15 - One Half of a Whole

15

One Half of a Whole

K ian answers the door with a surprised look.

"Hi," I say. In my hands, I have a Funfetti cake I made from a box and a bag of all his favorite treats.

"Hi."

"Can I come in?"

"Am I liable to die?"

I roll my eyes, hiding a smile. "Not today."

"Then, by all means, come in." Kian moves to the side. I follow him upstairs of the split-level home. "Your sister and the kids aren't here." He moves over to sit on the couch, ESPN currently muted on the television. His work laptop sits open in front of him.

"I know," I say, following him in and setting my stuff down on the coffee table. My knee cracks when I take a seat, causing me to flinch. "I'm sorry for last weekend. It wasn't fair of me to take it all out on you."

"What's in the bag?"

"Um…a box made Funfetti cake and like three bags of sour candy."

"You're forgiven," Kian says, reaching for the bag. "But you had every right to be upset. It's not like that was easy to hear. I'm honestly surprised you didn't hit me."

"Believe me, I thought about it." I pull my knees up onto the recliner and lean into the cushions. "It was just a lot. But we talked, and you know, he told me he wanted to be the one to tell me, and it shouldn't have happened that way."

"It shouldn't have. I could've tried harder to get him to be okay with me telling you sooner. It wasn't fair."

"Him needing you wasn't about me. I get that. Thank you for being there for him, Kian."

Now that the anger is gone, all I can be is thankful Isaiah had someone. No one should have to go through anything like that completely alone.

We share a knowing look, and Kian stands. "Bring it in."

I don't hesitate to walk into my brother-in-law's outstretched arms. If Isaiah wasn't a factor, I'd say that Kian objectively gives the best hugs. He's a big bear of a man and has a way of making you feel like everything is okay.

"Okay, get off so we can eat the cake."

I plop down next to him on the couch, pulling out the cake and handing him a fork. "No plates?" he asks.

"Plates are overrated."

Kian chuckles but takes the first bite. "So, you talked? How is it going?"

I take a bite, getting as little frosting as possible. "Good. I stormed over there after the diner. He handled that better than I deserved. But I think it helped. I really missed him, you know?"

Kian bumps my shoulder. "I know."

"But then, he came over the other night—"

"To your apartment?" Kian practically chokes next to me.

"Please relax. Yes, to my apartment. It needed to happen, and it was nice."

Even though he's not here, my cheeks turn warm thinking about it. He looked beyond perfect in my kitchen. He was at ease, he was comfortable, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. Not that I really ever can. There were moments when the intensity was more than I expected. The book. The reminiscing. The tattoos.

Those fucking tattoos. Both of them are burned into my brain for the rest of my life. Every time I think about them, my legs turn to jelly, and I understand why my heart is fighting to break out of my chest and walk right into Isaiah's arms.

"It was nice?" Kian exclaims. " Nice ?"

I eat more cake. "He made me dinner. It was nice."

"You're so full of shit."

"You're a child."

Kian cackles next to me. "Nice. You and Isaiah, in a room, and it's nice. You two could barely function without reaching for each other when he showed up at your games. There's so much pining in your eyes, it makes me want to vomit, and it was nice ?" His laughter echoes ridiculously through the room.

I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Shut up, Kian."

He points his fork at me. "Fine, but just know, I see through you."

"Well, I told him I wasn't seeing Drew anymore."

"You did?"

Leaning back into the couch, I rest my head in my palm. "I did. It doesn't mean anything, but he deserved to know."

Kian makes a beeping noise. "That's my bullshit radar going off by the way."

"Okay, fuck off. We're just friends. We're just learning how to be friends again."

At that, he falls back into the couch manically laughing, and I sit there with my arms crossed, trying to convince myself my words are true. Obviously, they aren't, but I'm choosing to be delusional.

That light that bloomed in his eyes when I told him I wasn't seeing anyone made me feel like I'd given him the world. It was how I felt when he showed me the tattoos. Like everything I ever wanted—Isaiah—was in reach.

Instead of accepting that, I sit there on the couch and tell myself we're just friends.

