by Alley Ciz
The welcome relief of the soft goose down duvet on my tailbone after hours spent on a hard floor doesn’t last long as those memories smack me in the face.
Mase—fuck! Mason—and me studying.
M-A-S-O-N asking me to be his girlfriend.
Our first sleepover.
Our first time.
Fuck! I need to get out of here.
Em and Q both hover in the doorway, their concerned gazes bouncing between me on the bed and JT shuffling around the room, gathering an overnight bag, my purse, and my keys before slipping my classic black and white Chucks onto my feet.
A screechy pained whine escapes when he tries to pull Mason’s hoodie over my head. I can see the questions swimming in his eyes, but blessedly he doesn’t ask, instead pulling my own U of J sweatshirt from the wardrobe.
Adjusting the hood to hide my face, he tugs on the strings to tighten the fit. Tucking me tight to his side, he drapes both my bags over his shoulder as well as his own, which he dropped by the door before, and leads us out of the apartment.
I vaguely recall him promising to call the girls later, but that’s the last thing I’m cognizant of. The walk to the car and the almost-hour-long drive home aren’t even a blur, just another void of time in my memories.
A hand squeezing mine brings me back to the present, and my eyes blink until the Taylor home comes into focus. My head lolls to the side on the headrest and I attempt to meet JT’s encouraging smile with a grateful one. I couldn’t tell you if I’m successful or not, but this is just one of the many things that show how well he knows me. I haven’t uttered a word about the demise of my relationship with Mason, but still he sensed I couldn’t be at my house a few blocks away.
Pinky idles in the driveway, the heat from the vents ruffling the curls hanging limply around my face as JT waits for me to be ready to move.
I give an almost indistinguishable nod, and he grabs our bags out of the back seat then rounds the Jeep, pulling my door open for me to hop down.
He holds his arms open and I fall into them, sinking into the hug, the back of his blue Kentucky sweatshirt clutched in my hands. God love him, he doesn’t even flinch at the fabric getting covered in tears and snot.
The shudders racking my body eventually subside in his hold. Once I’m calm enough, he lets me go with a pat on the back.
The sound of the front door opening brings attention to our arrival, and Pops steps into the foyer a few seconds after us.
“Jimmy, my boy.” Pops automatically pulls JT into a hug, but the jovial mood drops along with his smile as he catches sight of me. “Who do I have to kill?”
The automatic protective response brings the first twitch to my lips.
“Dad,” JT cautions.
“Come here, baby girl.”
Without any hesitation, I go to him, letting him fold me into his fatherly embrace. Growing up as the best friend of my dad, Pops has always been like a second father to me. Their longstanding friendship is how JT and I became CTG BFFs (cradle-to-grave best friends forever).
“You kids want anything to eat?” He starts to lead us to the back of the house where the kitchen is located.
I don’t, the knots in my stomach are more than enough to fill me up, but I follow anyway, taking a seat on one of the stools at the counter. I concentrate all my energy on breathing in and out, anything to not succumb to the depression I feel welling up inside me. I still can’t believe any of this is real.
“Shit, Kay.” Tessa rushes me as soon as she spots me. I really must be in worse shape than I thought if both Taylor children are calling me Kay.
“What am I, chopped liver?” JT asks in response to the Please, I can’t human right now plea I give him over her shoulder. “Don’t I get a hug?”
“You’re an idiot,” T retorts, but she lets go of me to go to him.
Both Taylor siblings are a good mix of their parents. JT got his whiskey-hued eyes from his mom, where on Tessa they tinted the blue eyes inherited from Pops to a deep midnight blue. The deep auburn of JT’s hair comes from a mix of Pops’ once rich brown hair that is now gray at the temples with the same bright strawberry locks Tessa has.
“Come on.” JT releases T and holds out a hand for me to take.
With the Taylors, I don’t have to worry about being seen as rude for not saying anything as I leave to follow JT upstairs.
The path to his bedroom is as familiar as the one to my own, the door still ajar from when I slept over the other night when Pops was on shift at the firehouse. I toe out of my sneakers as I walk to the bed, leaving them scattered in my wake and dropping my hoodie amongst the mess.
