Dear Jane

by Kendall Ryan

  “Dude, chill,” Colin says.

  But Alex just shakes his head. “This isn’t about you. It’s about this prick right here.”

  I lower my voice. “You might want to back off.”

  “No, I don’t think I do. I think I want to take you outside and beat the hell out of you.”

  “I get it, okay?” I snap. “I fucked up royally. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business, asshole! She’s my friend, and I won’t let y—” The way Alex does a double-take and stares at me is almost funny. “Wait . . . what? You admit it?”

  “Yeah. The rest is between me and her, so quit riding my ass.”

  Alex throws his hands in the air. “Whatever, man. As long as you make it up to her.”

  “I will as soon as you fuck off and let me finish my dinner.”

  Alex flips me the bird as he goes, but at least he leaves.

  Colin lets out a baffled laugh. “Well, that sure was something.”

  “No kidding.” I raise my fork to my lips, then stop again when I hear a commotion from the lobby. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. What now?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Colin mumbles through a mouthful of his cheesesteak sandwich.

  Maybe so, but Jane is in the mix, and I can never stay uninvolved when it comes to her.

  I stand up. “I think I’m done eating anyway. I’m going to go check it out.”

  Colin grunts in acknowledgment and swallows. “Does that mean I can have the rest of your fries?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I say over my shoulder as I make a beeline to the lobby.

  Jane and two players are blocking the elevator. One of them, who I recognize as our fullback, Woodruff, is in the middle of an enthusiastic explanation, arms waving and everything.

  “I could’ve sworn I packed them, but they’re just gone, and I should’ve been in bed half an hour ago, and—”

  The other one, a cornerback named Ramirez, interjects. “Seriously, he’s got to get at least ten hours of sleep or he’s gonna play like shit.”

  Woodruff frowns at him. “Shut up, man.”

  Jane holds up her hand with a weary expression. “Guys, please relax. I’ll go out and buy some right now, and you can go on to bed. Everything is going to be fine.”

  “What’s going on?” I say as I catch up to them.

  “My lucky socks,” Woodruff almost yells. “The left one has to be black and the right one has to be orange. I don’t know what the fuck happened to the pair I usually bring.”

  I hold back a snort. Lots of football players are superstitious about that sort of thing. I really shouldn’t laugh at his pain, but it’s hard not to see the humor in a grown-ass man hollering about socks in the middle of a hotel lobby.

  “Which is why I’m going to run to the store right now and buy replacements as soon as everyone lets me get out of here.” Jane gives the two players a pointed look, placing her hands on her slim hips.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say. It’s late, after all, and I know from years of living here that Philly isn’t the world’s safest city.

  Her expression frosts over the instant she looks at me.

  I don’t like what I glimpse in her eyes . . . she’s not wary, exactly, but her guard is up, as if she’s expecting to have to dodge unpleasantness. The thought that I’m hurting her just by being around her settles as a bitter lump in the pit of my stomach.

  I glance back at Colin sitting in the hotel restaurant. Maybe I should ask him to go with her instead. I’m not wild about that idea, but at least she’d be protected.

  “Fine, whatever,” she says.

  I blink at her. “Really?”

  “Come if you want. I don’t care.” She turns on her heel and heads into the hall.

  I join her in the elevator just before the doors close. I follow her through the lobby and the parking lot to the team’s black minivan.

  “Good thing Mr. Flores always rents us a car during away games,” I say, trying to break the ice.

  “He likes to be prepared for emergencies,” Jane says, as deadpan as if she’s reading from an employee manual.

  “Emergencies like lucky socks?” I joke.

  She doesn’t reply, just fishes the keys out of her pocket. “Here, I know you always want to drive. I can navigate.”

  Does she know me? It’s been ten years. She’s right, though. I do still prefer being in the driver’s seat.

  “Sure, thanks.” I hold out my hand.

  She drops the keys into it, not touching me.