It's probably far too stalker-like to show up at Isaiah's place of work again. Probably worse that I snuck into his class at the very back and have been here the entirety of his final class of the day.

The payback is discovering that he also reads from his own book here. Not too much and it sounds as if he only does so if it's relevant to the lesson. Unfortunately, the lesson today was about evoking emotion. He read from a poem I hadn't gotten to on my own, "Can I Leave Me Too?" It was as if he twisted a knife in my chest, and all I could do was sit there and watch.

He mused on about a person he loved and couldn't hold on to.

It was a prose poem that felt like a story, a look into his past life, and it held every single student entranced. That was when he noticed me sitting here, too. He had glanced up from where he leaned against his desk, shock filtering quickly over his features before they settled.

I sat there as the students analyzed the word choice, the sentence structure, and so on and so on. He wore his glasses, which had sent my heart careening when I first noticed, and he stood proud in front of the room. Relaxed but maintaining the air one needs to keep students interested.

Eventually, the students were dismissed, and we were the only two who remained in the class. Isaiah sat on top of his desk as I walked down the stairs.

"How did you find the class, Miss Matthews?" Isaiah hits me with a focused gaze. The low timber of his voice sends a shiver crawling down my spine.

My eyes take him in. He crosses his arms, the tattoos that are on display moving beautifully as he does. Lean muscles ripple under the material as he sits cool, calm, and collected. This is his element.

"Hm. I thought it was well done. You might want to consider providing snacks for emotional damage, but that's just an idea."

Isaiah smiles, not quite enough for the dimple but enough for me. "I'll make sure to make a note."

I step forward, running a finger over the desk, eyes landing on the poetry book on top. "So, you read them here, too?"

He tracks me and my slow pacing. I make sure to never put less than two or three feet between us. "I read them everywhere, Aurora."

"What happens if some girl decides they're about her and becomes obsessed with you?"

Isaiah stands, tucking his hands into slacks. "There's only one girl I want obsessed with me." My heart goes pitter-patter in my chest like a cartoon character who's trying to keep it contained. "Her name's Azalea. Have you met her?"

Laughter breaks out. "You're stupid," I say. "And you don't need to worry about that. Zaza is plenty obsessed with you. Uncle Ziah." That's what she used to call him, even though she only knew him (in person) very briefly.

"What about Joey?"

"I thought you said one. You're getting greedy."

He shrugs. "I gotta weakness for the Matthews girls. Even though I suppose some of them are also Esera."

"They're Matthews at heart. No need to worry about Joey either."

Isaiah hums, moving a step closer. "And their aunt?

My throat is dry, and I'm all too aware of the dwindling distance. The warmth emitting off his body, the heat slowly burning in his eyes, and the way my stomach is putting on an Olympic-level flipping act. "You'll have to ask them." His lips curl, and he nods. "So…are you busy tonight?"

"Not if you're asking me not to be."

I cross my arms. He crosses his. "Isaiah."

"Aurora."

"I'm serious."

"What makes you think I'm not?" he asks, cocking his head.

The way he looks at me… Isaiah makes me feel like I'm the only one in his orbit.

"Well, I was going to head to the Y, where I volunteer with some young players as often as I can, you know, to help out the coaches or whatever I can do for the kids. But I thought you could come with me, and then, we could go to dinner? You know to—I don't know—spend some time together," I muse, focusing on a scrape in the wooden desk.

"That sounds great. Let me just pack up, and we can go?" He moves swiftly, grabbing his books and phone, placing them gently in his shoulder bag.

"Take your time. It's actually not far from here. Do you mind walking?"

Isaiah shakes his head and swings his bag up. "Ready when you are."

We walk through the halls together, his hand finding purchase on my lower back when he opens the main door. Heat spreads from each of his fingertips and through my shirt onto my skin. Outside, we're hit with a blanket of heat, but it doesn't compare to his touch. The fifteen-minute walk passes quickly.

