DID THE GREAT Dr. Oliver Addison, veterinarian sex god, work a miracle and restore my geriatric bestie to perfect canine health?
Kind of. Mostly.
Though he did warn me that Peanut would be “a little tired” for a week or two.
Sure enough, on the day Peanut came home from the clinic, all he wanted was to curl up under the bed and nap.
But I wanted to hang out. I’d missed him.
I’d missed him so much, apparently, that all I wanted to do was lie on my tummy, half under the bed myself, watching him sleep and reassuring myself he was okay.
Look for good things, Dr. Nicole had said.
Peanut being home is definitely a good thing, I thought as I watched him.
But there was another good thing under that bed—one I’d forgotten about until I pushed it aside to get a better view of Peanut.
A box I’d kept for years, with my mother’s roller skates inside.
I hadn’t seen them in ages, but I decided to pull the box out and open it
up.
My mom loved to roller-skate. The two of us used to skate up and down
our block, listening to Top 40 on her little portable radio, and singing along, and waving to the neighbors. My mom could skate backward, do the moonwalk, spin around on one foot, and do the grapevine. Plus a million other things. She used to pull me with a rope behind her and call it water skiing. It was our favorite thing to do on weekends.
She had her own skates—white leather with pink pom-poms on the toes. And she’d bought me a matching pair when I was little. This was the nineties, and most of the world had shifted to Rollerblades. But not my mom.
After she died, I inherited them.
By inherited, I mean, I took them out of her closet before Lucinda donated everything to Goodwill.
I never wore them. After I lost her, I never roller-skated again. And my kid-sized skates got lost somewhere along the way, like things do.
Wherever I went, though, I kept my mom’s skates close—in that box under my bed. Not to wear. Just to have. Just because holding on to them felt like holding on to a piece of her. Just because, even though I never even looked at them, if I could save one thing in a fire—besides Peanut, of course—I wouldn’t even think about it.
One hundred percent those skates.
I wondered if they would fit me now. What size had my mom’s feet been? It bugged me that I didn’t know.
And I didn’t have anyone to ask. I could almost hear my father saying,
What the hell kind of question is that?
And then, as soon as that thought popped into my head, I was on my way to find out.
Was roller skating on my list of approved postsurgical activities? Hard no.
But to be fair: it wasn’t on my list of forbidden ones, either. More important: Did the skates fit?
They did.
And now I knew something new about her. We were both eight and a halfs.
I grabbed a pair of tube socks—from Sue on my birthday last year—sat on a kitchen chair, and slid my foot into the leather boot of the skate with a satisfying shoonk as my heel landed in place. A perfect fit. It felt like a sign. I leaned forward and tightened the laces and made double knots. And then with a stubborn optimism that I still marvel at to this day, I thought, It’s perfectly safe if I just go slow, and then I stood and rose to my feet.
My mom loved Diana Ross and Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor. She was in her teens in the late seventies and imprinted fully on disco music
and all its perky optimism. I had a whole disco playlist I listened to when I wanted to feel close to her: KC and the Sunshine Band, the Bee Gees, ABBA. I grabbed my earbuds and turned on the playlist I’d made of her favorites. And then I made my way to the door, opened it, and felt the rooftop breeze cross my face like silk just as “I Love the Nightlife” started up.
Was I a little bit shaky at first? For sure.
But there are things you know in your body that you just never forget. Here’s the great news: The roof of the warehouse was smooth concrete.
And so other than a few seams to watch out for, it was a perfect, buttery- smooth, breezy, sunshiny space for roller skating. I swear, it felt like fate. Like this was where my entire life had been leading—to this glorious, windy rooftop moment.
Was I going to bother the tenants below? Unknown. Maybe the roof was thick enough to mask the sound. Or maybe it would just amplify it.
Either way, I got started—pushed off with one foot and rolled forward on the other.
For a while, I just pushed along jerkily, my arms out wide like a tightrope walker, feeling like I’d really left my youth somewhere back in the mists of time.
But the view from the rooftop was gorgeous—and also something I didn’t stop to appreciate often enough. To the east were historic buildings and more old brick warehouses. To the west was the greenscape of Buffalo Bayou—and its walking trails and kayakers.
I was glad they couldn’t see me, squeaking along like a tin man who needed oiling.