  We get in, and I pull out of the lot while she pokes at her phone, trying to find somewhere to buy socks at nine thirty in the goddamn evening. For a long time, we roll along the Philadelphia streets in silence, broken only by Jane occasionally giving me terse directions.

  I can’t help but remember the last time I drove her around like this. The summer after I graduated from high school, before everything fell apart . . .

  Jane beside me, windows rolled down, her amber hair whipping around in the warm breeze, her smile glowing brighter than the August sun. Us together, laughing, stealing kisses, murmuring sweet nothings, making foolish teenage plans for the blissful future we were so sure lay ahead of us.

  This atmosphere couldn’t be more different now. It’s as tense and painful as a cramped muscle.

  I try to break the ice with the first question that pops into my head. “So, uh, how long have you been working for the Hawks?”

  She doesn’t even glance up from her phone. “Since college.”

  “Do you like Mr. Flores? Is he a good manager?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “How’s . . . uh . . .” I rack my brain for a way to finish that sentence.

  Being friends with Alex? She’ll think I’m trying to revive our fight.

  Working with your dad? No, that’ll seem like a dig too, like I’m insinuating she inherited her job instead of earning it. And I know what working with Ken Royce is like just as well as Jane does. Not only is he my boss now, he was practically a father to me growing up—he got me into football, taught me how to throw a perfect spiral, listened to all the teenage problems my real dad didn’t stick around to hear.

  She says nothing, letting me flounder.

  Fuck it. “Seen any good movies lately?”

  “No.”

  She’s clearly determined not to give me anything more than driving directions. I give up on small talk for now and just drive.

  Jane stares out the passenger side window. Occasionally, she glances at me, but whenever I look back, she hurriedly turns away again.

  This is ridiculous. We can’t go on like this. We can’t work together if we can barely talk. And not that I’d ever tell anyone, but the constant awareness that she’s upset makes my chest tight.

  No more procrastinating . . . I need to smooth things over. Several times, I open my mouth to start, only to stall out at the last second.

  God, why is this so hard?

  “Listen,” I finally blurt.

  Jane looks at me. “What?”

  Well, I can’t back out now. I have to finish what I’ve started.

  I stare straight ahead at the road as I mutter, “At the, uh, party last night . . . I shouldn’t have accused you of fucking Alex.”

  Her eyes widen slightly. But she doesn’t speak, just watches me. Maybe she’s trying to figure out if my apology is sincere. I don’t know. The only thing that’s clear is she’s waiting for me to finish talking.

  “What I mean is . . .” I rake my hand through my hair. “Whether you’ve fucked him or not doesn’t matter. You can fuck or not fuck whoever you want. It’s none of my business anymore.” Stop saying fuck, you idiot. I clamp my lips shut.

  For a moment, she just blinks at me. “Thanks?” she says, sounding confused and still very much unimpressed. “I’m so glad I have your permission. I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m making bedroom-related decisions.”

  “Dammit, don’t
be like that. I’m trying to apologize, and you’re just crapping all over it,” I snap before I can get a hold of myself.

  Her lips press into a tight line. She scoffs low and angry in her throat. “Then maybe figure out a better apology.”

  I fight down the angry retort boiling on the back of my tongue and force myself to just breathe for a minute before we get into another knock-down, drag-out fight.

  The thought of anybody else in Jane’s bedroom feels like a knife in my gut, but that’s not her problem to solve. I need to suck it up and get over it. Her life is her own . . . and I’m not part of it. That ended a long time ago.

  I grind my teeth. “What I should’ve said is just, I’m sorry. I went up to talk to you because I wanted shit to be less awkward at work, and then I ended up yelling at you and making everything even more awkward. I made it all about me and got personal when I should’ve stayed professional. I promise to try not to act like such a dickhead from now on.”

  She blinks at me. It’s hard to see details clearly in the alternating bars of shadow and dim streetlight, especially while I’m trying to watch the road at the same time. But I think I see her expression soften.

