Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (16 page)

“I have a suspicion that you’d like me to try and figure out the ‘you can’t’ scenario? I feel like you’re trying to tell me something, because we both know that the ‘you won’t’ would have been the easier choice if you really wanted to get rid of me.” This guy is clever after all. He’s right, though. I should have said won’t, but obviously subconsciously I do want him to figure me out and come in.  Damn. He’s good.

“Alright. You may come in on one condition. This is a judgment-free zone. If at any time I feel like you are judging me, I will ask you to leave.  No questions asked.”  I stick out my hand so we can shake again. “Deal?” 

He quickly responds with a firm shake and the added affirmation of a head bob before adding, “Deal.”

The look on Master’s face as we both come through the door is comical. I promise you, his eyes have grown to the size of half dollars and his mouth is hanging wide open in shock.  It’s a total people face. I stare him down with eyes that say, “Be quiet” and continue to the kitchen to make my guest (A GUEST, PEOPLE!) a drink.

“Would you like coffee, tea (or me) or an adult beverage?” Trick question. Coffee = right choice. It means he’s a real man, like’s caffeine, wants to talk, not get in my pants, and is generally a smart person. Tea = wrong choice.  He’s not into girls and is not serious about caffeine. Adult beverage = not wrong, not right, more like neutral leaning towards wrong. He wants to get to know me and have a good time (right) but may also be trying to get into aforementioned pant (Not happening. Pants firmly zipped up and locked in place.). Ladies and gentlemen, let’s see what our guest says.

“Coffee sounds great. You don’t happen to have any chocolate syrup? My mom always made it like that and its crazy good.” Ok. Panties on fire! Answer = right heading in the direction of perfect. Did I mention the panty fire? 

“That’s crazy. That’s how I drink my coffee.” As I look over my shoulder I catch him running his finger across Ashton’s etching on the kitchen table.

“Hotpants? You into writing about yourself on your furniture?”

“Haha. It’s a nickname my best friend gave me. Don’t ask,” I say carrying over his very full, extremely chocolaty coffee while trying not to spill any on my recently cleaned floors.

“I’m guessing this best friend is a guy? Or maybe she’s a girl that is heavy into butt compliments? And, if that’s the case there’s no judgment from my end because that’s hot.” He gives his eyebrows two solid pumps up and I laugh out loud.

“Sorry to derail your fantasies but,
he’s
a guy.” 

For just a moment I see a look of disappointment come across his tanned face but he quickly rebounds with a soft smile that is without a doubt swoon worthy (thank goodness we’re sitting. I’ve proven to be a real swooner lately). 

“Anyway,” I continue blowing over my coffee, “He’s like a girl. I mean he’s like a sister. Er, what I mean is family. He’s family. We’ve been best friends since we were old enough to walk over to each other’s houses. I guess you’d call it an asexual relationship.” That is if you don’t count the sex we almost had, then I suppose it’d be considered pretty damn sexual. This is not a lie, it’s misdirection. There is a huge difference.

“Well, he’s lucky to get to be so close to a girl like you.  I imagine that makes dating pretty difficult for you though, you know, with a guy always hanging around?” he asks seriously. Oh, he has no idea.

“Among other things, yeah it does. Or rather it has, in the past. He’s like a big brother, even though I’m a month older. He’s always been protective and since he and my brother are the only family I have they take the job pretty seriously.” Except for right now, right now he’s totally ditched me as his responsibility in lieu of a hot rocker chick.  Job fail. But, really, who could blame him? She can go places and I suppose that’s an attractive quality in a person that you want to “date”. Now that I think about it, I better let this guy off the hook now because I’m only one foot out the door, technically two, but that was not by choice, and I need to be sure he realizes that as cute as he is, love is not in the cards with me.

“Where’s the rest of your family? I mean if you don’t mind me asking?” What? I was so lost in thought I don’t know how we got here. “I’m sorry. Maybe that was too personal,” he says before taking a huge swig of his chocolate coffee. 

“No, no that’s fine. Just remember the rule. No judging,” he gives a nod and I continue, “I’m going to go fast here so try and keep up, because I’m only saying this once,” another nod. “Ok, my dad died of cancer a couple of years ago and my mom just got out of prison. I have one aunt who lives on the other side of the country and no living grandparents to speak of. I’ve never met my mom and I don’t know if I care to. I have the one brother, Connor and he lives a couple miles away with his girlfriend who I may be going into business with and other than Ashton, the best friend, that’s it. Those are my people and that’s my story.” Talk about tearing the bandage off, I’ve given Chris here some stuff to mull over. He’s sure to pick up on my baggage and flee shortly. I’ll give him a moment to process. And there it is: the look of pity that kills relationships. FYI, pity is not sexy.

