Letters to Nowhere(9)

He piled slightly runny eggs onto a plate and set it in front of me. I was so hungry from yesterday’s lack of food I ate them all despite the gooeyness. I also finished my apple, moved on to a banana, then followed it all with a big glass of milk.

Around six thirty, Jordan stumbled into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in all directions and nothing but boxer shorts on. I looked anywhere but at him. However, there was no avoiding noticing the fact that he was definitely not a couch potato.

I don’t think Jordan even noticed me or Coach Bentley sitting at the table. He went right for the fridge, chugging milk straight from the carton. I eyed my nearly empty glass. Gross.

Coach Bentley looked over the morning paper at his son. “Damn it, Jordan! Put on a shirt.”

And pants?

Jordan glared at his dad but snatched a black hoodie from a hook by the back door and threw it on. Coach Bentley glared right back and turned to me. “Be ready in ten minutes?”

I nodded, indicating I was ready to leave anytime, then I returned to watching YouTube videos on my phone. There was a release move on the uneven bars that I wanted to learn, even though Coach Bentley probably wouldn’t let me try it. He was too obsessed with perfection to let me take a big risk. And honestly, I’d never been a risk–taker until recently. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

Jordan nudged the gooey eggs around in the skillet, made a face, and reached in a high–up cabinet, removing a box of sugar–filled cereal. He plunged his hand right into the box and stuffed his mouth full of fruity pebbles.

What would I have to do to disinfect this food? Spray it all with Lysol? At least I wouldn’t be eating that cereal, but who knew what he’d get his hands in (literally) when I wasn’t around to watch?

I distracted myself from pointless germ thoughts and went back watching videos again.

“No way,” Jordan said with his mouth full.

I jumped and glanced over my shoulder at him, now standing right behind me. “What?”

“You can’t do that.” He pointed to the video on my phone.

“I know that.” I stuffed the phone in my gym bag and got up from the chair. “I like to watch videos of crazy moves when I’m bored.”

Jordan plopped right into my abandoned spot, his disheveled hair looking slightly more attractive than you’d think it would. He had dimples that popped up when his mouth wasn’t too full, too. “A crazy move that my dad used to do.”

Now it was my turn to lift an eyebrow. “Yeah, I heard that, too, but I couldn’t find a video of him performing it.”

Jordan tossed his feet up on the empty chair. “Because he tore his bicep doing that release right before the World Championships and never competed it.”

“That explains a lot.” Maybe this wasn’t the worst place to be living while training. It was kind of like a home court advantage.

“Ready, Karen?” Coach Bentley called from the foyer.

“I’ll be in the shower in a few minutes,” Jordan whispered loudly. “Just in case you need to know. Don’t want you to accidently walk in on me. We should probably post a schedule or put an alarm on the bathroom door.”

I closed my eyes and turned around, feeling completely mortified.

“Karen?”

“Uh–huh,” I said, not looking back at him.

“Thanks for not saying anything. About yesterday…”

Which part? Forgetting to give me a ride or the girl you were feeling up on the couch last night? I let out a breath. “No problem.”


January 30

Coach Bentley,




Thanks for the scrambled eggs and for making my lunch this morning. I promise not to even so much as make a face during strength training today.




Thanks again, Karen




Jordan,




Can you please not drink out of the milk carton? I know it’s your house but seriously, it’s so gross. Also, you have really nice abs. What kind of core conditioning are you doing?




Your bathroommate, Karen



***

“Should I just come back in an hour?” Coach Bentley asked, when he pulled up to the shrink’s office.

I opened the door, the cold air hit my face, and I drew in a slow calming breath. “Uh…sure. I’ll watch for you. You don’t have to come in.”

He had already left a mound of paperwork on his desk just to get me here. He didn’t need to go out of his way any more than that or my extra presence in his life would be wearing thin very soon.

After I checked in with the secretary, I sat down and opened the lunch sack Coach had given me this morning. Inside was what looked like a whole wheat bagel, a small tube of peanut butter (my very favorite food), a container of yogurt (but no spoon), and a banana. For some reason, a lump formed in my throat. There was something so personal in this gesture by Coach Bentley, and yet it made me ache inside. My mom would have never forgotten the spoon.

“Karen Campbell?”

I stuffed the bagel back into the paper sack and glanced up—way up—at the nearly six–foot–tall woman with willowy legs and a long neck. She looked young and trendy—brown flat–ironed hair and bangs. Her smile was warm and inviting, like she wanted to be my best friend or sorority sister or something. And I began to immediately doubt that we’d get anything remotely therapeutic accomplished, but at least I could make my grandma feel a little better about leaving me here. Not sure what I’d do about the possibility of more panic attacks, but I’d have to come up with a new plan for that problem.