The Score

by Elle Kennedy

  I’m trembling too, but I don’t know if it’s from the orgasmic aftershocks or the frigid breeze on my bare butt.

  When loud voices break the silence, I jump away from Dean and shove my dress down to my thighs. A peek behind the dumpster reveals shadowy figures ambling along the sidewalk. Not a single head turns toward the alley.

  I pick up my coat and hurriedly put it on as Dean tucks his still-hard cock into his pants. He flicks the condom in the dumpster and gives me a wary look.

  “What?” My voice doesn’t sound like my voice. It’s lower. Throatier.

  His gaze rakes over me from head to toe before locking with mine. “We’re not done,” he says gruffly.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and say, “I know.”

  19

  Allie

  According to Homeless Lou in Brooklyn, whenever you get a déjà vu, it’s simply a glitch that happens when aliens attempt to access your memories. I guess that’s what the little green men are up to now, because holy hell, déjà vu city.

  Friday night starts out the same way it did two weeks ago. I leave the fitness center with my gym bag in one hand and my phone in the other. There are three unread messages from Sean waiting for me.

  I read them and groan. He really, really needs to talk to me. Crap.

  Somehow I’ve successfully managed to avoid seeing him for two weeks. Sex with Dean has served as a great distraction, but tonight I don’t have that luxury. Dean is still at the rink for the Hurricanes game and he has plans with his friend Beau afterward.

  I need to decide what to do about Sean. Do I want to talk to him? Is there a point? I’m starting to think our previous breakups didn’t stick because we tried to remain friends afterward. That’s just a bad idea all around. You can’t be friends with an ex, at least not right away. Megan insists that a six-month no-contact period is required before you can even consider it.

  Not that Megan is a relationship expert. Last I talked to her, she was still seeing the thirty-seven-year-old doctor but keeps making up excuses for why she can’t meet his daughter. If she can’t communicate with him about her fears and concerns, how is that a recipe for a healthy relationship?

  But I should be focusing on my own love life right now. Well, ex love life, because I don’t love Sean McCall anymore. It’s scary how quickly it took for my feelings to fade.

  My mother used to say that time heals all wounds. That’s definitely true. The year after she died, just picturing her face would trigger a rush of gut-wrenching pain. Now when I think about her, it still hurts, but in a duller, bittersweet way. I miss her, but I don’t feel the urge to curl up in a ball and cry the day away.

  But that’s grief. I thought love would take longer to fade, which makes me wonder if maybe the process had begun long before Sean and I broke up. Maybe I fell out of love with him earlier and hadn’t realized it.

  And maybe coffee isn’t a terrible idea. I guess I can use it as an opportunity to gauge how my heart responds in his presence.

  I’m still debating as I walk up the stairs to the dorm. Bristol House only has four floors, so there’s no elevator, just four flights I have to climb while carting my gym bag.

  I exit the stairwell into the hall and freeze when I spot Sean sitting in front of my door.

  Once again, he’s taken the decision out of my hands.

  His head is bent over his phone, but it snaps up at the sound of my footsteps. Then he’s on his feet, walking toward me.

  My heart does respond, but not in the way I expected. Sean looks exactly the same—dark hair sticking out the sides of a backward Red Sox cap, deep brown eyes, clean-shaven face. Shouldn’t the sight of the boy I spent three years with make my heart ache?

  But all I feel is annoyance.

  “Don’t be mad,” he blurts out instead of saying hello. He’s obviously picked up on my displeasure. “I know I shouldn’t have shown up unannounced.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because you’re not answering any of my texts.” He shakes his head angrily. “We were together almost four years, Allie. You can’t even spare five minutes to talk to me?”

  “I didn’t have anything to say.” I unlock my door and dump my bag in the hall. When Sean tries to follow me inside, I frown and grip the edge of the door to deny him entrance.

  He scowls. “What, I’m not allowed to come in now?”

  “There’s no reason for you to come in. Say whatever you need to say, Sean.”