But then I could feel things start to shift as the muscle memory kicked in. The more I did it, the more I could do it.
I made big circles, sinking into the comforting rhythm of right, then left, then right, then left. Then, without overthinking it, I spun in a circle. The jerky motion faded away. I found a smooth rhythm. The rooftop was a wide open space with nothing to run into.
Minute by minute, my childhood know-how drifted back. And then I remembered what I already knew: I could do this.
I let myself relax. Then I did a half-spin and started skating backward. Then I did a figure eight. Then I squatted down, roller derby style. Then I started grapevining and spinning and just generally grooving like a person who had just been reminded what fun felt like.
Which is about right.
How much time went by? I have no idea. I was utterly lost—in the best way. It was the exact opposite of the grueling hours I’d spent trying to paint before. That had been work, and this was just play. Who needed art when you had roller skating?
Did it make me miss my mom? You bet.
But the delight of it—the absolute, blissful, embodied pleasure of it— made it okay somehow. I felt that familiar ache of longing, but now mixed with something new. Joy, maybe. The sunshine and the breeze and the music and the motion and the rhythm. An awareness of the glorious, impossible miracle of being alive.
Huh.
So weird to think that this feeling had been there all along—hibernating in a box under my bed, just waiting for me to wake it up.
Maybe I should have tried these skates on sooner.
I swear, at one point, I decided I could just keep skating there, round and round, lost in bliss, all day and night.
But of course that’s not what happened.
In fact, not long after I had that thought, while I was skating backward in a slalom, the sound of someone shouting my name pierced my disco playlist—and I spun around to see Joe just a few feet away, calling to me.
He wasn’t wearing his vintage jacket today—just a T-shirt—but by now I knew those glasses. And that floppy hair blowing in the rooftop wind. Also—process of elimination. Who else would he have been?
He wasn’t Mr. Kim, and that was just about the only other option.
Recognizing him was surprising, but seeing him at all was even more surprising—especially since the door to the rooftop stairs was self-locking and nobody had the code but me.
Suddenly finding an uninvited man standing on your roof watching your roller-skating jam can add up to a heck of a surprise—and I guess I must have frozen still for a second while still gliding forward on my wheels
because, next, I hit one of those seams in the roof concrete I’d been so careful to avoid, which pitched me forward—and right into Joe’s arms as he tried to catch me, even though I had far too much momentum for that to work. He wound up falling back as I landed right on top of him … and we went skidding along the concrete.
After we came to a stop, time seemed to pause.
I should have scrambled up and skated away. But my brain took a minute to put the whole situation together. And while we waited for the moment to make sense, I was caught in suspended animation, my body fully pinning his flat to the ground, my nose almost touching his, our gazes locked together in incomprehension.
What the hell just happened?
The first head I worried about was his—because I saw it hit the concrete.
“Oh god,” I said, talking loud over the disco in my ears before yanking the earbuds out by the wires. “Are you—”
“I’m okay.”
And then there was a pause, as I noted that I, too, had just fallen down
—and so the next head I had to worry about was my own.
I had one job these days: not to fall. And here I was. Fallen.
Oh, shit. Did I just break my brain?
The thought pinned me there as I did a quick assessment. Had I hit my head? No. Was my head bleeding? Not that I could tell. Did my head hurt? No. Nothing hurt besides my scraped knees and palms. How much had Joe’s body cushioned my impact? Enough?
I did a quick scan of the rooftop, half checking for a possible cork- shaped piece of skull, still skittering across the concrete on its side like a hockey puck.
Nothing. Coast was clear.
As far as I could tell, I was okay.
But that’s when I realized I’d been lying on top of Joe—draped over him like a human weighted blanket—for far longer than was proper. I could feel my thighs mashed up against his. I could feel myself rising and falling on his chest as we both tried to catch our breath. I could feel my heart beating—or was it his?—against my rib cage.
I felt a little dizzy for a second there, but whether it was the fall or my wonky brain or just the fact that I hadn’t been this close to a man in a very long time … I couldn’t say.
Time to pull myself together.
I shifted backward, peeling myself off him, and stood up slowly.
Once I was vertical, I got a little mad. “What are you doing here? You shocked the hell out of me!” I demanded. “How did you even get up here?”
Joe didn’t answer me. Still lying on the concrete, he lifted up on his elbows but paused there, looking at me in a way that felt more like he was gazing.