“Wow. You’ve had a lot thrown your way, huh?”  Interesting, I see no pity, only curiosity.

“Putting it mildly. But, yeah.”  

“Well. It’s only fair I give you something about me in return so I’ll go fast as well so try and keep up,” he winks.  I do the swoon. “I’m not repeating this.” I nod. “My mom died of cancer ten years ago. Two years later my dad started a new family with a much younger woman. I have one full sibling, a younger sister, and four, much younger half siblings, whom I love. I also have no living grandparents, but I do have three fantastic uncles. And, that’s
my
story and those are
my
people. We’re not too uneven in the family department. We’re one dad, a sister, a couple half siblings and a few uncles apart, not too bad if you ask me.” Cancer, that bitch!

“Sorry about your mom. What kind was it?” We both know I mean The Cancer. 

“Breast. Yours?” I hate telling people this. I feel like my dad would be embarrassed because of the whole not having your typical breasts thing.

“Same.” That word’s easier to use.

“That’s quite a coincidence. Does that scare you? You know, that you’ll have a higher risk for it as well?” The look I shoot him screams do you need to ask? You know this look. We all have a form of it. Mine is simple; chin down, brows raised high, and a smartass smirk that pulls my mouth to the far side of my face. In my family this is also known as the “duh” face or the “no shit, Sherlock” expression. You pick, they’re all the same.

“To put it mildly, yes. Hell yes I’m scared I’m going to get it. I mean, I’m a girl and my dad got it. Apparently that shoots my chances up through the roof, so there’s that to look forward too. And being the person who took care of him, I know firsthand how brutal it can be, which only makes it that much worse to imagine. So yeah, I’m scared.”  Now I’m nervous and I want to play my Blackbird counting message and I can’t because of the stranger in my house. He will not understand when I have my panic attack in a moment so now I find myself to be in quite the pickle. What to do?

“Is that why you don’t go outside?” Holy hell he went there. Just… BAM! You got problems!   

“Maybe?” Oh good god, I’m about to cry. I need him to leave. This is not my thing, the crying onto a strangers shoulder thing. That’s something other girls do, not me.  I’m more of your average, run of the mill, everyday, lock yourself in the house type. This whole sharing your feelings thing with a boy/person who’s not Ashton, I don’t know how to do that! 

“How about we dance?” What in the name of?

“You want to dance? With me? Now? Here?” Wow, I sound incredibly well spoken and intelligent. Good use of whole sentences.

“I do. Want to dance. With you. Now. Here.” Okay he’s just as bad with the sentence enhancers, but I can’t help but smile because he so beautifully diverted my tears.  He’s good. I can sense that I’m going to need to watch my panties to make sure they stay in their upright and locked position during times of turbulence. Or just in general because clear skies have nothing on this guy’s smooth moves.

“I should warn you. I’m an okay dancer.” Seriously, I’m not good and I’m not bad, okay is the perfect word.

“Well that suits me fine, because my awesome will be enough for both of us.” My “awesome” dance partner sets down his empty coffee cup, takes my trembling hands into his own steady ones and lifts me to my feet. “Where can I plug in my music?” He spots my speakers and is plugging in his phone before I even have the chance to answer. “I hope you like the classics.” 

This has to be some kind of karma induced joke.  Coming from his cell is Ash and I’s song, the song that has forever attached me to him and he’s not even here to hold me. Instead, I’m sharing this intimate moment with some gorgeous could-be serial killer. The universe  just hollered an audible at me and I’m listening. I need to find Ashton, like now. But first, I’ve got to get rid of Mr. Sexy Bottom here and I have no idea how to suddenly throw him out when he’s done nothing but be kind to me since the moment I first laid eyes on him. But, by the confused look on Chris’s face I must be giving off some serious crazy eyes. Maybe this will be easier than I imagine. Poor guy, he really has no idea who he’d dealing with here, but he’s about to.

“You’ve got to go. I’m so sorry, but the universe just told me through your phone that you have to go.”  Schizophrenia was not a diagnosis I would have ever considered before now but when you’re receiving messages from inanimate objects that’s something you really must consider.

“My phone told
you
to tell
me
to go? Wait, can you explain this to me better?” I’ve already unplugged his music maker and am heading swiftly toward the front door with it. “Listen, CeeCee, I don’t know what is happening here but I’d really like to get to know you better. Can I at least call you or come by again?”

