk beside the window, my laptop sitting innocently upon the gleaming white surface.
I should do it. I don’t have to be at the pet shelter for hours and have no reason to delay checking what I’ve been putting off for so long. Even though our communications have dwindled over the years to birthday and holiday greetings on social media, I owe Mariam Rodriguez the respect of a response.
With a purposeful inhale, I plunk onto my chair, wrench open my computer, and navigate to my inbox. The unread mail sits there, mocking me for all the times I’ve ignored it. Maybe it’s Irsia’s push from a couple minutes ago that has me ready to re-establish communication. Or maybe it’s the boost of confidence I’ve gotten from my interactions with Cal. He sees me like I used to see myself, and, because of that, I find myself wanting to be that person again.
I want to reclaim the independence I’d lost with Namik by working through these bottlenecks myself. I know the changes I want to make are slow-going, but I don’t want to stop trying. Taking control of my sexuality is only half the battle. The other half is this—fixing what has become my life’s regret.
Nerves threaten to overtake me once more as I move the cursor to my coach’s name. I recall her disappointed face when she visited me in the hospital. I’ve never been able to look her in the eyes, knowing I let her down. I let my team down, too, and the depression that followed was more crippling than the accident itself.
A phantom pain lights up my right shoulder and knee, two places where the healing has been slow. I struggled with pain for years. While the surgical scars have mostly faded, I can still feel the raised, ragged skin in certain spots where no amount of time will hide the consequences of my choices.
It was an accident. You’re not a failure.
Like a cowboy lassoing a bucking horse, Cal’s gruff reminder snaps me back to the present. Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the email and read it. By the time I’m done, I feel silly. Embarrassingly silly.
I’ve been anxious for days, fearing the contents of what turned out to be a completely friendly letter. It’s not a simple social call, however. A favor—Coach states—if I have the time to indulge her. She’s requested I review a series of plays her team has been struggling with.
I brush off the familiar pinch of jealousy of someone else playing instead of me, in favor of doing something even remotely related to the sport I love. Those who can’t do—as the saying goes—teach. Not that I’m teaching anyone here at all. I’ve been asked for my opinion and I’m ready to dust the cobwebs off my knowledge and provide constructive feedback. I sit up and straighten my shoulders, shaking off nerves that usually threaten me whenever I think of my lost career.