What's Left of Me

My Kindle is on my chest, so I pick it up and look at the time displayed on the screen, 8:41pm. Awesome. Only a two-hour nap.

My nausea is better, but I still feel exhausted. One would think with how tired my body is that I’d be able to sleep for longer than a couple of hours. Maybe a month? That’s what I feel like I need. A month-long nap.

“She’s already in bed? This early on a Friday night?” Shit. What is he doing at our house right now?

Genna says something about me being tired, and then there are other voices I don’t recognize. So much for playing poker in the garage.

If I don’t make a sound or indicate that I’m awake then no one will bother me. One thing I learned about my new room is that it’s most definitely not soundproof. I can hear everything outside the door and anyone can hear in. It’s like I’m a five year old being held captive in a playroom. Except this is far from a playroom.

“Dre, you awake?” Genna asks through the door.

You’ve got to be kidding me! Don’t move; don’t move. Sometimes I think Genna is Superwoman because that woman can hear and sense anything.

I lie quietly until I hear footsteps heading toward the living room. Thank you! However, unfortunately for me, I have to use the restroom and silently get frustrated that I drank all that water today. The more I think about it, the more I have to go.

I panic when I remember throwing my wig earlier and swear at myself for not grabbing it when I came in here. How the hell am I supposed to go to the bathroom?

Annoyed, I let out a loud sigh and sit up, trying to think of a plan. When I move to stand up from the bed, I see my wig sitting on my nightstand. Genna must have brought it in here when she was picking up for company. Letting out a sigh of relief, I pick it up and put it on.

After adjusting my hair, I put back on the shorts and sports bra that I stripped off earlier. Giving myself a quick once-over in the mirror on the dresser, I make sure my wig is on tightly. I slowly creep out of the room and make a quick glance down the hall to make sure no one is looking this way. After making it into the bathroom, I close the door as quietly as I possibly can and don’t bother turning the light on for fear they’ll see it glowing down the hall. I tell myself not to flush so that I won’t give any inkling as to my whereabouts, but the second I open the door after washing my hands, I’m met with a gorgeous chest in my face that I can only assume belongs to a gorgeous man.

“I thought you were sleeping?”

“I was.”

He just quirks an eyebrow at me, and I silently swear at myself for not flushing the toilet. Embarrassed, I turn around, locking myself back in the bathroom away from Parker. His laughter makes its way through the door and I turn red with embarrassment.

I quickly flush the toilet, then make my way out of the bathroom, moving past Parker, and across the hall back into my room. As I push the door closed, Parker pushes it back open and walks in.

“New room?”

“Yeah, easier for me to sneak out,” I say flatly, as I climb back into bed slowly, trying to avoid the rush of blood to my head. I feel as if I could pass out at any second.

“Baby, you don’t need to sneak. If you want to come on over, just ask.” I think I need to have a conversation about these pet names.

“Ha ha,” I say, half sarcastically and half amused.

“So, this is where the magic happens?” Parker asks as he makes his way over to my bed, sitting on the edge, watching me.

“Magic?”

“Where you dream of me?”

I laugh. “The only man I’m dreaming about in this room on this bed is Matt Bomer.”

Gasping, Parker holds his hand across his heart in a state of shock.

“What? Would you rather I dream of someone else?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I would.”

“How about Jason Statham?”

“No.”

“Josh Duhamel?”

Parker shakes his head.

“Paul Walker?”

“Woman, you’re relentless!” He makes his way up the bed so that he’s sitting next to me. He puts an arm around me and pulls me closer.

I’m shocked at his sudden gesture and freeze in his arms. He acts as if this is second nature, settling us in a more comfortable position. I half relax in his arms. This is not what I expected of him after our text conversation—or lack thereof.

“You feeling okay? Jason mentioned something about you not feeling too well, and then Genna said you were already in bed for the night when I got here.”

I shrug. “I must have caught some bug. I’m not sure you’ll want to be too close.” I move my hands to my head running my fingers over my hair. Suddenly I’m self-conscious and wonder if my wig is sitting funny because I didn’t snap the clips into place.

“Sorry, I wish you would have said something to me. I would have brought you chicken noodle soup or 7-Up.”

“Really? Chicken noodle soup?”

“Yeah, isn’t that what you’re supposed to have when you’re sick?”

I look over at him. His eyes show nothing but concern.

Shaking my head, I ask, “Where did you come from?” Men aren’t supposed to be this sweet and caring, are they?

This causes him to let out his deep belly laugh that I love so much.

“Umm, what are you doing here?”