“Why in the world would you want to do that? I’m concerned for your mental health if you see me as a viable option as a friend/more than friend type. I’ve just told you that your phone told me you needed to leave and you’re trying to set up a next time? Sorry, though I would love to look at you more, I’m broken and clearly you’re not. I know this by the simple fact that you were outside today before you met me. I’m thrilled that you’ve dealt with your life so well. And I’m sincere when I say I bet your mom would be proud of you, but I’m not you. No one’s proud of me, including me, and I’m not ready to expose more of that to anyone else, including you, stranger and dog rescuer extraordinaire, but thank you, really.” I open the door and he walks by me, trying to get me to look up at him, but my eyes are firmly planted on the ground hiding the embarrassment and shame that lives so deeply within them.

“Listen,” he stops in the threshold of the door, turns my body to his and lifts my chin with only the gentle touch of his finger, forcing me to deal with him head on, eyes on.

“I just wanted to talk. I know I look like I have it all together and some days I do pretty great, but I know pain.  It’s a good friend of mine and I know what it feels like to lose the people that we love most. If I can be a friend to you, that’d be enough. Can you just give me your number and stop being so weird? Just like you feel like my phone gave you a message I feel like meeting you this way is a message for me. Shut up and type.” 

He’s bossy, a clear leader, and that’s why I do it. I take the phone he’s handing me and add my contact info under the title of “Weird CeeCee.” He’ll have to look for it, but I have faith that he’ll find it. He’s decidedly persistent and, honestly, the fact that he was honest enough to call me out on my stuff, like he sees me, softens me towards him and kind of wins me over. 

We’re so going to be friends.

thirteen

When I shut the door on who I’m hoping will be my replacement Ashton, I feel slightly overwhelmed and maybe even happy that there is someone else in the world, a new person, walking around with my phone number stored in their cell. This is the first time in years that I’ve forged a friendship on my own outside of my computer and I want nothing more than to share this news with Ashton. I make the big girl decision to suck up my pride and call him. Besides, I’d still like his advice on the whole ‘my mom is back from prison’ situation. 

As soon as I grab the phone off its charger in the kitchen the screen comes to life. There’s a little red circle with the number one in it reminding me that before my wild excursion into the outdoors earlier I received a text. I slide it open and read the message. This is what it says:

Hey.  We are back in town.

if you don’t call me tonight

I’ll take that as a yes to bring

mom over tomorrow. See you

soon.     X   Big C

                          
 
Oh hell to the NO, “Big C”.

***

Do NOT bring her here!

you are NOT the boss of

me. Hi Liddy. Got some

great designs to show you.

super excited!

Xx  C     ps. No x’s for “mom”     
 
(FYI, the ten word texting rule is only enforced with Ashton)

That’ll show him. My phone beeps back immediately and it’s not from Mr. Big C himself (aka, Big Chump) but instead it’s Ashton. YAY! I love Ashton. I do? What? I have no time to debate myself here because this message needs to be opened ASAP. I’m facing serious Ash withdrawals.

My finger slides over his name and up pops his message. To my horror the majority of the text is a picture, the added words at the bottom meaning nothing (that’s not true; they’ll soon infuriate me as well). What I’m seeing on my tiny little screen sends a message all its own, no words necessary. Right here, before my very eyes is Ashton making a kissy face at the camera (Did I mention he’s a fantastic kisser. I’ve decided it makes him a little less douchy.). From the lighting outside I deduce with my expert meteorological skills that it’s early morning and… I’m pissed (jealous). He’s holding the phone out in true Selfie-style but in one extremely massive miscalculation on his part there is the added bonus of one very hot, very cool rocker chic attached to his cheek (did I mention they were outdoors). Underneath their couple’s photo it reads:

Can’t wait for you two to

meet. Two fav girls.

Ash

Mary, Peter and Joseph he did NOT just say “two fav girls”! I know this for a fact because if he did, I’ll… I’ll… what? You’ll do what Cee? Move away? Oh, Ha! Ha! No, that’s
his
big move. I’ll do something more creative, like maybe I won’t go outside to hang out with my very best friend in the whole wide world (need to be more creative). Okay, I won’t go to any of his shows to watch him play his music, even though I know it makes him nervous and he wants me there! (Ew… ew… I’m a horrible person, plahk!)  Better still, how about I pretend to be his very best friend (check) and then when he’s trying to help me I’ll tell him that I’d rather just use his body for some release (check, check)! Please someone, anyone, tell me I did NOT do those things. I’m one of those insensitive, best-friend-destroying skanks of the world. What are the chances that I’m on The Bachelor and I don’t know it?