  Finally, she says quietly, “Thank you.” She twirls her hair around her finger. “I, uh, wasn’t exactly using my indoor voice either.”

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t have kept my cool if someone had said that stuff to me.”

  She hums, sounding mollified. My shoulders slowly start to unknot as we drive on. Maybe things between us still aren’t great, but the atmosphere in the car has definitely lightened.

  She reaches for the radio dial and turns on a rap song that was popular when we were in high school. I can’t help the smile that overtakes my face. It feels like a sign.

  Jane reaches for the radio again, but I stop her.

  “Leave it.”

  “Yeah?” she asks, her voice unsure.

  “Yeah. Haven’t heard this in forever.”

  She settles back in her seat, her slender fingers drumming out the beat on her thigh.

  “You used to love this song, right?” I ask.

  Jane flashes me that pretty smile of hers I used to love, but this time, it’s more guarded than I remember.

  “Still do.”

  Chapter Five

  Jane

  It’s ten years later and I’m back where it all started—with me sitting in Weston Chase’s passenger’s seat.

  Granted, it’s a rental van now, not the old blue pickup truck he used to drive, the one I could hear rumbling from two blocks away when he came to pick me up for Saturday-night dates. We had our first kiss in that truck, and a few other firsts too, since getting privacy with our parents always around was next to impossible.

  For four years, I sat shotgun while he drove, and now we’re back in the very same position. Different car, same shit. It almost feels like old times.

  The familiarity is sweet. He has all the same quirks, like the way he triple-checks that I have my seat belt on, and how he drums the steering wheel with his thumbs at red lights. It’s crazy how little he’s changed in some ways, especially with how much he’s changed physically.

  He was far from scrappy in high school—he was still a football player, after all—but he definitely has to shift the seat a lot farther back now to make room for all of him. Six foot three and two hundred fifteen pounds of pure, unadulterated muscle. Any other guy that built would intimidate the crap out of me, yet I don’t feel that way with Wes at all.

  Even when he had me cornered outside the bathroom at Colin’s house, I wasn’t afraid of him. Angry, yes, but never intimidated. But now I have an apology for that. That’s another way he’s changed. In high school, Wes never would have apologized the way he did tonight. He used to be so stubborn. I guess he really has grown up in more ways than one.

  A thousand forbidden memories flood my mind at once. Sweet kisses and whispered promises. And something more specific lodges itself in my brain, unreeling like a forgotten film. Weston balancing on his forearms above me while I lay spread out in his bed. With his mom working late that particular July night, we dared to undress each other completely, lounging in bed together, taking our time. It was much different from our hurried encounters in his truck.

  Wes’s lips met mine, his tongue invading my mouth, and I eagerly kissed him back. I was so eager for it all. And when his hands moved to the clasp of my bra, I lifted off the mattress, allowing him to remove the last stitch of clothing between us. His gaze tracked hotly down my body.

  “Fuck . . .” His tone was reverent and sent my pulse skittering. “You’re perfect.”

  One rough palm caressed my breast, and I let out a groan.

  “I can’t not touch these.” He grinned.

  “Yes. Touch me.”

  After that, it was game over. He worshiped my body from head to toe, kissing and sucking on my breasts until I was writhing beneath him. Then he spent a long time between my legs, learning what I liked, how to touch me, how to make me come against his hand, and then his mouth.

  He was so eager, and I was happy to let him learn. He elicited responses from my body I didn’t even know I had, found places that made me whimper and call out his name. Nibbling on my inner thighs, then sucking my clit, petting it with his tongue. Calloused fingers massaging my breasts, finding sensitive spots on my wrists. My neck exploited with soft, sucking kisses that made me moan.

  I know that teenage boys aren’t known for their sexual prowess, and Wes wasn’t perfect, but he was enthusiastic about pleasing me, and that made all the difference.