“What? Want me to leave?”

“No!” I say quickly. Shit, I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch. “I just mean, why did you come over?”

“I didn’t have anything going on. Jason called me a couple hours ago asking if I wanted to come over and play poker. I asked if you would be here, he said yes, but it wasn’t until I got here that he said you weren’t feeling well, which explains all the short messages from you. I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to see you.”

I blush, which, of course, Parker has to reach out and touch.

“I love this color on you. Red. You wear it beautifully.”

I tuck my head back down, trying to hide it. “Thank you.” I think.

We sit quietly, listening to each other breathing. It’s actually very peaceful. Listening to him. His heart beating. I close my eyes and enjoy the sounds mixing together. When I feel as if I’m drifting to sleep in Parker’s hold, he clears his throat.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“No. I’m awake.”

“Okay, sorry. I couldn’t tell.”

“It’s okay.”

“When did you have black hair?”

“Huh?” I ask, opening my eyes.

“That picture.” He points to my nightstand.

It’s me with my parents, Genna, Jason, and Jean celebrating my twenty-first birthday. I was pissed that I couldn’t go out and celebrate like someone turning twenty-one typically would, so I wore black hair to show my family just how pissed off I was.

That’s what I had done before I came here. I would wear different wigs to showcase my moods. Whether they were long, short, blonde, red, black, or highlighted, I always made them fit perfectly. I could hide behind them like a mask, and become anyone I wanted to be.

“Oh, um, that was on my twenty-first birthday.”

“Is that your parents with you?”

“Yes. That would be the good ol’ parentals.”

I shift and Parker eases his hold on me a little, letting me get comfortable. I hesitate a few times before I finally rest my head on his shoulder. I’m not sure if this is too much, or more than the normal dating body language, but it feels right. It’s comfortable.

“How come you don’t have more pictures around?”

I shrug. “I didn’t feel the need to bring them all. I brought a scrapbook, though, that my mom made me. Well, she started it and gave it to me as a graduation gift. I’ve slowly added to it over the years.”

“Where is it?”

“What?”

“I want to see it. Where is it?”

“Umm…” I trail off. I’m hesitant because I can’t remember if there are any photos of me in the hospital or without my hair. I don’t know why I was so foolish as to bring it up when I can’t remember what’s even in it. I don’t recall putting any of those types of pictures in there, as my mom made a separate journey album, but I can’t be sure.

“Come on.” He nudges me playfully.

“It’s over there,” I reply, pointing to the bookshelf in the corner.

Parker gets up from the bed.

“Don’t you have some poker to play?”

“Yeah, but I told the guys to play a round or two without me. I wanted to check on you.”

With his back to me, I quickly reach up inside my wig, clipping the few clips into place, letting out a small breath of air as I do.

Parker grabs the scrapbook and makes his way back to the bed, settling into the same position as before.

“Why did you want to check on me?”

“Why not?”

Why not? His words make me soften into him as he pulls me closer, giving me a kiss on the top of my head where his lips linger for a second longer than normal.

I watch as he flips through my pictures. He doesn’t say much aside from little comments here and there about cute I was as a kid, or how my freckles really pop in the pictures of me outside in the sun. I smile along with him at the happy memories.

“What made you go from blonde hair to dark?”

“Excuse me?”

He points to a picture of me in the wig I have on currently. I’m with a group of my friends from high school just after senior prom. They came to my house to hang out, telling me all about the night and showing me pictures. We had a great day, but it was also the last day we were all together.

“I wanted a change.”

“Like the black hair?”

“Like the black hair.”

I watch as he continues through photos, landing on one of Jean and me at graduation. “Who’s this?”

“My best friend, Jean. She was with me the night…” I pause, blushing. “The night I met you.”

He looks down at me and I look up to meet his eyes.

“That was a great night, Aundrea.” His words are soft—gentle.

I don’t say anything. I turn my eyes back to the photo. “That was at graduation. I teased her for wearing that silly cap. She insisted on painting my name on the top of it in bright pink for all to see as if I were walking with her.” We were supposed to walk together. That was our plan since I could remember. We rode to school together, sat together, took most of the same classes, and did the same activities. We were supposed to graduate together and go to college together.

It makes me sad when I think about all that I’ve missed so far in my life. Big things like my senior year, prom, graduation, college life, my twenty-first birthday. I like to think I’m stronger because of the life I’ve been dealt.

“Why didn’t you walk? Don’t tell me you’re secretly seventeen and still in high school.” He laughs.

“No, No!” I elbow him in the ribs playfully, but with just enough force.