Typically, I’d find her voicemail charming just like her, but tonight it’s frustrating beyond belief.
“Call me back, Ind,” I mutter into the receiver, pacing the length of the living room, continuing to check my phone.
Surely, she’s got to be done driving by now. The game ended two hours ago.
What if she picked up a trip that took her hours out of town? Or what if her car broke down? Fuck, I don’t even know what she drives. Is it safe for a Chicago winter? She’s a Midwest native, so I assume it is, but what if it’s an old car?
I’m self-aware enough to know I’m avoiding the real question. What if something worse happened to her? Fans can be belligerent leaving the arena, I’ve seen it firsthand.
Where the hell is she?
“Stevie?” I ask as soon as my sister answers her phone. “Have you heard from Indy?”
“No. She’s driving tonight. Is everything okay?”
“She’s not home yet. She should be home by now.”
“It’s only eleven thirty. Maybe she’s still working or maybe she met up with friends.”
“What kind of friends?”
She laughs. “Oh my God. Male friends, I’m sure. The kind with lots of money and huge di—”
“Vee.”
“I’m kidding. Friends like girl friends or Rio.”
“Why are you not concerned at all?”
“Because she’s a grown woman who’s working. Will it make you feel better if I text her?”
“Please.”
My sister softens her tone. “Ryan, I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll text as soon as I hear back.”
Another twenty-five minutes goes by. I pace the kitchen. I pour myself a scotch. My collar feels too claustrophobic, so I change out of my gameday suit before wrapping a bag of ice around my shooter’s shoulder.
Stevie is probably right and I’m being over-dramatic, but the idea of Indy being alone in her car with strangers in the middle of the night sends a reaction through me that I haven’t felt in quite a while—concern.
My emotions haven’t taken over in years, including this one. I’ve kept them locked down, controlled, but right now they feel entirely unmanageable thanks to my blonde roommate I can’t stop worrying about.
I know how overwhelming it can be with the public. She’s not me, but what if fans recognize her from the photos of the banquet?
My phone pings, and you’d have to believe I was a professional athlete by how quickly I snatch it off the kitchen counter.
Blue
Sorry, still working! I’ve had nonstop rides tonight. Be home late. Going to keep driving until the bars close.
What the hell? Is she trying to force me into cardiac arrest? As if the fans after a home game weren’t rowdy enough, I can’t imagine how sloppy some of them get when they hit the bars afterward.
Ryan
Can you please come home?
Can’t. I need to make a little more $$ before calling it a night. Got a ride! Got to go. See you tomorrow.
See you tomorrow? Is she out of her goddamn mind? In what world does she think I’m going to bed and will just see her tomorrow?
Vee
Indy is good. Still working.
Ryan
What the hell is so important that she needs to be working these kinds of hours? Did the airline do a pay cut?
No, but it’s also not my business to talk about. If she wants to tell you she will. Heading to bed. Love you.
I exhale a deep, resigned sigh.
Thanks for getting ahold of her. Love you too.
Indy’s obnoxious yellow curtains are pushed to the wall, letting Chicago’s midnight skyline filter into my living room. Stevie and Zanders’ penthouse is across the street, and I watch as their lights go out for the night.
I’m glad someone is getting some sleep because I’ll be sitting on this couch, wide awake until Indy comes home.
It’s 2:57 when the front door quietly opens, and I’m sitting in the living room like someone’s father, disappointed by a missed curfew.
“You’re awake?” Indy whispers as if there were someone asleep in this apartment.
“Clearly.”
Shedding her coat, she slips off her high-top white Converse, the ones that are covered in embroidered designs. “What’s wrong?”
I take a long sip of my scotch, shaking my head. “Nothing.”
“Okay. Want to try that again without lying this time?” She stands opposite me in the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, pushing her tits up in the most distracting way.
“I can’t say what’s wrong, otherwise, I’ll sound like a controlling dick.”
“Control is kind of your thing, Ryan. Are you upset because you had a bad game?”
Scoffing, I stand from the couch and head to the kitchen to rinse out my glass. “I don’t give a fuck about my game.”
She follows me, palms on the kitchen island opposite me. She’s wearing a pair of 90s denim jeans that seem too short on her long legs, but she of course, pulls off the flooded look in an intentional way. Her T-shirt is worn beyond belief, a soft pink cotton from an old-school Brittney Spears concert.
God, she’s fucking adorable and that pisses me off.
Because this version of her, the real one where she’s not putting on a show for my GM or her ex-boyfriend and his friends. The version where she’s not toning it down to be appropriate or appeasing. This is my version of her. The one where she’s comfortable and casual at home and I don’t want to share her.
“Then what’s wrong?” she presses.
I set my glass down on the drying rack, bracketing my hands on the edge of the sink as I exhale a deep breath. “I was thinking about you the whole game.”
“Aw, Ry.” A hand splays over her chest. “I’m flattered. Truly.”
“I’m not kidding, Blue. I don’t want you picking up and driving random strangers around.”
“Well, that’s not really your say, is it?”
“What if Ron Morgan called a rideshare and you happened to be his driver? How would we explain why you’re driving rideshares while your millionaire boyfriend is playing a game?”
“Okay.” Indy laughs. “The chances of that happening are almost nonexistent, so why don’t you tell me what your real issue is.”
Her brown eyes are soft with patience, not that I deserve it. I’m acting like a possessive caveman right now, but I don’t know how to fake it.
“I’m…I don’t know.” I look down at the sink where my knuckles are white with restraint. I haven’t cared about another person besides my sister in God knows how long and I have no idea how to feel or express it.
Her voice is kind. “You’re what, Ryan?”
“I’m…worried about you, Ind. I was worrying about you the whole game.”
Her lips lift mischievously, her tone teasing. “Ryan Shay, do you care about me?”
“No.”
“You care about me.”
“No, I don’t, but I’d rather you not get kidnapped while I’m playing a fucking basketball game.”
She moves her shoulders, dancing around the island. “Ryan Shay cares about me!”
“You’re annoying.”
Her hands go to her knees, and she sticks her ass out, twerking in my kitchen. “Yeah, but you still care about me.”
Shaking my head, I try my hardest not to laugh. “I’m going to bed.”
“Say it.”
“Not saying it.”