  When he finally rolled on a condom, I’d already come twice and was so wet and ready, I pulled him closer. And then the broad head of him penetrated me for the first time while his lips stayed glued to mine. It hurt, but not as bad as I expected it to, and Wes let out the most delicious-sounding groan in the world.

  Burying his soft-stubbled cheek against my neck, he took a deep, stuttering breath, stilling inside me. “Don’t fucking move. I want to make this last.”

  But those words were futile, because after an hour of foreplay and then only a half dozen thrusts of his hips, he groaned out his release, filling the condom.

  We laughed together after that, me teasing him, and him promising me a better performance next time. But the truth was, I didn’t care one bit that my first sexual encounter lasted all of forty-five seconds. I felt cherished and beautiful and completely loved from my head to my toes.

  “You okay over there?” he asks, drawing me from my thoughts.

  I draw a shaky inhale and nod.

  As we’re waiting for the light to change, Wes fusses with the radio for a bit, changing it from a commercial until he lands on a station that’s playing more old-school hip hop.

  “You still into rap?” he asks, then snickers when he sees I’m already mouthing the lyrics along with the beat. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “GPS says we’ll be there in five minutes,” I say, referring to the directions to the nearest Walmart that I’ve got pulled up on my phone.

  “Perfect. Long enough for the song to change so you can prove it’s not a fluke that you know all the words to this one.”

  I gladly accept his challenge. When the next song comes on, I don’t just mouth the lyrics, I rap along. It’s something I usually only do when I’m in the car by myself, but I feel so totally comfortable that I just go for it.

  Wes hums along to the parts he knows, soaking in my performance, just like he used to do way back when. It all feels so easy, so natural.

  We pull into the parking lot just as the song ends.

  “All right, let’s find some damn socks,” Wes says as he pulls the key from the ignition.

  I grab a basket on the way into the store, half by instinct and half because I’m notorious for leaving big-box stores like this with a dozen things I don’t need. The layout here is different from our Walmart at home, and a quick once-over of the place offers me zero clues as to where we’re
going to find these socks.

  “Maybe we should ask someone,” I say, but Wes immediately shoots that idea down.

  “We don’t need help. I can find it,” he says gruffly.

  I roll my eyes. Men.

  It doesn’t take long before we’re totally lost, wandering aimlessly through the dairy aisle in pursuit of the menswear section.

  “Remember how you used to dip Doritos in cream cheese?” I giggle, picking up a family-size tub.

  Wes stops dead in his tracks and swivels his head toward me, his brow scrunched down. “Uh, what do you mean, used to?”

  I nearly drop the cream cheese in surprise. “You’re joking, right? You don’t still eat that grossness.”

  Wes’s toned forearms ripple as he crosses his arms over his chest, taking a power stance. “Come on. I can’t have one guilty pleasure?”

  “You are so disgusting!” I roll my eyes, tossing the tub of cream cheese into my basket and making a mental note to grab a few bags of Doritos before we leave. Without any sense of direction in here, I’m sure we’ll end up in the chip aisle before long.

  After a few more laps around the store, my basket is filled with anything but socks. Two big bags of Doritos for Wes, a box of my favorite oatmeal cream cookies, and a six-pack of beer that Wes claims is “just in case.”

  We finally find our way to our target destination—the completely unorganized racks of men’s socks. Splitting up for the sake of time, each of us takes a rack in a race to find the socks that fit the description we were given. Wes wins, emerging with two pairs in the right size, one in black and one in neon orange.

  “Might as well buy both,” I say, and Wes tosses both pairs into our basket.

  After we check out, he insists on carrying the bags back to the car. I guess he’s learned a bit more chivalry in the ten years we’ve been apart.

  The radio starts up playing a wild dance beat as Wes turns the key in the ignition. I would recognize this intro beat anywhere. It’s a classic from our high school days. I remember dancing to this song at prom, and making out in Wes’s truck with this beat playing through his old busted speakers.