Maybe his head was injured, after all.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Nobody ever comes up on this roof.
Nobody has the passcode to that door but me!”
Joe shook his head a little, like he was trying to shift his thoughts back into place.
“This is a private space!” I said. “This rooftop is part of my—” But I didn’t know how to describe it. “My area. You can’t just come up here!”
When Joe finally climbed to his feet and started tucking his shirt in, his voice was a little hoarse. “The door downstairs was open.”
“So you thought that was an invitation to just come on up here?”
“I think the lock’s broken,” Joe went on. “The dead bolt’s frozen in the out position.”
“That’s a Mr. Kim problem,” I said. “Unless you’re a locksmith.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I was just worried about you.” He was? Huh. “Well, I was fine.”
“I saw that.”
Oh, god. He’d seen me skating. To headphone disco. “You clearly did.” “You can really skate,” he said.
“Fine,” I said, refusing to take the compliment. “So you came up here and saw I was fine. Why didn’t you turn around and leave?”
“I was kind of mesmerized, to be honest.” “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Mesmerized? Mesmerized by what? My skating prowess? The ridiculousness of my outfit? The comedy that always ensues when a person wearing headphones can’t resist doing dance moves out loud, like a mime?
I decided I didn’t want to know. “I’m allowed to do what I want on my own rooftop, Joe.”
“I’m not saying you’re not.”
“And you’re not allowed to sneak up here and watch me.” “I didn’t sneak up. I thought you should know.”
“About what?”
“About the broken door lock.”
Okay, that wasn’t totally unreasonable.
“Once I de-mesmerized myself, I was trying to tell you. So you could get it fixed. But when I called your name, you didn’t hear me.”
“Yeah. Well. I was listening to music.” “What were you listening to?”
Not relevant! “Why do you want to know?” Joe shrugged. “You looked happy.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough,” he said, lifting his hands in defeat.
In case it’s not already clear, I felt irrationally angry at him. I’m not sure I could even have pinned down a reason. Because he came up without asking. Because the lock was broken. Because he interrupted me. Because before I saw him, I’d been freakishly, genuinely happy, for the first time in so long and now, thanks to him, I had to be … whatever this was.
Annoyed.
Or maybe just plain old embarrassed. Because there is literally no way to skate-dance in silence without looking like a serious goofball.
“Anyway,” Joe said, taking a couple of backward steps. “Sorry about interrupting you. Definitely call about that lock.”
And then he turned and started walking back toward the spiral stairs— and that’s when all that anger I’d just been full of disappeared in a puff. Because the back of his T-shirt? It was streaked with blood.
“Wait!” I called, skating after him. “Are you okay?” He turned back. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, skating around to get a better look. “Am I?” he asked, trying to peek over his shoulder.
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I mean, it stings a little,” he said.
I skated back around to his front. “Take it off,” I said, all business, gesturing at his shirt.
He thought for a second, and then he nodded, and then he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and peeled it off.
Friends, Romans, countrymen—I might not have been able to see his face, but let me tell you … I could definitely see that shirtless torso. I mean, I had a physical reaction to beholding that thing—and it wasn’t because he was chiseled or extraordinary or some airbrushed fantasy you’d see in a magazine. It was just … strong and solid and nice. So … appealing, somehow.
It just looked like a body that would feel good under your hands. I pushed that thought away the second I noticed it.
But can I just add? An absolutely stellar shoulder-to-hip ratio. As a professional artist: thumbs-up.
What was that word he’d just used? Mesmerized?
Anyway, that wasn’t what we were here for. I shook it off and skated back around to check out the damage on his back. “Oh, you really got scraped,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “We skidded a few feet.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, the volume on “annoyed” turning itself way down as “apologetic” ramped up.
I looked down at my scratched-up palms. His back made them look paltry.
“Come on,” I said, ready to remedy my guilt with stellar first aid, starting to skate back toward my door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
But when I looked back, he wasn’t following. I skated back to him. “Let’s go.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got it.”
“It’s your back,” I said. “How are you going to reach it?” “I’ll manage.”
Was it his fault that he startled me and made me trip? Absolutely. Sort of.
But was I the one who landed on him and dragged him across a roof? Also yes.
