Page 13 of Unlikely
Wordlessly, Remy gently places the camera down on the desk and pushes his chair out to stand.
He’s the quietest out of all of us. We all have a different story, a background, and a past that has irrevocably changed the people we’ve become, and it’s never more evident in how quiet and reserved Remy is.
He puts everything around him back into place before walking past me and heading straight to the kitchen. Lennox is only seconds behind him, and I decide I need a shower before he and Arlo finish all the hot water.
“I’ll be out in ten,” I call out to them before closing the bedroom door behind me.
Our place sometimes feels no bigger than a shoe box, but after years spent in the foster system and growing up in group homes, it’s always felt luxurious to me. Occasionally, it pays off being the only girl growing up among a bunch of boys, because they always prioritize my privacy and well-being over theirs.
My en suite bathroom is a perfect example.
It’s a rarity to be able to afford anything with two bathrooms in Los Angeles. In fact, it was a stroke of luck that allowed us to afford a place in the heart of L.A. at all, but thanks to Arlo and Frankie, who aged out of the system first, they bit off more than they could chew for the first few years so Lennox, Remy, and I didn’t have to struggle with the transition from foster children to adults.
The place is now our sanctuary.
It has four bedrooms, a cozy living area, and a functioning kitchen. We all pay rent, we have a color-coded chore wheel—thanks to Remy—and we all make the effort to try and eat a meal together as often as we can.
It’s home, and they are my family. We aren’t perfect, but our circumstances are perfect for us.
Stripping out of my sweaty workout gear, I throw it into my hamper before turning on the shower and waiting for it to warm up. I mentally run through the list of things I need to get done today before I go to work and everything I’ll have waiting for me when I get back.
Stepping into the spray, I quickly wash my hair and my body, conscious of the others needing the hot water and the omelet Arlo is making for me. I dry myself off and then search through the piles of folded laundry for the clothes I want today. I drag my underwear up my legs and opt for a racerback tank with built-in support instead of an actual bra.
My work shirt is a plain, black short-sleeve button-down. It could do with an iron, but I just don’t have time for that. Paired with some black skinny jeans and some high tops, this is the best I’m going to look today.
Sticking my hand into my bedside table, I feel through the different fabrics until I find what I’m looking for. Checking myself out in the mirror, I place the necklace over my head and tuck the pendants into my undershirt, as if to keep them safe. I gather my hair into a ponytail, then grab my bag and head out to the kitchen.
The dining table is all set, the three of them already seated and eating. I slip into my usual place and pour myself a glass of orange juice before cutting into my omelet.
“I’m working the graveyard shift at the gym,” Arlo says. “So I won’t be home tonight. But if you’re lucky, I’ll be home in time tomorrow to make you breakfast.”
Arlo is a recovering addict who has spent the last four years turning his life around. He now runs a gym that is designed specifically for others embarking on their journey to recovery.
“I won’t be here either,” Lennox says. “I’ve got training tomorrow morning and then we have our big game against USC in the afternoon.”
“Shit,” I say, my forkful of egg in front of my mouth. “I totally spaced out. We’re understaffed and I’m doing another double.”
“It’s fine,” Lennox appeases, his mouth still full of food. “How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t have to watch any of my games. You hate football anyway, so at this point it’s just torture.”
“I don’t hate football,” I argue. “I just haven’t found the time to learn the game.”
“That’s a lie,” Remy interjects. “Because the last time we were at Lennox’s game and I tried to tell you what was happening, you said to only bother you if Lennox had the ball.”
I grab a nearby napkin and throw it in Remy’s direction. “Way to sell me out, Remy. I really appreciate it.”
Throwing the napkin back, he chuckles. “I’m just saying, you’ll regret not knowing the rules when Lennox goes pro.”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe,” Lennox says, glancing my way. “Because I’m not going pro.”
“You never know,” Arlo says. “Scouts have been showing interest.”
“Yeah, butI’mnot interested.”
It’s the same discussion, week in and week out. Arlo and Remy trying to convince Lennox he wants to play professional football, and Lennox reminding them the only reason he went for a football scholarship at UCLA is because he couldn’t afford college without it.
I often find myself in the background of these arguments, because I really don’t know enough about it all to form an opinion. But what I do know is Lennox, and if Lennox says he doesn’t want something, Lennox means it.
“Well, Remy, since you’re Lennox’s biggest fan, does that mean you’ll be at the game tomorrow?”