I slip under the covers, burying my face in the pillow on my side of the bed. A wall of heat envelops me from behind as JT crawls in next to me and pulls my body in to spoon with his. I couldn’t even count the number of times JT and I have shared a bed during our lives. Most parents keep their babies away from others who are sick, but not our moms. The only way one of us would sleep then was if the other was in the crib too.
Like all those years ago, the feeling of someone reaching inside my chest and squeezing my heart in their fist starts to fade, though it doesn’t stop the little whimpers from slipping out periodically.
“I need to know what happened, Kay.”
Fuck! I hate that he’s still calling me Kay.
“Mason—” My voice breaks, the pain from just uttering his name like a physical blow. “Broke up with me.”
“The fuck?” There’s a faint whistling sound as JT sucks a breath in through his teeth. Guess he wasn’t expecting that answer.
“He thinks the reason I wouldn’t let him post pictures of us on his Instagram is because I was afraid they would get back to you.” The image of Mason’s usually sparking green eyes deadened in anger flashes through my memory and cuts through me like a hot knife.
He was so angry. So mean.
“What?” The incredulity in JT’s voice soothes the sting a little.
“He thinks we’re really a couple and the whole PF and Kay thing was a way to cheat on you both.”
Waves of anger pulse off his body the longer I speak. Even though I’m technically a month older than him, JT has always treated me as his younger sister, exactly the same as E. Honestly, it’s this fact that makes Mason’s kneejerk reaction hurt so much more.
If only he trusted me and came to me instead of jumping to conclusions.
This…
This is what kills me, how he automatically thought the worst without giving me a chance to explain.
Fucking social media. I loathe it. Why does Mason have to be so hung up on it? Will it ever stop being the bane of my existence? Hasn’t it done enough damage to my life?
“He said it was a mistake to date me.” I sniffle, trying to clear some of the snot building up inside my nose so I can breathe. The cotton of the pillowcase is already wet under my face from the tears that started back up the moment I stepped into the safety of the bedroom. “On the plus side, at least this one isn’t using me to get close to E.”
“Sonofabitch,” JT curses under his breath. “I’m going to kill him.”
While I can appreciate the instinctive drive to come to my defense, I can’t handle thinking about everything any longer. I close my eyes, my body both numb and screaming in pain simultaneously. I will sleep to come, desperate for a reprieve, even if only for a few hours.
#Chapter2
Pain.
Kay’s smiling face on JT’s Instagram.
All I can feel is pain.
Why does he get to post pictures of her when she fights with me about doing the same? How is that shit fair?
My body hurts from punishing myself in the weight room and later at practice today, but it’s my heart that hurts the worst. It misses Kay.
Hell…I miss Kay.
PF Dennings. JT Taylor and PF Dennings—@CheerGodJT and @FlyerQueenPF—won multiple Worlds titles.
PF Dennings.
NJA coach PF
Dennings.
Needing a way to shut off anything related to Kay—she played me, I’m done—I drive straight from her dorm to the nearest liquor store and buy the biggest bottle of Jameson I can find.
It’s Chrissy/Tina all over again.
I haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened. Instead, my bottle of Irish whiskey and I trudge up the stairs of the frat house and lock ourselves in my room.
PF. P. F. P motherfucking F.
Not needing the temptation of torturing myself by looking at posts about “Kay” and her “friend”, I power off my phone and settle in to get drunk, seeking the solace only a good bout of inebriation can bring.
This fucking sucks.