My mind is hung-over from the fantastical voyage it’s been on today. To recap the events/tragedies in order: the hangover, aka, barfa-palooza (I hate barfing on a normal day but it’s a particularly bad experience without Ashton and his handy back rubs), my brother shocking me with our long-lost mother’s imminent return was pretty awesome (are you laughing? cause I am), the heroing experience of standing on the front porch with not one but two whole feet, and then the subsequent meeting of an awesome-dancing/very hot-butted stranger, followed incidentally by a horrifying text from my best friend/wanna-be de-virginizer and his brand new “fav” gal. This would be a lot to take in for any run of the mill Joe Blow but for me, the agoraphobic, apparently schizophrenic, virgin, it’s a mutiny of mayhem on my already extremely fragile psyche. 

Answering this text will require at least eighty angry words in order for me to be able to spew out all of the crazy I am feeling. But, since I’m not stupid and I have manners, I understand that the polite response is either a simple smiley Emoji or the five simple-yet-impossible-to-write words “can’t wait to meet her,” but that smiley and those words would both be gigantic lies and honestly, I am completely incapable of any more bullshit today. Instead I come to the very wise decision to call this day a wash and go to bed. Hopefully once there I’ll be safe from encountering any more issues I’m helpless to handle by myself and then I can finally get some of my writing done.  Seriously, for someone who has maybe two friends in the world and has been barricaded indoors for several consecutive years, I sure do encounter a lot of crap.

Thirty minutes into writing my outline, all cozy in my bed, I feel as if I’m actually being therapied. Wait? Um… bad word choice. What I mean to say is while writing this outline I’m learning so much that it feels like I’m actually being rehabbed? No. Brain mended? What’s the damn word? GOT IT! Cured (let a girl dream).

My thoughts of healing are rudely interrupted moments later by the sound of one of Master’s loud huffs coming from the back door. Throwing on my now legendary pink robe I make the bold decision to let Master “go” out front.  The worst already happened today and I survived that and interestingly enough I was just reading about a therapy technique called cognitive rehearsal and it happens to be exactly what I did today already and I didn’t even know it.

What you do in a cognitive rehearsal therapy session is listen and follow along as your counselor walks you through a typical situation that makes you feel uncomfortable, fearful, anxious, whatever. Then, together you work out a plan that can help bring you peace should that situation actually arise. Today was a sort of trial run for the front porch and since I survived and made a friend I’m going to count that session as a success and try again to work out the ol’ panic muscles if you will. Now seems as good a time as any to try to stand on the front porch with both feet while simultaneously not dying. 

“It’s your lucky day, big guy. Momma’s decided to put on her very pretty and lacey, big girl panties and take you out front.” His eyes lock with mine in a show of solidarity where her e.s.p.’s me into hearing his extremely enthusiastic and supportive encouragement. He’s all (think Scooby Doo or
The Jetsons’
dog, Astro’s, voice here) “wrate a ro” and “ro for ru”, all your typical doggy pats on the back. 

My plan seems solid and possible until I’m actually at the front door and I freeze. The signs of a pretty intense anxiety attack begin to show themselves one at a time in an attempt to stir up a panic party we can all enjoy. But, since I’m here to employ my new technique I must first remember that I survived this door once already today and that I
can
do it again. I refuse to become  a one-hit wonder. 

Starting with a little positive reinforcement I go all Nike on my ass and encourage myself to “Just Do It”. “BOOM,” I shout, turning the knob and throwing the door open with reckless abandon, striking the wall and making the fresh hole I put there earlier even bigger (Seriously?). Not only have I broke my house with my insanely loud and enthusiastic shout out, I may have also just broken my dog. As soon as that door hit the wall Master leapt (it was adorable) behind
my
back and is now pressed tightly against
my
thighs trembling. If this is going to happen I must not project my fears onto poor Master. I’ll show him that I’m okay and just tone down my positive reinforcing a bit by using a more appropriate level of enforcement instead. 

“Boom,” I repeat, this time in a more subtle, adult voice.  That helps, master peeps his head around my knees to get the all clear and looks up at me in shock when he sees what I have done. I wink down at him and say, “You’re not seeing things Master. That door is open.” He’s in shock, his tongues hanging out of his mouth and everything. Then, to show him I mean business I begin the one-step, two-step, out-step, in-step volley it takes to get me onto the actual porch. It’s like someone lit hot coals under my feet the way I’m jumping in and out, trying to solidify my choice. I accidently scare us both again when I shout out, “Be a MAN (Totally meant WO-man!)!”