  “I’m not doing it out in the hall where the entire floor can hear me.”

  I draw a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m being so harsh right now. Maybe because seeing him just reminds me of the fight that led to our breakup. All the unfair, insensitive, cruel words he’d hurled my way.

  I force myself to exhale. I’m probably being extra snippy because this evening’s rehearsal sucked again. My breakneck pace on the treadmill hadn’t helped either.

  “Look, I desperately need a shower, so why don’t I meet you at the Coffee Hut in thirty minutes? We can talk there.”

  I can tell he’s still upset I won’t let him in, but he nods. “Fine. I could use a caffeine fix, I guess.”

  I nod back. “I’ll be there soon.” Then I close the door and lean against it for a few seconds. Shit, I don’t think I want to have this conversation, whatever it is.

  I wish Hannah were here so I could get her advice on how to handle this, but she’s at rehearsal. With her showcase coming up, I doubt I’ll be seeing much of her until the performance is out of her hair.

  In the shower, I remind myself that I broke up with Sean for a reason. Well, many reasons. We wanted different things from the future. I wasn’t happy. He was angry all the time.

  Bottom line, it was too much heartache and not enough reward. I like to think my mom would agree with me on that. Yes, she’d urged me to work hard at relationships, and yes, relationships do require effort, but they shouldn’t be hostile, right?

  I can’t imagine what Sean could possibly say that would make me reconsider.

  *

  Sean has snagged us a table in the back of the busy coffee shop, half hidden behind a huge ceramic planter with a fake fern fanning out of it. I don’t quite understand the décor of this place. There are way too many plants—are they going for a jungle theme? Eh, I don’t care. I love the way it smells like freshly ground coffee beans, and I’m grateful for the privacy.

  Sean slides a tall foam cup closer to me. “I got you coffee.” He smiles wryly. “Vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso.”

  This time, my heart does react accordingly, clenching hard. Of course he knows my coffee order. He knows everything about me, and vice versa. I don’t need to peek in his cup to know he’s drinking a medium roast, one cream, no sugar. And that the paper bag on the table contains a blueberry muffin, which is the only type of muffin he eats. When we were together, I forced him to try every muffin and pastry behind the counter, but he insisted that blueberry is the only flavor that “enchants” his taste buds.

  Fuck. Now I’m just sad.

  “How’ve you been?” he asks quietly.

  Oh no, we’re starting off with small talk? I wrap both hands around my cup to stop from fidgeting. “All right. You?”

  “Not the greatest, but…” He shrugs.

  I notice he looks tired. Is he not getting enough sleep? I bite back the question before it slips out. We’re not together anymore. His sleeping habits are no longer my concern.

  “I miss you,” he mumbles.

  I hastily sip my coffee. I don’t say it back, because the truth is…I don’t miss him. Right after we broke up, sure, of course I did. But since then, I’ve had other things on my mind. The play. Dean…

  When I don’t respond, he continues with a dejected look. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since you ended it. A lot of soul-searching.”

  I finally find my voice. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

  “I was thinking back to the last six
months, and I realized how badly I screwed up. I was such an ass to you, Allie.” His expression is earnest. “But now I know why.”

  My throat tightens. “Why?”

  “Because I was scared.”

  Aw shit. There’s vulnerability swimming in his eyes. I battle the overwhelming urge to reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

  It’s not my job to take care of him anymore.

  “You’ve had your entire future planned out since you were twelve. You knew exactly what you wanted to do, and that’s so fucking rare. Not a lot of people can say that.” His tone grows rueful. “I sure as hell can’t. I didn’t grow up dreaming about working for my dad’s insurance company. But it’s a guaranteed job, and not a lot of people have that, especially coming out of college, but it’s not like I’ve been chomping at the bit to go back to Vermont.”

  “You sure made it sound like you were,” I point out.

