Chapter 28

: Andi

I t wasn’t a quick nap . When I wake up, it’s dark out. I look at my watch—9 p.m.

On the one hand, I feel much better. The headache is down to a dull roar, and some of the fog has lifted. I’m hungry.

I toss the avocado toast that was still on my nightstand. Seriously, how did it get there? Then it dawns on me. Brandon must have made it.

My suspicions are confirmed when I see the state of my kitchen. There’s a cutting board still on the counter that has the avocado rind and seed still out, along with a knife and fork. There are toast crumbs on my counter.

This is so not how I roll.

In the span of 24 hours, Brandon Nix has completely immersed himself in my life. He’s been in my kitchen. In my bed! He even picked the charity we’re going to be working with. I’d never have picked this one. I’d have done something with SMA or Muscular Dystrophy or something for Benj. Not something for me.

And he still has my car, to boot! Which means he has to come back here, risking even more chances of being seen together.

This could ruin my life.

But as I look out my window, I see my car’s back. The keys are on the hook next to the door where they belong. He thinks he can just come in here whenever he wants? The audacity of that man.

I cross my arms in a huff, only because I’m alone with no one to witness my tantrum or judge me for it.

Also because I’m having a lot of feelings right now and have no idea what to do with them all.

With way too much force behind my movements, I swipe at the mess on the counter. But as I pick up the avocado seed, something inside me cracks, causing tears to spring to my eyes.

Brandon Nix made me avocado toast. He stayed the night and took care of me. Or at least he made sure I didn’t die. He slept next to me because he thought I asked him to. And he found a charity for me.

Not my brother. Not kids like him.

Kids like me.

It’s like he sees me.

What did he call it? Glass child syndrome? Ironic, because he’s the first person not to see right through me.

I put my hand over my chest which feels tight. I hope this is another sequela of the concussion, though I fear it’s not.

I fear it’s something much, much worse. I sink down on my couch, my head resting on the back of it.

I don’t remember the last time anyone saw me. Even if they tried, I don’t let myself be seen.

Not that anyone tries real hard. They hit the wall I’ve so carefully constructed and then turn and walk away. They don’t even bother looking for the door. It’s what Mike did.

Yet somehow, Brandon has come barreling full force at me like the Kool-Aid man.

It’s not like these are feelings or anything. It’s the novelty of being seen. Brandon Nix is still Brandon Nix. He’s unapologetically rude and crude.

Except he’s not exactly crude.

And he’s more blunt than rude.

He’s a blowhard, that’s for sure.

But he’s smart. And surprisingly compassionate.

And he’s knocking on my door.

Not metaphorically knocking at my emotional door. Actually knocking on my physical door. I may only have one window in the front of the house, but it is right next to the door and my couch sits in front of it. Sure as God made little green apples, Brandon Nix is standing on my doorstep.

What could he possibly want now?

I haul myself up and pull open the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you and hello, Andrew.”

“Would you please stop calling me that?” Normally I would let it roll off me, like I do with so many other things, but this is not a normal situation. I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not normal. “And I’m fine. You don’t have to be here. You shouldn’t be here. What happens if people see you coming and going?”

“We’re working on the event, of course.”

I’m confused. This is all hypothetical and in the air. He’s talking like it’s a done deal.

He leans in and whispers in my ear, “I’m just saying that in case your place is bugged or if the head of the USSLRA is out in the bushes listening. I still have a suspicion that you’re a secret spy or something.” His breath is hot on my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “Though, in reality, I did talk to Leora in the front office today, so this is going to happen.”

I try to remember what this he’s talking about, but I can’t seem to focus on anything but how close he is to me.

He doesn’t have bad breath right now. In fact, he has that cool spicy smell associated with men’s deodorant and shaving cream. I close my eyes and try to covertly inhale—

What the hell am I doing?

I jump up and stumble back. I must have lost my mind. Maybe it’s the concussion. Maybe it’s bleeding in there. That’s got to be the only logical explanation.

“Andrew, what’s wrong? You’re really pale.”

I look around my place, trying to see if anything else is weird. Everything looks how it’s supposed to. Everything smells how it’s supposed to. It’s just ... him.

I’m now so aware of him.

“Have you ever had a concussion before?” I ask. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got to get to the bottom of what’s going on.

“Sure. Too many to count.”

His answer stuns me. That’s not good. Not at all. Not with all the research that’s come out about chronic traumatic encephalopathy. It’s an area of interest for me since it was first researched at Boston University, where I got my physical therapy degree. “Aren’t you worried about CTE?”

“Ehh,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I should be, but there’s not as much out there about CTE in soccer players. The irony is I never wanted to play soccer. I wanted to play football. At least in football, you get to wear pads and helmets.”

Brandon looks at me and closes the gap between us. He takes my hands in his. “You’re freaking out. What’s going on?”

I close my eyes, unable to look at him. Swallowing hard, I raise my lids and meet his gaze. We’re as close as we were when I gave him that red card. “I think I’m having hallucinations.” The smell—his scent—is still there, calling to me. I tilt my head forward and inhale again.

It’s as if the notes of fresh air and sea, infused with mint and pine, awaken something deep within me. Very deep, mostly located at the center between my legs.

Maybe, if I hold very still, this moment will pass, my rational sense will return, and Brandon Nix will never be the wiser.

“Did you just smell me?”

Where this man is concerned, luck is never on my side.

I don’t move a muscle. “I’m gonna say no.” Even as I say it, I feel the flush creeping up my neck, warming my cheeks. My hands, still trapped in his, are beginning to sweat.

He leans in and whispers in my ear. “It sure seemed like you smelled me.”

I close my eyes again, his cheek millimeters away from mine, his mouth next to my ear. My breath is starting to come in short pants. “I was trying to see if I had a sense of smell.”

Brandon laughs, a big throaty chuckle. “You have a concussion, not COVID.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him laugh like this before.

I pull back to look at his face. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, years of playing soccer in the sun etching lines. His dark eyes twinkle mischievously. I lick my lips when my gaze gets to his mouth.

“It could be COVID,” I stall.

“Do you have a fever?” Now he licks his lips.

“It certainly feels warm in here.” Sweat prickles my skin.

Brandon leans in and blows gently on the side of my neck.

Holy hell.

Did I just orgasm?

Wait—what the hell is going on here? This is Brandon Nix. I should not be thinking about him and orgasms in the same paragraph, let alone in the same sentence. Yet somehow, as his hands stroke up my arms, one landing firmly on the back of my neck, that’s all I can think about.