#Chapter3
UofJ411: More info #SpillingTheTea #CasanovasMysteryGirl
*REPOSTED—picture from JT’s IG of him and Kay in their Admirals uniforms after winning Worlds—CheerGodJT: Me and @FlyerQueenPF kicking ass and taking names!! Love this chick!! #WorldChamps #CheerWorlds #CantTouchUs #WeSetTheStandard #CTGBFF*
@The_book_queen: Her name isn’t PF. I went to high school with her. Her name is Kayla Dennings. #CasanovasMysteryGirl
@The-mumma-life: Oh yeah. Isn’t she related to Eric Dennings on the Baltimore Crabs? #CasanovasMysteryGirl
UofJ411: It’s true. #Siblings #CasanovasMysteryGirl
*old picture of E in a Penn State football uniform with his arm around Kay wearing her own PSU #87 jersey and smiling for the camera*
@_The_art_of_reading_Oh shit! She is. Look at this picture of them from back when he played for Penn State #SisterOfTheEnemy #CasanovasMysteryGirl
@UnCheckedOther: Is she really a spy for the Nittany Lions? Is that why she’s dating @CasaNova87 #SecretAgent #CasanovasMysteryGirl
@Work2play: Are we even sure this is the same girl though? #IsItFakeNews? #CasanovasMysteryGirl
@Lala_powergirl: Did she pick @CasaNova87 because he also wears #87? #MagicNumbers #CasanovasMysteryGirl
UofJ411: We found the proof that @FlyerQueenPF and Kayla Dennings—Eric Dennings’ little sister—ARE the same person. #HowDoYouLikeThemApples #CasanovasMysteryGirl
*old picture of E with Kay in her NJA uniform making silly faces at the camera*
@_Bdsmbutch: Def the same girl. #MysterySolved #CasanovasMysteryGirl
#Chapter4
The scent of coffee followed by the dip of the bed behind me rouses me from sleep. For a few blissful seconds, the only thing I have to contend with is the annoyance of having to leave dreamland, but as the pale blue walls of my best friend’s bedroom come into focus, the events of yesterday come crashing onto me like an anvil in an old cartoon.
The video of JT and me stunting at The Huntington.
People making the connection to me being PF Dennings.
Mas—Mason breaking up with me.
“This was a mistake.”
That has me burying my face in the pillow, wishing for sleep to take me again so I can go back to forgetting. My entire body hurts like I spent a whole day doing full-outs.
A gentle hand smooths what I’m sure is a wild mess of curls from my face and tucks them behind my ear. “PF,” JT says, exaggerating his usual Pffff pronunciation. At least he’s back to not calling me Kay. Gotta take that as a good sign.
It’s a struggle to open my eyes again. They’re hot and painful from crying myself to sleep, probably swollen into something resembling Will Smith in Hitch.
JT sighs when a buzzing sound fills the room. I realize it’s a phone—his or mine, I’m not sure.
“I know you don’t want to, but you need to get up. E has been calling all morning.”
Pushing to sit up, I roughly shove the rest of my wayward curls out of my face and gratefully accept the mug of java salvation held out to me. My hands curl around Pops’ I’m a firefighter and a dad—nothing scares me mug. We aren’t just funny t-shirts in this family.
“I take it you told him about what happened with…Mason?” Saying his name is just as painful as it was yesterday.
Fuck! Post-breakup day one sucks as much as the day it happened.
Don’t they say time heals all wounds? Well time better hurry its ass up. I know, I know—I’m being unreasonable. Forgive me, though. I’m brokenhearted and undercaffeinated. At least I’m mature enough to not say it’s the worst thing to ever happen to me, so there’s that.
“No.” JT sends another call to voicemail. “In light of everything else that’s been happening, I didn’t think he needed that particular piece of information. I remember what he was like after him”—he spits out the word, knowing not to say my ex’s name in my presence—“and I didn’t want to be the one to send him off the deep end.”
E’s not the most reasonable person when it comes to me, that’s for sure. Logically, I know he can’t do anything to Mason, but he didn’t let a little thing like logic get in the way when he tried to get his scholarship pulled.
I’m petty enough to be disappointed by the NCAA’s strict regulations that led to E’s failure four years ago.
I jolt, the rest of what JT said registering. Cautiously, I lift my gaze, and the way he looks like he sucked on a lemon is almost enough for me to chicken out on asking, “What do you mean ‘everything else that’s been happening’?”
He glances down at the darkened screen of his phone then back to me. “You’ve been outed.”