  “Because it’s the only option I have.” He sounds frustrated. “I was trying to get myself excited about it. And…honestly, picturing you there with me made the idea of going home more bearable. An easier pill to swallow, I guess. But it wasn’t fair to you. I had no right to insist that you sacrifice the future you want just so I could feel better about the future I’m stuck with.”

  I’m dumb-founded. Sean hadn’t given any indication that he didn’t want to be in Vermont, but I suppose that’s yet another sign of the communication breakdown between us.

  “You told me on our very first date that you planned on moving to LA after graduation. You kept telling me that, up until the moment we broke up.” He shakes his head, shame-faced. “But this summer I decided not to hear it anymore. I convinced myself that I was the most important thing in your life and you’d go wherever you had to in order to be with me.”

  “That’s not a fair expectation to have of anyone,” I say softly. “You can’t order someone to put your happiness ahead of their own.”

  “I know, and I was wrong to give you an ultimatum. I told you, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” He takes a breath. “I came to a few conclusions.”

  My stomach drops when he sticks one hand in his jacket pocket. Oh dear God. Please don’t let him pull out a velvet jeweler’s box.

  Is it crazy that I almost wish he’s going for a gun? That he plans on holding everyone hostage until I agree to get back together with him? For some screwed up reason, I think I’m better equipped to handle that than a proposal.

  But his hand emerges with a narrow envelope. He sets it on the tabletop.

  “What’s that?” I stare at the envelope as if it contains Anthrax.

  “Open it,” he urges.

  Fuckity fuck.

  “Please.”

  The sincerity in his tone causes me to cave. I pick up the envelope. It’s sealed, but the flap is tucked in so I use my fingernail to pry it out. I peek inside and see a single sheet of paper, which I extract and unfold as I fight my growing trepidation.

  Shock hits me first. Followed by suspicion. Followed by deep distress, because…what the heck am I supposed to say to this?

  I’m staring at a confirmation receipt for two airline tickets to Los Angeles, California. The flight departs the day after graduation.

  I bite my lip and lift my gaze to Sean’s.

  “You and me, baby,” he says fervently. “This is what I should’ve done in the first place. It was stupid to try and force you to move to Vermont. What I needed to do was swallow my pride and move to LA. With you.”

  Oh God. Why did I insist on meeting in public? Public is bad. Public means everyone is about to witness Sean’s agony and humiliation when I say—

  “No.”

  Uncertainty passes over his face. “What?”

  “You’re not coming to LA with me.”

  Sean’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. I give him a moment to digest what I just said. Unfortunately, it’s the same moment my phone buzzes. I dig around in my purse and…wonderful, a text from Dean.

  Him: Game’s done. Hurricanes rocked it like a hurricane. Beau can’t meet up til later. Quickie?

  God, I wish.

  Me: Can’t. In the middle of something brutal over here.

  “Why not?” Sean finally asks.

  “Because…” I’m distracted.

  Him: Everything ok?

  Me: Yeah. Having coffee with Sean.

  There’s an interminably long delay.

  Sean is still waiting for me to answer. I’m waiting for Dean to answer. I realize I probably shouldn’t have said anything to Dean, but I’d been typing on autopilot.

  He comes back with:

  WTF?

  Me: I know *sigh* I’ll explain everything later, k?

  There’s no response after that, and Sean is looking increasingly irritated. “Who are you texting?” he demands.

  “Hannah,” I lie.

  The worst part about dating someone for as long as I dated Sean? They always know when you’re lying.

  “Bullshit.” Anger infuses his eyes, dark and fierce. “Is it that guy? The one you slept with?”

  “No, it’s not.” This time I don’t care if he sees through the lie. “And even if it was, it’s none of your business. We’re broken up.” I take a breath. “And that’s the reason you can’t come to LA with me.”

  Sean’s mouth flattens. His face and neck take on a deep flush. Even the tips of his ears are red. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I just think…it’s time we moved on from each other.”

  “Move on from each other, or move on to other people?” His snotty tone raises my hackles. “Like this guy whose name you won’t tell me?”

