Call Off the Safety Watch

RECOMMENDED TRACK: Dayglow – Can I Call You Tonight?

To be honest, I could not remember the last time I woke up on a Sunday without a hangover, no cottony mouth or fuzzy brain or hatred of all things light and loud.

But that Sunday, I did.

Even worse, I wanted it to be Monday. Better yet, Tuesday. Why did I say “Tuesday” when it could have been “tomorrow”?

I grabbed my phone and stared at it. Plenty of texts, but none from her.

I glared at my phone and dismissed the messages. Calloway didn’t have her number, Parker wouldn’t share it, and I was definitely not about to give Emma’s info to anyone. Friend or not.

Instead, I threw on sweatpants and went downstairs, grunting a good morning at Jacob as I crossed the living room while he swept. I rummaged around in the kitchen for a box of cereal and a bowl before trying the fridge. There was milk, but it was skim. I wrinkled my nose. “Jacob! Can I use soy milk?” Soy is better than skim any day of the week.

“Go ahead,” Jacob’s voice floated through the door. (You know, I do not know why Jacob is Jacob while everyone else is Monty, Calloway, Parker, Kane, and so on. He just is.)

I plucked out the carton and dug around in the pantry for my Cocoa Krispies as Monty stumbled in and lurched for the coffee like a zombie for brains. “Ootra,” I greeted him.

“Whatever,” he grumbled. The corset was gone, but he was wearing the speedo under a bathrobe and he had someone’s phone number written on his cheek. “Heard you left with Tinkerbell,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “How was she?”

I suppressed the urge to scowl, shoving a mouthful of chocolaty cereal into my mouth instead. “I only walked her home. Like a gentleman.”

Monty stopped mid-pour. “A gentleman? Who are you and where’s my Misha?”

“Just keeping you on your tippy-toes,” I shrugged, taking another bite.

“Or maybe you couldn’t seal the deal for once,” he grinned, filling his mug to the brim and slurping off the top. “It’s okay, man. We all strike out sometimes.”

He was kidding, but I was already irritated, so I scoffed. “Oh, sure, yes. I struck out like your American baseball men,” I retorted. “That’s why I have the little fairy’s number in my phone this morning.”

Monty whistled. “Great. You can give it to me, then.”

Nikogda, I thought. Never. “Get it yourself,” I said, hoping he did not try.

He groaned. “Come on, man. What about the code?”

Last year, Monty and I had been drinking with some of the Delta girls who were talking about informed consent. We had made a show of agreeing to a code of honor: no lying to women, no cock-blocking men. If they would not choose you knowing all their options, they are not really choosing you.

But that did not mean I was giving him Emma’s number. “Code does not say I have to give you someone’s private info,” I said instead, grabbing my bowl and taking it back to my room before he could argue.

“You’re on yard cleanup,” Jacob reminded me as I stalked back through. “Before midnight, Misha.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I said, waving my spoon at him as I climbed the stairs. “Thank you for the milk.”ng at Jacob as I crossed the living room while he swept. I rummaged around in the kitchen for a box of cereal and a bowl before trying the fridge. There was milk, but it was skim. I wrinkled my nose. “Jacob! Can I use soy milk?” Soy is better than skim any day of the week.

“Go ahead,” Jacob’s voice floated through the door. (No, I do not know why Jacob is Jacob while everyone else is Monty, Calloway, Parker, Kane, and so on. He just is.)

I plucked out the carton and dug around in the pantry for my Cocoa Krispies as Monty stumbled in and lurched for the coffee like a zombie for brains. “Ootra,” I greeted him.

“Whatever,” he grumbled. The curly wig and corset were gone, but he was wearing the speedo under a bathrobe and he had someone’s phone number written on his cheek. “Heard you left with Tinkerbell,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “How was she?”

I suppressed the urge to scowl, shoving a mouthful of chocolaty cereal into my mouth instead. “I only walked her home. Like a gentleman.”

Monty stopped mid-pour. “Gentleman? You a pod person or somethin’?”

“Just keeping you on tippy-toe,” I shrugged, taking another bite.

“Or maybe you couldn’t seal the deal for once,” he snickered, finishing the pour—full literally to the brim—and slurping off the top. “It’s okay, man. We all strike out sometimes.”

