Blonde Chicks Preferred: June 18, 2013

Liam Nordstrom:  June 18, 2013

The pain in my thigh pulses up my leg and collects in my pelvis, concentrating, before penetrating my spine all the way to the base of my skull. I’ve waited ten minutes since I pushed the little blue button and I have five more minutes before I can push it again. Five minutes shouldn’t be as long as it is, but it’s endless. All I can think about is the pain and how it spreads to every cell of my body. My mind bounces, unable to concentrate. I know that once I push the button, an unquenchable itch will spread across my skin and I will likely vomit again. It doesn't matter though, as long as the pain is doused to a more manageable level.

Kelsey brought my tablet to the hospital this morning, hoping electronics would distract me from the agony. It hasn’t. I glance at the clock. Three minutes. This button system is supposed to help wean me off the medicine. It’s not working. I was more comfortable yesterday before they gave me control of the dosage. I don’t have control. What a joke. The doctors want me to stretch out my dose time to thirty minutes by the end of the day. That’s not going to happen.

One minute. I watch each second tic—every muscle in my body tense. I was told I need to relax. It will help with the pain, the nurse said. I can’t. Ten seconds. My thumb hovers over the button like I’m in a game show waiting for the question to be read. Would it hurt less if they just amputated my leg? Two. One. I push it. No whirring sound? I push it again. Silence. Is my button broken? My heart is beating out of my chest. I’m going to kill that nurse if she changed my time already. Nurses act so sweet, but they’re really SADISTIC. My thumb frantically pounds for relief as I search the bedrails for the call button. Then I hear it—the beautiful mechanical release. Three, two, one. The warmth spreads up my arm and then down my leg. I exhale knowing that I will have a few minutes before the pain owns me again.

I wonder if the guy that hit me has ever felt this much pain. I’d like to introduce him to it. How could he not see me? My motorcycle is red—the most visible color on the road. He batted me like a flipper in an old pinball game. An eighty mile an hour flipper. I landed two lanes over, pinned under my bike. I guess I’m lucky. Lucky I wear a helmet (not really luck, just brains, and the law). My luck was that the woman in the lane where I landed was paying attention and her brakes worked. Otherwise, her tires would have crushed my spine.

Oh crap. The termites are back—inside my cast, on my bare back, on the soles of my feet. I try to convince myself that scratching doesn’t help. I can’t reach where it itches anyway. I scratch my chest and arms instead—with no relief.

I think someone from the studio stopped by yesterday. I don’t remember who or what was said. Kelsey said someone posted a security guard outside my door. It had to be the studio. I guess I must still have a job. Maybe they’ll write the accident into the script. I doubt it though, with only one week before mid-season break.

My parents were here this morning and the guard asked them for their IDs. I should take them off the visitor’s list. My mom acted like the accident was my fault because I was riding a bike. She’s always hated my motorcycle. I don’t really want to see anyone. I look and feel like crap. I’m lying on my back with a damn weight tethered to my bones with a screw that jabs right through my flesh. The bruises that cover my body look like they’re starting to fade just a little—the edges around the purple turning green. Will is supposed to stop by this afternoon. At least I know he won't post pictures. Maybe he can distract me from the pain.

Oh hell! There it is again. The ache transforms into stabbing daggers. According to my phone, I’ve lasted thirty seconds longer than the last time. I clinch the blue button with my thumb suspended above it and wait.
Copyright 2014 Susan Schussler

Perfect All: June 12, 2013

Alli: June 12, 2013

The text that Jessica sent me this morning seemed too much of a coincidence to not be a fishing exposition. Good night? She asked with all kinds of hidden connotations. OK. So I knew Thor told Jeff about last night and Jeff must have told Jessica. I wasn’t used to my friends having full access to my private life. It’s not that I keep much from them, but it’s different if I’m in control of the spin. I don’t like feeling that I’ve lost my filter. I didn't know what to text back, especially if there was a chance Thor could see it.