He tells me about some of his favorite students and some of the works they've turned in. Poems about their parents, fictional poems based on a short story or myth of their choosing, and how he likes seeing the improvement the most. That it makes him feel like he's successfully providing to the kids in the best way he knows how. It makes my heart swell, seeing him flourish.

"How'd you find this program?"

Our arms brush on the sidewalk, my fingers itching to touch him, but they remain at my side. "Coach Teller. Her wife is a teacher, and one of the women she works with set this program up. We come as a team a few times a year, to have more time to interact with the kids and what not, but I enjoy coming as often as I can. It's always really fun. They're so young and excited, and it's nice to see that." I glance up at him. "It's nice to be able to contribute, you know? Even if it only makes a tiny difference."

"That sounds great, Ro. I'm sure they love it," Isaiah replies as we reach the door, pulling it open and letting me step inside first.

We reach the door, and the familiar scent of the YMCA is immediate. Cleaning supplies with the faint smell of rubber and something that can only be described as gym . I sign us in at the desk before heading through the back to the gymnasium. Echoes of kids' voices bounce around the halls as we get closer. One of my favorite people is standing outside the door with a clipboard.

"Hi, Miss Loren," I smile, leaning in for a quick hug. Miss Loren has lived in the neighborhood her whole life. She grew up at this Y. Her brown skin wrinkles when she smiles at me.

"Aurora, so good to see you!" It takes her a split second to notice the man standing behind me. "Who is this?"

I grab his hand, pulling him forward. "This is Isaiah. We grew up together, and he just moved here. Thought I'd bring him along."

Miss Loren reaches for his hands. "Lovely to meet you, son. Any friend of Aurora's is welcome here."

"Thank you for having me." Isaiah smiles warmly. His hand falls out of hers and instantly grabs mine again. It takes me by surprise, but his palm against mine feels perfect.

Feels like they should've been together instead of apart for six years.

Her eyes flicker between us. "You should know, she's quite the fan favorite. Few of the kiddos have some mighty large crushes on that one."

My cheeks flame instantly. "Miss Loren!"

"What?" Her big, bouncy curls flounce as she looks between us. "He should know. Keep him on his toes."

"They're kids!"

"I've seen the way they look at you. Those boys have their first big crush. Some of the girls, too."

"Oh, my God," I mumble. Isaiah laughs beside me.

"Thanks for letting me know. I'll be sure to keep an eye out."

Miss Loren pats his shoulder. "Smart boy." Of course, that isn't enough for her. Leaning into me, she whispers, "That's a handsome boy, Aurora. Feel free to bring him as often as you'd like. Sure the coaches and the kids wouldn't mind."

We may as well call a fire engine because my cheeks are liable to be a fire hazard.

By Isaiah's faint smile, one he is poorly attempting to hide, he heard her. Not that Miss Loren can really whisper anyway, and why would she try if it means poor old me gets to be the resident tomato? She strides away, a cocky lilt to her walk, and leaves us alone.

"I wouldn't take what she says to heart." I step away, the loss of his hand jolting.

Oh, how I love the way his eyes shine when he's amused. "You mean about my being handsome? Or you being a hot commodity?"

"Both."

Isaiah closes the distance I fought for, fingertips brushing my arm. "I already knew those things. And both just happen to be true."

I love coaching. One day, whenever my playing days come to an end, this is what I want to do. The kids are all so fresh and excited. It's the game that keeps them going, the fun of being on a team and working together. There's something insanely special about that.

Growing up I had a lot of different kinds of coaches—not including my father. Some great and some not so great. Some that ignored us, that thought because we were young, we couldn't know what we wanted and pushed us into positions we didn't care for. But the ones that I remember, the ones like Coach Teller, were the ones that knew how to walk the line. How to be a coach and still treat us like we had autonomy.

That's what I want to do.

Isaiah has been watching from the sidelines of the gym with a few parents. No matter where I was or what I was doing, he was watching.

A few kids currently have me pulled aside, begging me to show them a move from last time. Who am I to say no to smiling young faces? Most of the kids play on another team outside of here—either recreational or travel—but this serves as both after school care and a little extra attention from the community. Usually the coaches shy away from specific skills, but today is, in fact, a skill day.