Irritation flared as I scoffed. “Oh, sure, yes. I struck out like your American baseball men,” I retorted. “That’s why I have little fairy’s number in my phone this morning.”

Monty whistled. “Great. You can give it to me, then.”

Nikogda, I thought. Never. “Get it yourself,” I muttered, grabbing my bowl and taking it back to my room. I hoped he did not try.

“You’re on yard cleanup,” Jacob reminded me as I stalked back through. “Before midnight, Misha.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I said, waving my spoon at him as I climbed the stairs.

I groaned along with my desk chair as I sat in it, setting my bowl on the desk. “Otvali,” I typed back—Monty had heard that particular fuck-you many times and knew what it meant. As I tapped the send button, I saw at the bottom of the screen: Calloway is typing…

I waited a full minute for him to say whatever he was going to say. Probably just wanted to correct Monty about her costume.

Instead, the typing message disappeared.

Parker jumped in with a comment about his schedule for study sessions over the week. He practically kept office hours for the frat, and what’s more? We used them. Between the study help and that segue away from Emma in our group chat, I was beginning to believe he was a patron saint of conflicted Russian boys.

I showered, spent time with the sheet music I had unearthed from the very, very, very back of my closet, even went down and picked up cans and garbage from the back lawn in the early afternoon.

Now even the tightass chapter president was ganging up on me?

I threw on a t-shirt and jogged to the boxing gym a couple of blocks away so I could throw myself at the bag for a while. That worked, and I slammed the tension away and ignored everything around me.

Well, it worked for a while. See, boxing, it is great and terrible. Very hard on the hands.

And I would need those hands.

On Tuesday.

My phone beeped again and I threw my gloves to the floor, snatching it up to see what fresh annoyance my brothers had prepared for me. But the message was not from them.

I stared at the phone.

She texted first.

It should not have felt strange. I had been waiting for her to text me first. Girls always texted me first. But it was strange, because I had never anticipated one texting me before, not like this. I began typing.

The reply came almost immediately, just one word.

I sat down on a bench by the free weights, toweling off as I watched Emma is typing…

Someone came to ask if I was using the weights. I didn’t even look at them, waving them along while I watched my screen intently. She was all over the place, a little flurry of messages so rapid-fire they felt as excited as me.

I twisted my mouth left and then right, thinking.

Another gym rat came to ask about the weights and I growled for them to go ahead, whatever. In fact, forget it. I stood up and left, throwing my towel into the big laundry bin and missing it on the way out. The gym owner, a burly Mexican man with a mean left hook even though he was right-handed and sixty, yelled at me but I flipped him off and left.

I pay full price, not like Kane who bargains down to nothing somehow. It’s enough to cover towel service.

I thought about the song and its reverent lyrics. Thought about Praise. Spoiling. Devotion. I could hear the way she’d said it all over again.

I walked down the sidewalk back to the house, trying to actually watch where I was going. There was no response for a few minutes and I felt nervous, over texts. And I did not hate it.

I’d made it all the way back to the house, walking with more and more agitation before she finally replied.

Monty whistled as I walked in. “Brother, you are smiling from ear to ear. You go see Tinkerbell?”

“No,” I said, heading straight for the stairs. “Just the gym. Good session. Left the bag bloody.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a wink. “Sure.” And to be fair? I was humming on the way up the stairs. Tchaikovsky.

It was still Sunday afternoon.

Why did I say Tuesday?

---

Bonus Content:
Incident Report

---

Author’s Note

B-Side Track: Arctic Monkeys – R U Mine?

Don’t worry, I’ll stop dragging this out, LOL. 

FUN FACTS:

I’m actually more into kickboxing than boxing, a solid roundhouse kick is SO satisfying. But classic boxing felt more appropriate for Misha; according to my understanding kickboxing is popular there, but Russia’s history with traditional boxing is substantial.

Also, I just want you to know, there isn’t enough of Travis (Monty) in this book. I love him, but I didn’t find a lot of good places for him to jump in, or the scenes he was in wound up needing to be cut. Sorry, Travis. Dylan, too, and he doesn’t really get to shine his best qualities. Maybe they’ll get their own side stories someday…

So, music! Did I call out any of your favorites? How about your tastes—do you usually have a couple genres or artists you dig deep into, or are you more of an omnivore like Emma?