He was so sweet last night—his lips soft and gentle. I’ve never had a guy treat me like he worshiped me before. It was as if all he wanted was to know every part of me. He asked me several times what I liked, but not having much experience I really didn’t know how to answer. “You have to tell me. I’ve only been with one other girl,” he said. I didn’t have the ability to process his words. All I knew was he seemed to know without my answer and I didn’t want that to change. He was perfect.

Later when my brain was working again I wondered out loud how he made it through high school with his v-card. I knew that he met Nora in college. “I mean, you’re so hot.” My fingers skimmed his hard abdomen. “How come girls weren’t jumping you in the hallway at school?” We were lying on the bed, my head tucked in the crook of his very masculine arm.

He laughed and without hesitation admitted, “I was a geek in high school, not to the Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory extreme, but still not the guy most girls would consider jumping in the hallway.”

“I’ve always had a thing for geeks. I bet I would have dated you.”

“Trust me you wouldn’t have.”

“I bet if you had just asked, girls would have gone out with you.”

“Zero confidence—that was me. I never asked a girl out until you. A late bloomer I guess.” We lay in silence for a few seconds until he added, “The summer before college I grew five inches and it gave me the boost to reinvent myself. My brothers were always willing to give me advice about women and I started listening to them. I got a decent haircut and began lifting weights. Nora asked me out the first week of freshman year.” I ran my fingers through his flawless hair unable to imagine it styled any differently, wishing Nora wasn’t in bed with us.

“My roommate, Megan, calls me a geek all the time, because all I ever do is study, work and try to please my parents.”

“From what you told me, I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t please them.”

His thumb brushed over my bottom lip and a shutter pulsed through my body. I smiled. The thought of my parents finding out seemed funny to me. Even though, in reality, it would be horrific.

“I wonder what they would do if they saw me right now.”

“Should we call them?” he asked, teasing. “We could FaceTime. You should probably comb your hair first, though.” He laughed as he pretended to reach for my cell on the nightstand.

I tackled his arm before he could reach it and he pulled me on top of him. That was enough to distract us from talking for a while.

When we finally emerged from our room it was almost noon. We were walking down to the beach and he surprised me by asking, “Why don’t you change your major to fashion? I mean look at you. Your necklace coordinates with your sandals and the ties on your cover-up. How many pre-med students have that kind of fashion sense?”

“Are you sure you’re not gay?” I knew he wasn’t, but how many guys would notice those details.

The hand that was curled around my waist slid to my behind. “Yeah. I’m sure.” A brilliant smile spread across his face and I wondered what part of last night or this morning was eliciting his expression. He shook his head as if he was clearing it, before asking, “Give me one good reason you couldn’t be a fashion designer?”

“I like to eat. And I have no desire to be the manager of the junior’s department at Macy’s. Besides, my parents would disown me.” The truth was I had thought about a career in fashion when I was younger, but as I grew up I realized that it wasn’t a viable option.

“It’s just a thought. It wouldn’t have to be fashion. You’re an adult. You don’t have to do what your parents tell you. I don’t think your heart is in medicine.”

I rolled my eyes. I only have one year left on my undergrad degree. I would have to be crazy to change my major now. “It would be easier just to finish med school. You don’t know my parents.”

I told him what my mom’s reaction would be—how she would insist that I was having an anxiety episode. She would hook me up with some Ativan to calm me down and we’d talk for hours and hours until she convinced me that I was letting my fear of failure cloud my thinking. Her fears always seemed to transfer to me.

“Classic transference—my mother would call it if she could see herself objectively,” I said. How many times had my mother and I talked about “my” fear of failure.

Thor and I discussed the worst parts of our families the rest of the afternoon until Jessica sent me a second text. I’m waiting. I hadn’t answered her first one. It was a bit weird knowing that anything that I told her could get back to Thor.

I showed Thor my phone and he cringed with a guilty expression. He probably didn’t realize how quickly it would get back to me. I typed my reply and then showed him again before pushing send. So good that I’m still trying to catch my breath.

He leaned in and kissed the pulse point on my shoulder with a growl reverberating in his throat. “Let’s head back to the room.”

Copyright 2014 Susan Schussler