I pull the tiny size-four soccer ball toward me. It's a classic turn meant to fool a defender by using the inner part of your foot to pull it back. And let me tell you, nothing makes your confidence boost like a bunch of ten-year-old's being insanely impressed by you. Their tiny cheers are like straight adrenaline.

One of the girls, Paige, steps up first. "Please teach me that, Coach Matthews?"

"Of course!" I pull her to my side and show her the move in slow motion. The other kids look on with pure thrill in their eyes.

Getting to do this is always fun for me. Zaza plays, but I don't like to interfere too much since we're family. I don't want to risk the relationship that way. Not like me and my dad. But here, I get to let go of that fear, work with other kids, and do what I can. By the time the coaches whistle the session to a close, Paige and her friends are almost perfect on the skill. As perfect as ten-year-old's can be, at least, and that's pretty phenomenal.

"Coach Matthews, are you guys gonna make the play-offs?"

I crouch down. "It looks like it. If we win our next few games, we'll be there."

The kids explode in excitement, bringing a smile to my face. "And you'll still come here, right?"

"Of course. I'll see if I can get the whole team out again soon, alright?" I respond, and I'm greeted with bright eyes and excited faces. They start to disperse into their closing tasks—groups the coaches created to clean up the gymnasium. After a quick goodbye to the coaches and the girls, I prepare to leave.

Isaiah and I walk out side by side. I pause, stretching my arms over my head. A tight muscle in my shoulder twinges with pain as I do.

"Coach has a nice ring to it," Isaiah chimes as I lead the way toward the restaurant.

"Let's not think too far ahead. I've got some good years in front of me." I bump him playfully.

"No doubt about that." The sun has taken its place lower in the sky, painting it technicolor. Today, a cool breeze weaves between us and wraps around us. "I see what Miss Loren meant about my competition."

"Jesus, they're literally ten."

He raises a brow. "So, you admit there is a competition?"

My mouth gapes as he sends me flustering. Once again, my face is hot, and my heart starts sprinting. A slow smile spreads on Isaiah's face, the remaining sunlight framing him in gold. I whip my head back around, saving myself from the intensity of his gaze.

"No, that is not what I said."

"But it was implied."

"Do you want to compete with ten-year-old's?"

Isaiah huffs in humor. "Absolutely not. I'm just saying, I'm not sure I've ever seen so many googly-eyed kids in one room."

"You flatter me," I deadpan.

There's a neon sign that blinks open and a chalkboard outside. We enter, and the space opens up in front of us. In the back, there's a pool table and a ski-ball machine on one side, and on the other, my personal favorite, an air hockey table.

I lead Isaiah to the bar, white twinkle lights hanging above and music playing in the background. He takes a seat on the barstool next to me. Quickly, the bartender slides us waters and menus.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"A menu?"

Isaiah shakes his head. "You're such a smartass."

Laughter trickles out. "Yes, that is an air hockey table." He hums, his face turning inquisitive. I turn in my chair, resting my feet on his barstool. "Why are you making that face? What bright idea are you cooking up there?"

"I say we place a game of air hockey–"

"Or five. Or six. Or ten."

He smiles. "And for every win, that person gets a question that has to be answered. I've, uh—I've been thinking about it since dinner at your place, but I think we need to learn how to be us again." Isaiah averts his eyes, his fingers tapping nervously.

I tap his leg gently until he looks at me again. "I think that sounds like a good idea."

We've been separate for so long, and I genuinely thought that was going to be the rest of my life. One half of a whole, searching for ways to fill in the empty spaces as best they could.

It's starting to feel like that isn't true anymore.

"Good to know you're still the sorest loser I've ever met."

I huff. "Shut the fuck up, Isaiah."

He laughs, and even over the music, I hear every note. "Don't be bitter because you're losing."

The air hockey table is mocking me. That's the only explanation. Because I simply cannot only have won two of six. One of our favorite movie theaters growing up had an arcade section, so we'd always go early to play some games, and we always ended up playing air hockey. And I almost always won.

