Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(50)

“The books are better.”

“Always.”

Lawson’s mom comes back in, balancing a couple of plates, a couple of glasses of milk, some silverware, and a little crock of butter. She arranges them on Lawson’s desk. “All right. I’ll leave you two to your feast.” She exits again.

I unwrap the pancakes. “They’re probably soggy. Sorry. I’m a pancake-delivery rookie.”

Lawson comes over to me, puts a couple on his plate, and starts buttering them. “I’m sure they’re great.”

“Maybe? Anyway, I’ll leave you alone.”

“What? Why?”

“You seem like you want to be alone.”

“No. I mean, I don’t want to be around most people, but…” He finally makes eye contact. He really does have nice eyes. There’s an intelligence in them I guess I haven’t noticed before, when he wasn’t in a room surrounded by books.

A clap of thunder makes us both jump, and rain starts battering the windows.

“Besides, it might be dangerous to drive right now.”

“I feel weird that I ambushed you.”

“I won’t lie, I’m a little embarrassed to be showing my face in front of you.” He pours some syrup on his pancakes, grabs a knife and fork, and sits on the edge of his bed.

“You have no reason to be.”

“I invite you, thinking you’re going to watch me win, and instead I lose.” His voice cracks. He stares at his plate. Then, as suddenly as the rain started, his face collapses like a baby’s when he figures out a stranger is holding him, and he begins weeping, his shoulders shaking, his body too small to contain what’s overfilling his heart. He tries to catch himself, but it all slips out.

I’m stunned for a second, but I recover. “Hey. Oh. Hey, hey.” I go to him, take the plate from his hands, and set it on the desk. Both hands now free, he presses his palms to his eyes. I sit beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. He has nice shoulders. I pull him toward me, until he rests his head between my cheek and my shoulder. His hair smells coconutty, like shampoo that comes in a huge bottle your mom buys on sale. He keeps trying to collect himself, but more spills, like when you attempt to pick up a bunch of stuff you’ve dropped, but every time you get a grip on one thing, something else falls.

“Hey,” I murmur. I’m definitely in uncharted waters here. I don’t know what to say. “It’s okay. It’s cool,” I say over and over. It’s legit like that scene in Good Will Hunting where Will starts flipping out and Robin Williams’s character is like, “It’s not your fault.” I stroke his hair. He has nice hair. Maybe I don’t need to say anything to fix this. Maybe I can’t. Still, I try saying It’s not your fault once. Nope.

I stretch out and gently kick the door shut with my toe. My read of the Vargas family dynamics is that it would be best if Lawson’s brothers didn’t see him crying. I hold him until his sobs subside.

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and draws a stuttering breath. “If I weren’t already embarrassed enough.”

“Dude. No. I get it.”

“Men don’t cry.”

“Sure they do.”

“I’ve never lost before.”

“I’m not surprised. You fight like someone who seldom loses.”

“I dreamed of going undefeated for my whole career. Now that’s never going to happen. I can never get that back.” He starts to fold back into himself.

“Honestly, I don’t think I’d even wanna root for a fighter who had never lost.”

“Why?”

“It’s like, Ohhhhhh, look at me, I’m little Mr. Perfect. I never lose. I’m really boring because all I do is drink fancy milkshakes made out of horses and punch trees. Ohhhhhh, I’m so cool.”

A pale glimmer of a smile flickers across Lawson’s face. An ember of light returns to his eyes. “I should’ve punched more trees and drunk more horse shakes.”

“How many horse shakes were you knocking back a week?”

“One or two.”

“Oh.”

“On a good week.”

“Yeah, that’s not enough.”

“Now you tell me.”

“What was your tree-punching regimen like?”

“Terrible.”

“Talk numbers.”

“Maybe an hour a day.”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Obviously.” He’s unambiguously smiling now.

“You need motivation.”

“I do.”

“I’m going to give you some motivational sayings to remember.”

“Let’s do this.”

“Ready?”

“I think so.”

“Because these are going to be very motivational.”

“I think I’m ready.”

“Should I put something in front of the window so you don’t accidentally jump out in excitement?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. Okay, hit me.” He pounds his chest a few times with a bruised fist.

“Ready? Pain…”

“I’m listening.”

“Is the feeling…of winning…entering your body.”