  I could be a jerk and toss out another “it’s none of your business.” I could also philosophize and give him the whole “if you love someone, let them go” spiel.

  I do neither. I simply slide the tickets toward him and say, “I’m sorry. I hope you’re able to get a refund for these. And I really hope you figure out what your passion is, whether it’s working for your dad or doing something else.” Damn it, I’m choking up. “I really do want the best for you, Sean. I want you to be happy.”

  He doesn’t answer. He sits there. Stone-faced.

  I scrape my chair back. My hands shake as I put on my coat. I don’t bother telling him we can still be friends, because I know he doesn’t want to hear that right now. Besides, I’m not about to make any promises I might be unable to keep.

  “Bye, Sean,” I say softly.

  *

  Twenty-four hours after my heartbreaking encounter with my ex-boyfriend, it becomes glaringly obvious that Dean is giving me the silent treatment.

  I texted him after I left the coffeehouse, asking if he still wanted to meet up.

  No answer.

  I texted again later to ask if he went out with Beau.

  No answer.

  I texted to say goodnight.

  No answer.

  I texted to say good morning.

  No answer.

  Now, as I sit on my bed, home alone on a Saturday night, I’m finding it hard to cut Dean any slack. Last night, I was fully willing to take responsibility. Of course Dean had assumed the worst when he found out I was with Sean, and I don’t blame him for getting pissy about it. A few hours of sulking is a perfectly reasonable reaction to thinking I might’ve gotten back together with my ex.

  But twenty-four hours? That’s bullshit. If Dean is mad at me, fine, let him be mad. If he’s done with me, fine, I guess he’s done. At least have the balls to tell me. Ignoring someone until they get the “hint” is downright insulting, and I don’t have patience for that.

  I grab my laptop from the nightstand because I desperately need a distraction right now, and nothing is more distracting than watching adorable videos on YouTube. Hopefully there’s a baby giraffe out there that decided to cough, or a baby hippo that felt like splashing around in a pond.

  Somehow I end up on Twitter. And gee, look at th
at. Dean is alive. Now he can’t use “I was dead” as an excuse for why he’s snubbing me, because a Briar student is live tweeting tonight’s home game and just mentioned a “Di Laurentis” goal.

  I close the browser and hop off the bed. Maybe I’m a masochist, but seeing Dean’s name makes me want to see Dean. I want answers, damn it. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me if the fling is over.

  It takes me nearly thirty minutes to walk to the arena, which is on the opposite end of Briar’s huge campus. At the ticket booth, I flash my student ID to get the discount rate. The student teller says, “Standing room only” as she slides a ticket under the glass.

  A minute later, I’m in the area reserved for standing patrons. The second period just started.

  I peer at the ice trying to remember Dean’s jersey number. My mind draws a blank, so instead I scan the names on the back of the black-and-silver jerseys. Dean’s surname contains so many letters it should be easy to spot, but nope, I’m not seeing him on the ice. Maybe his line isn’t playing right now? But he doesn’t seem to be sitting on the home bench either.

  Weird.

  On a whim, I open Twitter on my phone and search for the profile I was following earlier. Maybe @BriarBryan38 tweeted some updates when I was walking over. I skim the most recent posts until one catches my eye.

  My heart promptly lurches to my throat.

  Dean was thrown out of the game.

  20

  Dean

  I sit in the empty locker room, head down, shoulders hunched. Valiantly trying not to grab the nearest item—which happens to be my helmet—and hurl it at the wall. The knuckles of my right hand are cracked and bleeding thanks to the violent uppercut I unleashed at the St. Anthony’s forward, but I press my palms against my thighs and let the blood soak into my hockey pants.

  I despise those fuckers from St. Anthony’s. Our teams are long-time rivals, so whenever we play each other, tension and smack talk are to be expected. But the hostility has gotten worse over the past two years. And a couple weeks ago, a bunch of St. A’s guys had messed with one of Grace’s friends, taking away her phone and refusing to let her leave their seedy motel room.