Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(51)

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Right? I know. Next. Those who don’t work hard…for a long time…will have…a hard time…for a long…time.”

“That’s deep.”

“Yeah. I’m literally just inventing these right now.”

“I would never know that.”

“One more?”

“Oh yeah.”

“How are your motivation levels?”

“On the charts, but barely. Almost off.”

“Get ready, then, because this next one will send them flying off.”

“I’m ready.”

“Weakness…is the strength…of the weak man who loves to lose…but strength…is the strength of the strong man who hates to lose….”

“Wow. Wow.”

I hold up a finger. “Not finished. And winning…is the strength of the winning man who loves to win…”

“Amazing.”

I hold up a finger. “Still not done…And loves to crush the weak man and the strong man in his mighty fists. For though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

Lawson slowly stands, grimly assumes a fighting stance, and does a high kick. He manages to play it straight for a couple of seconds before cracking up.

“Your pancakes are getting cold.” I retrieve his plate off the desk and hand it to him.

“I cannot believe you made me pancakes.”

“I truly struggled with affirming your gooniness.”

He takes a bite. His eyes roll back. “Mmmmmmmmm.”

“Oh, please.”

“Do you have any idea what’s involved in cutting weight for a fight?”

“Eating lots of celery?”

“I wish I got to eat lots of anything. Celery is a decadent treat when you’re cutting weight. No lie, these pancakes taste like heaven. And I just ate dinner too.”

“Let me try one bite.”

He holds out a piece on the end of his fork, and I gently grab it off with my teeth. It’s not terrible. Good job, plastic-squeeze-bottle batter. I watch, pleased with myself, as Lawson digs in.

He pauses between bites. “I did everything right.” His voice is abruptly forlorn again. “I suffered to make weight. I trained hard. I was mentally ready, you know? I could see myself winning. I couldn’t see anything but winning.”

I grab for the rope with which he’s lowering himself down the well. “At least you didn’t lose in a blatantly cartoonish way, right?”

He looks at me.

I continue. “I mean, what if you’d gotten hit and you flew into the air and did two backflips and then landed in such a way that your nose went right up your butt.”

“I don’t think that can happen. I’ve never once seen that happen.”

“Oh, I have. Last week, in fact.”

He peeks out over the edge of the well. “Oh, really?”

“Last week I was at another MMA fight and that exact thing happened.”

“Wow. It seems like I would’ve heard about that.”

“Especially because the dude it happened to had to go to the hospital for butt-inhalation poisoning.”

“Man. I heard you can die from that.”

“Oh, he did die. He was like—” I flop back on Lawson’s bed with my eyes crossed and my tongue lolling out.

He laughs, and I lie there, fake-dead. And while I do, I realize something: I never feel pressure to be someone I’m not when I’m around him. I never feel like I need to hide any part of who I am. Being around him feels like waking up on a Saturday morning when the whole day ahead of you is free and you’ve slept the perfect amount, and your bed is the most ideal temperature, it’s like you’re part of an experiment in human comfort. It’s so easy. So effortless.

Then, as if reading my mind: “I like you,” he says softly after his laughter subsides. “I like being around you.”

“I like you,” I say softly. “I like being around you.” And it’s true.

We gaze at each other for a second. “You have a piece of pancake on your mouth.” I reach up and rub a crumb from his mouth with my thumb. He has nice lips.

“You have a piece of pancake on your mouth,” he says, and gently rubs his thumb across my top lip, letting it linger there. His touch makes a warmth bloom below my stomach, as if molten, raspberry-scented chocolate has replaced my bone marrow.

All right, then. You might’ve given my brain some advance warning, body. But it’s fine.

“Wait, you have some pancake on your face,” I murmur. I lean forward and stroke his bruised cheek with my hand and his lips with my thumb. His lip feels slightly swollen. Somehow my hand knew he would be fun to touch before my brain did, but my brain has finally caught up.

“I do? That’s embarrassing,” Lawson murmurs. “On my face?”

Our eyes lock.

“All over it. I kept wanting to say something.” I continue stroking his cheek.

He scoots a little closer. I reciprocate.

“Wow. Get it all.”

“Oh, I will.” Now I’m sitting so close to him, I can feel the warmth from his body. I’m having a lot of fun touching him.