Master, finally sick of my antics, pushes past my dancing feet and breezily walks outdoors on all fours where he proceeds to flaunt his easy gate. He appears to be laughing at the two-footed dance-off dilemma I’m engaged in between my porch and small foyer but one can never be too sure of what really amuses one’s dog. While I watch him walk away with such assuredness to his step the solution to my problem pops to the forefront of my mind! There was a section on modeling behaviors in the cognitive behavioral research I was doing. You’d be absolutely correct in presuming that normally you’d follow/model the actions of your therapist using this method but since Master’s all I’ve got on hand I suppose modeling him will just have to do.

This is where things start to get weird (I know, who am I kidding? My whole life is weird). Anyway, mind made up, I drop down on all fours and go for the same easy go lucky attitude that Master walks through life with and guess what? I’m OUTSIDE! Yes, I am on all fours but who cares, I won the battle! For someone in my position (the all fours position) a positive outcome consists of only one thing: me on the outside. So mark this little experiment down in the column as a WIN and call me Charlie because gosh darn it, I’m a winner! Wait. What? Call me Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie? And why is he a winner? I don’t know and I don’t care because… I’m outside!

The railing in front of me is the barrier responsible for separating this side, the porch, from everything else, also known as, the way outside. (Point of reference. From my perspective I’m just on the regular to basic outside. The way outside is an entire other therapy session.). It’s the difference between the back and the way-back for all you ‘80s kids.

Anywho, given that I’m still on all fours, I have a great view through these handy slats to watch Master and all of his antics out there in the way outside. He’s pee’d no less than five times in as many minutes and shows no signs of letting up any time soon. It’s his own sort of “rain” of terror on the yard (see what I did there?). Surely he assumes this is his last chance of way-outside peeing because he’s taking serious advantage of every last square inch of unsoiled grassy yard. I myself am just enjoying the pre-pee smell of the fresh air. I’m sad to say that after his fifth pee though the air quality is starting to take a turn towards the ammonia side of fresh and outside has officially begun to lose its luster. 

After he finishes his rounds, he makes his way back to the porch and finds me exactly where he left me.

“I did it buddy! Look at me, I’m outside!”

He pushes his muzzle up under my chin in an attempt at hugging me and I take full advantage and latch on, soaking in all of the furry comfort he has to offer up. I’m on my knees now and halfway to standing so I decide that this is the moment to take advantage of my humanness and do just that. 

“Ha! I’m up!” Says the formerly incapacitated, currently outdoorsy, agoraphobe! “You did real good, Chief. Real good! Way to let the yard have it!  Man, I had no idea you could go so many times in a row. Seriously, I’m impressed.” 

As I’m talking, he rubs his head into my outstretched hand and dutifully follows me back inside, into the wilds of the great indoors, thus ending tonight’s mission of me becoming an outdoorswoman (This new “fav” gal-pal of Ash’s better watch her back. Soon, she’ll have nothing on me except maybe that whole guitar playing, rock-chick thing she has going on. God, she really is so cool!). Now that I’ve been “out” it strikes me just how stifling it can be on the inside. I’ll have to add that positive thought down in  my therapy log. Matter of fact, I’ll go write that in my journal under the heading, Things that make going outside feel safe: 1. Good air quality. 

“Come on, buddy. You deserve a treat for not running off on mommy and I want some chocolate. We earned it. I grab my favorite ice cream coffee cup (everyone has one of these, right?) and fill it to the lip with some leftover chocolate-chocolate chunk that I have and a healthy dose of chocolate syrup for flavor. After I’ve drowned the ice cream with its syrupy counterpart, I open the locked up stash of doggy treats for Master. We stand before it, deliberating on which treat to choose for this very special occasion. He looks up at me and gives me the ‘I want the good stuff’ look. You’d know this look as the deliberate head tilt, ears perked up, eyes open wide beggy-face so many dogs do. Okay, okay… liverwurst it is. 

As I’m setting down the sliced meat and his other favorite, a bowl of ice cubes, he knocks over a chair in his excitement to get to his favorite spot under the table. As I bend to pick it up I see the marks where my baby teethed as a puppy and I’m immediately transferred back in time to the day that I got him…

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes so be dressed… or not.”  Morning douche alert.