“Let me help you,” I said, my voice much softer now. “You wouldn’t be scraped up like this if I hadn’t landed on you.”
“You wouldn’t have landed on me if I hadn’t come up here.”
“You wouldn’t have come up here if the lock had been working properly.”
Joe nodded. “So this is all Mr. Kim’s fault.”
“One hundred percent Mr. Kim,” I agreed, taking Joe’s hand and pulling him toward my place like a tugboat. “But I’m all you’ve got.”
 |
INSIDE, JOE COULDN’T stop looking around at all my paintings, and I couldn’t stop looking at Joe.
He was taking in my painting supplies, and my decor, and my hovel in general—but his expression was so different from what Lucinda’s had been. She’d been judging me, and he was, too—but, from his body language, he was judging me positively.
Like he liked it.
Which was a little bit spellbinding. Or was it the torso? Tough call.
I mean … all this time I’d been disliking him, he’d been walking around with that endlessly appealing situation under his shirt? I wondered if I might have assessed him differently if I’d known.
God. Was I that shallow?
An hour ago, I’d have said no—but now I wasn’t so sure.
But what choice did I have—as an artist—to let a visual situation like that go unadmired? It was practically my professional duty.
Even now, the thought of it makes me want to let out a low whistle. I mean, that chest might even have been better than a face. If I had to choose. I made Joe lean shirtlessly over my kitchen sink while I poured hydrogen peroxide over the scrapes. He sucked in tight breaths as the cold
bubbly liquid ran down his flanks.
“Ticklish?” I asked, watching his muscles contract. He shook his head. “Only my ears.”
I dried the uninjured parts of his back with a paper towel, and then I offered to wash his shirt for him.
He shook his head. “I got it. I’ll just head home.”
But at the words, I suddenly pictured him walking down the top-floor hallway all shirtless and someone else happening upon him—and I got the weirdest, most indescribable feeling.
If I didn’t know better, I’d have called it jealousy. “Let me put some ointment on you,” I said.
“I’m really okay.”
“That roof,” I said, giving him a trust me look, “is super filthy. Birds poop on it all the time. Not to mention acid rain, nuclear waste—”
“Nuclear waste?”
“The point is, you don’t want an infection.”
Joe considered that, and then nodded and sat backward on one of the kitchen chairs.
I pulled up a chair behind him and used a Q-tip to dab him with ointment. The scratches weren’t deep, but they covered a lot of territory.
With any luck, we’d be here a while.
He had a bright pink scar on his shoulder that looked like he’d gotten stitches. “Where’d you get the scar?” I asked. “It looks pretty recent.”
“I crashed into a lamppost,” Joe said, not seeming too interested.
He crashed into a lamppost? Was that the drinking-and-carousing lifestyle he lived?
So many red flags with this guy.
But I must have been much more lonesome than I realized. Here was a man who I didn’t even like—but the nearness of his naked torso was putting me into some kind of a trance. What was going on with me? I was dabbing at the scrapes, but I kept losing my concentration and dabbing the wrong spots. My eyes kept wandering away from the task, traveling up his spine, out along his shoulder, down his arms. His skin was kind of buttery-tan, and he had freckles on his shoulders, like he’d worked outside a lot with that shirt off.
I pictured him raking leaves shirtless. And washing the car shirtless. Maybe tending to a vegetable garden shirtless? Then harvesting the vegetables and bringing them inside to make a shirtless meal from scratch?
Hey! I could suddenly hear my own voice saying inside my head. Pull it together! Stop fantasizing about the Weasel!
But the acoustics in my head weren’t great. The voice sounded tinny and echoey like I was at the bottom of a well. Whereas Joe’s voice—and
everything else about him—was coming in loud and clear.
Honestly, Dr. Nicole would be very proud of me right now.
“You know what I love about this moment?” Joe asked then, sounding sleepy as he rested his head on his arms.
I leaned forward to take a guess. “The fact that I feel genuinely sorry about doing this to you, even though it was entirely your fault?”
“I definitely like that. But I’m talking about something I love.”
By accident, right then, I caught the way his plump bottom lip pressed against his teeth when he made the V in the word love.
“What do you love?” I asked, now suddenly aware of my own lip doing the same thing.
He glanced back with a vibe that felt positively affectionate. Then he said, “You’ve still got your roller skates on.”