The way he chooses to phrase it has the first hint of a chuckle breaking free. It also gives me hope. Yesterday was a bad, bad day for me, but at least now I know I have grown—even if only marginally—from the girl I was in high school, because if I hadn’t, I would still be an incoherent mess hiding under JT’s covers.
“Are you trying to tell me you didn’t keep the Kayla Dennings who is related to Eric Dennings hidden in a cabinet under the stairs?”
“You’re such a Potterhead.” I rub at the sleep coating my eyes, wincing at the sting of pain when I do.
“So are you. I don’t drive all the way to Espresso Patronum by myself, sis. You are always riding shotgun.”
Oh, how I love Lyle’s coffee shop. It’s such a happy place. Except thinking about it—or anything else I had in common with Mason—only makes me think of him, again.
“Come on.” JT holds a hand out for me to take. “Get up. Drink that and let’s do what we can to prevent E from coming up here and throwing you over his shoulder to take back to Maryland with him.”
E has done many things since Dad died in an effort to “take care of me”, but calling in Jordan Donovan might take the cake. Talk about an overreaction.
Opening the door of the Taylor home to see the hockey-royalty PR dynamo, you can tell by the height of her spike-heeled stilettos, the sharp cut of her black and white checked cigarette pants, her white silk shirt, and black moto leather jacket she is a force you don’t want to reckon with.
To say I feel underdressed in a pair of black leggings, socks, and one of JT’s NJA hoodies is an understatement.
I haven’t had many interactions with Jordan throughout the years she’s handled E’s publicity, but the smile she gives me as she steps inside is filled with matronly affection, despite her not even being thirty years old.
Knowing there’s no way to avoid the conversation—no matter how much I wish I could—I lead us into the kitchen.
JT leans against the counter, thumbs flying across the screen of his phone. He’s most likely texting E, saving me from having to fake my way through my own conversation with my brother.
He looks up when we enter, fingers pausing as he gives a quick glance to confirm I’m alright before he resumes typing. JT may have pushed me to be the one to handle this meeting with Jordan, but he’s hanging around in case I need him.
“Listen.” Jordan pulls out one of the wooden chairs, draping her jacket over the back and settling in while flipping open the cover on an iPad I didn’t even see her take out of her bag. “I’m going to tell you right off the bat that your brother has a lot of…” She pauses as if to think of
the best way to put what I’m sure were demands from E. “Opinions on how we should handle your recent uptick in social media presence.”
“I’m sure he does.” I shake my head as I take the seat perpendicular to her. “And that is one PC way to talk about trolls on the internet.”
“I am a professional.” She smirks and gives me a wink. Again, her calm, self-assured demeanor keeps me at ease instead of feeling like crawling out of my skin at the mere mention of social media.
It feels juvenile to worry about what people post about me on the internet, but I know firsthand the damage it can inflict on a person. Mason might have tried to trivialize what I went through…
“Were you even bullied? Or is that just some lie you used to get me to stop pushing the issue of posting about us on my social media?”
But no amount of doubting me and throwing being bullied back in my face will negate it.
Do I think E is overreacting by calling in Jordan? Yes, I already said so. But in the same breath, if I wasn’t worried about others knowing I’m his sister, I wouldn’t have kept parts of my life a secret.
A comforting hand curls around my wrist. “I know Eric didn’t hire me until after you were in the thick of things, but I remember the news articles and stories”—the contempt put behind that word tells me all I need to know about her opinion on gossip rags—“we helped bury to the back pages of the search results. Even if you want us for nothing else, my people will make sure that doesn’t change.”
Headlines flash through my brain like a movie montage of newspaper clippings and magazine articles. The drama surrounding the details of Dad’s death and the ensuing trial combined with the Liam cheating drama and subsequent bullying all added up to one hell of a bad made-for-TV movie. Thank god Lifetime never picked it up. I shudder at the thought.
“That’s good.” It is. The last thing I want is for people to be reminded of how badly I lost it and the extent of my breakdown. If only dredging up embellished, and sometimes fabricated, news stories was the only thing I had to contend with.
