On Rotation(58)

I hoisted one of the chairs up. Unbidden, the image of Ricky, dressed smartly in a black tux and standing, beaming, at an altar, came to mind, and I shook it off.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked. “Stay, I mean. You probably would’ve saved a ton on rent.”

Ricky snorted and followed me into the living area, dropping off his chair before crossing the room for another.

“For one, my dad was always there, and he’s annoying as shit,” he said. Then he gave me a strange look, sucking in his lower lip. “And then, well, you know. Camila.”

My stomach turned. I didn’t know much about Camila and Ricky’s relationship, just that they’d met in college and, like me, were three years out. Had she lived here, in this apartment? Had he . . . started a home with her? I found my eyes darting around the room, searching for any vestiges of Camila’s touch, and finding only Ricky.

“Of course,” I said, attempting to sound casual even while my skin crawled. “Your grandma’s a virtuous Catholic woman. Couldn’t be fornicating openly under her roof, right?”

Ricky let out a bark of laughter. He arranged the chairs into a rectangle, gently guiding me out of his way to make sure that mine were adequately lined up with the couch.

“I think she would’ve pretended not to know, if it kept me home,” he admitted. “Okay, so now we have to make the ground.”

With professional precision, Ricky lay down layer after layer of blankets, instructing me to line them up to create an even “floor” for our fort. When that was done, he gathered pillows for seating, running back to his bedroom to collect another when one of his chosen pillows proved too flat for his liking.

“You’re clearly an expert at this,” I joked, watching him search his bookshelf for books heavy enough to hold up the fort canopy.

“Made a lot of blanket forts in my time,” he said. He turned to smile at me. “I was an only child in the smallest Mexican family in Chicago. Needed somewhere to play my Game Boy and feel like I was on an adventure, you know?”

I laughed, imagining the Ricky I’d seen from his middle school photo holed up in an elaborate fort, playing Pokémon and humming along to the gym themes.

“And it was a good place to retreat when I was upset,” he added, just a bit more solemnly. He straightened and turned to look at me. “I’m sorry about Nia. I know how important she is to you. If it gives you any solace, even Shae doesn’t really get what’s going on. I don’t think . . .” He sighed, pushing his hair back. “We don’t think this is just about you. Shae says she’ll probably come around.”

The knot in the center of my chest, which had loosened over the last several minutes of fort building, tightened again.

“What if she doesn’t?” I said quietly. My vision blurred with tears, and I blinked them back. “What if this is it?”

When I looked back up again, Ricky was right in front of me, squinting down at me with dark, bottomless eyes. Suddenly, the room felt small. Gently, he cupped my face in his hand. His thumb stroked, very lightly, over my cheekbone, and I took a sharp intake of breath, feeling a frisson of anxiety shuttle down my body like a lightning bolt. Rooted in place, I looked up at his face in search of an explanation and found nothing but tenderness.

“Then, Angie,” Ricky said softly, “you find a way to move on.”

Then he swept into the kitchen, asking me whether I wanted any popcorn.

Fuck. I clutched the back of the couch, not entirely convinced that my legs were fit to hold me up. I was so sure that I could do this. So certain that I could be cool, that I would withstand being in his vicinity without feeling like I was on fire. But just then, there’d been something in Ricky’s eyes that had set them smoldering, and I felt that heat down in the pit of my belly. It was so different from the blank look he’d given me after I kissed him at King Spa, and it scared me more.

“Do you want kettle corn or butter?” Ricky called from the kitchen, like he hadn’t just almost stopped my heart. “I’ve got both.”

“Butter,” I said, proud that my voice didn’t waver. I sat on our blanket fort floor, leaning against the couch and closing my eyes. I listened to Ricky root around his cupboards, then tear open a package of microwavable popcorn.

“Want to pick something to watch?” Ricky said from the kitchen.

“What were you watching before I decided to impose on you?” I asked.

“You didn’t impose,” Ricky said, dropping to the floor next to me. He gave me a shy smile. “I’m really glad you’re here, actually.”

I ignored the buzzing in my ears and accepted the remote when he handed it to me, scrolling to Netflix.

“You heard of One Punch Man?” he asked.

I nodded. I’d fallen off the weeaboo train in college, but Ricky had clearly been riding it since Dragon Ball Z.* Still, Markus kept me abreast of the shows of the moment.

“Yeah,” I said. “It looks very stupid.”

“It is,” Ricky admitted. “But it’s also very funny. I’m down to start from the beginning, if you’re interested.”

“I’m down,” I said. The microwave beeped, and Ricky jumped to his feet to retrieve our popcorn as I searched for the show.

“Can you get the canopy up?” he asked, tearing open the bag.