So, I'm feeling very betrayed.

I take a deep breath and grab the puck to start a new game. Across the table, Isaiah scratches his forehead, but slowly drags an L shape across before letting his hand drop back down.

"You're such a shithead."

A confident smirk takes over his face. His eyes are alight but focused. "At least I'm not a loser."

I take the puck and set it so we can get started. We volley it back and forth until I get a good hit and slam it, making the first score. The puck slinks over the table with every following hit, but since I'm quite literally enraged over air hockey, I finally win another game, making the tally three to six. Isaiah marks it down on the back of a coaster.

Isaiah picks up his beer bottle, fingers wrapping around it and interrupting the condensation. He takes a short pull. "How do you feel about saving the questions for another night?"

"Works for me," I say. "How many games did we say?"

"Best out of thirteen."

"Hm."

"Worried Aurora?"

I flip him off and point to the table.

Luckily, I win the next one, making it six to four—Isaiah.

But Isaiah comes back and wins the eleventh and twelfth.

The moment he gets the puck first in the final game, I have a bad feeling. And that bad feeling is right. Every time he hits the puck, he scores, and I'm left standing there—a loser.

"This is bullshit." I cross my arms.

Isaiah walks—excuse me— saunters toward me until he's right in front of me. "I missed this." I blink up at him. He pulls me in for a playful hug, one where I keep my arms crossed because I am, in fact, a sore loser and where he just rocks me back and forth—gloating—because he is a sore winner.

"Come on, Ro, you can't be mad at me. We made a deal." His lips are mere centimeters away from my ear. So close I can practically feel them. As usual, my heart goes wild.

"I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself for losing," I mumble into his chest. Eventually, I soften into the embrace. I missed hugging him. I missed touching him . It's like a drug—one that I'll never get enough of.

He squeezes me tight before letting me go. The bar has slowly populated over the past two hours.

"Do you wanna head out?"

The song changes, and I'm instantly transported to the past. It reminds me of late-night drives and trips to Wawa, loading up on snacks and soft pretzels and Twizzlers for Isaiah. It reminds me of lying on the floor of his room while he was trying to write. It reminds me of myself post-game, him driving me home and giving me control of the radio.

"After this song?"

His eyes soften, flickering to my lips before landing on my eyes. I'm thrilled when he wraps his arm around me again, pulling me back into his chest. Like this, I track every inhale, every tiny movement he makes, and I swear I feel his heart racing against my back. We both feign looking at the TVs above us, some baseball game playing, but I know that we're both fighting not to look at each other.

For a second, I stop fighting. I take a long look at him. I wish I could blame it on the bar lighting, which I'm convinced makes people more attractive, but I can't. Isaiah is simply that beautiful. So much so that my heart literally aches at the sight of him. The long black eyelashes, the curve of his nose, the full shape of his lips.

He's not an imposing person, not the biggest guy in the room, nor the most insanely attractive. Isaiah is the double take. You see him and you recognize that he's attractive, but something ticks in your brain, saying ah, you missed it , and you have to look back, and you're struck by how fucking beautiful someone could be.

I see it—girls strolling past us to their seats have given him long looks all night. Now, I wouldn't say I was a jealous person, but I'd be lying if I said a little green Aurora didn't rear her head when their gazes lingered too long.

But there's an extra layer for me. I grew up with him. I can recognize every single change, no matter how minute. An extra wrinkle, a new freckle, a new mannerism. Every new piece of information is locked away in the recess of my brain that is solely dedicated to Isaiah. I've kept it locked away for so long, begging myself not to dwell on it in fear that I would never crawl my way out. Now, that door is wide open. Accepting new information and storing it away where it belongs.

Isaiah's arm wraps around my shoulders, his fingers playing with a curl. I'm not even sure he knows he's doing it. I only know that he feels comfortable enough to do so. At that, I sink a tiny bit further into him. Into the warmth, the familiarity.

And I notice, we're swaying. Barely. Probably imperceptible to an outsider.

But I think right here, right now, if the room was burning down around us, I'd be content to let it.

As long as I got to do it with him.