Almost

by Anne Eliot

  “No, and I didn't get fired, either.” Coach Williams shakes his head and paces the length of the stage before returning to face me. “You sacrificed yourself, son. No one asked you to quit the team. Next year is the last chance for you to undo the personal damage you created because of your stubborn impulsiveness. I know you still practice. A lot.”

  I cringe a little at that. His words—the truth—make me angry again; but we both know he's still talking crap. There's no way to undo any of the damage.

  When I don't answer, Coach goes on, “You're good enough to gain a solid scholarship. I've heard you're holding up great on ice. And your inline wins are always top reporting these days. You're a high profile player and with that, you'd get noticed by top coaches—”

  “Whatever, that's none of your business. I won't be bought out.”

  Coach Williams shrugs. “Your choice. In the meantime, I have to ask you not to participate in that ridiculous contract between you and Jess.”

  “This contract is going to help me pay for my first semester at college minus your ‘strings attached’ offers. I'm convinced it's going to help Jess big-time as well. If I handle it right, I think I can get her to come out of her shell, make some friends, be happier than she seems now at least. Money aside, I would never do anything to hurt her. I've only ever wanted to help. You must know my intentions are still the same where she's concerned.”

  Coach nods, his gaze is wary, but he seems to be hearing me. “Are Jess's parents aware of this?”

  “Hell no, they aren't. They won't even know my name. Didn't you read the whole thing?”

  He nods, and I laugh then because I'm sure Coach Williams' read it more than once. He's probably got this thing tattooed to his ass, in blood.

  “Why does she want this?”

  “Jess believes that without some semblance of a ‘normal summer’ under her belt, her parents won't let her move out and go to college.”

  “That sounds like her parents talking, not her.”

  “Nope. It's all her. She wants out. Jess should get to move on with her life and become a better person, also. Don't you agree?” I throw his words back into his face. “If I can give her that, I will. Don't ruin it. You owe her something too.”

  “But what about you? It's not like you to participate in anything so underhanded.”

  “It's not underhanded if she doesn't remember. If I'm helping her. If she asked ME. Besides, I stopped being a ‘better person’ when I messed up everything that night. You think I'm doing this just for her? I want to make up for some of that. I'm tired of feeling guilty. Aren't you?”

  “Jesus, son. None of what happened was your fault, or mine. None of it. What if she remembers? Gray, you're putting me in a terrible position. I have to tell her parents.”

  “It's summer. You're off duty as of Friday. This has nothing to do with you. Me, dating Jess, will not occur on school property. You can check in with her any time while you run your practices at the complex. She'll be hanging around the rink and the snack bar. Safe. With me. If she remembers, then I promise to tell her the truth. It's simple. Give me a chance to step in and try to help. Please. If she hasn't remembered anything in three years or in the last week of hanging nose to nose with me, then she's not going to remember at all.”

  Coach Williams lets out a long, tired sounding breath of air. “Okay. I'll be watching. But you need to promise me one thing.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Make sure you help her get some sleep during the day.”

  “Why?” My mind is overtaken with the image of Jess snuggled up in her car at Geekstuff.com—of the image of her ashen face during the interview and yesterday after school.

  “You can find that out on your own. Mess anything up, hurt her once, and it's over. This stays strictly on the friend level. I mean that, Porter. Don't step over the line with her.”

  I hate his threatening tone, and I hate that he knows more about Jess than I do. “I'm already more than her friend. As of yesterday, I'm her boyfriend. I will cross any line I want. You can keep this copy for reference.”

  I throw the wadded up contract into his chest as hard as I can.

  He catches it without a blink.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jess

  ...

  You're a very lucky girl.

  Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

  I thought he was nice.

  C'mon. Dude. Let's get out of here.

  What've you done? You're an asshole.

  Nothing. Nothing happened. I didn't do anything. I swear she wanted this.

  Wait. Please. Please. Don't leave me here.

  I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…I can't untie the knot…

  It's not her fault. Jess, none of this is your fault.

  But it is. I believed him when he called me beautiful.

  Nothing happened. Not really.

  I'm so sorry.

  You're a lucky, lucky girl.

  ...

  I'm covered in a fine sheen of sweat, about to vomit, but grateful to be awake.

  When I sleep through the nightmare—when I make it to the part where my parents are standing around me and I'm in a hospital bed—then everyone in the house hears me crying in my sleep.

  Everyone except me, that is.

  I'd almost been to that point. I strain to listen for any footsteps or sounds that might alert me to my parents lurking in the hallway. The towel is still in place where I'd stuffed it under the door to block out any sounds I might make, so that means no one peeked in here either. Thankfully all is silent save for my racing heart. I allow the fear and voices crawling through every inch of my soul to wash over me so the rest of it can play out as quickly as possible.

  As the spinning stops, I stare at my jellyfish lamp and count. Tonight, the words from the nightmare are worse—louder than ever. Repeating. Rocketing through my head.

  Lucky. Lucky. Lucky girl. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

  I haven't heard them this clearly in almost two years.

  The words belong to the people who were present the night I was drunk and almost raped freshman year. The night I snuck out to a party, lied to my parents, got drunk and brought all of this on myself. The nightmares and the voices are my memories. Or what's left of them.

  It's always me, floating in and out of varied versions of the same scene.

  I'm half-naked sometimes. Often, I'm all wrapped up in a white sheet. Usually there's two faceless guys talking. The policeman is always around too. Sometimes, a nurse, and if I don't wake up, my parents appear when it moves to a hospital room.

  In the nightmare, I'm forced to be everyone. I'm observing each moment from very far away—like it's on a small TV monitor. But as it unfolds, it's my own voice that's been dubbed over the words everyone else spoke that night.

  It's freaky, but whatever. It's a nightmare. They're supposed to be horrible, right?

  I work to sit up, still counting, and rest my chin on my knees so I can watch my nightlight better. The three tiny jellyfish spin aimlessly up and down, up and down, in their water-filled tank. The tentacles are almost distinguishable.

  Almost. Almost.

  How I hate that word and the way it defines me. Almost raped. Almost over it. Almost normal. Much, much worse: a night I can almost remember. Almost forget.

  I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. Even though everyone says it wasn't my fault, I feel responsible. How can none of my messed up life be my fault? I did wrong. I broke all the rules. And I'm paying the consequences for my ‘bad choices’ in this endless time-out. Nightmare. Punishment.

  My parents used to make us do time-outs on a little bench in the front hallway. Mom and Dad's price for misbehaving: sit on the bench one minute for every year ‘old’ we were.

  Six years old, six minutes.

  Ten years old, ten minutes.

  This used to really make me mad, because I'm four years older than Kika and she always got free four minutes earlier for the same
crime.

  A few months ago, as one of my stay-awake-projects, I ran the numbers on my current time-out. There are 52,560 minutes in every non-leap year. Multiply that number times the three years I've been stuck in this stupid limbo. Officially—according to the rules in this house—I've been doing time for my bad behavior at that party for 1,576,800 minutes.

  This means, I'm 1,576,800 years old. Sometimes, when every inch of my body aches like it does now—when I can't see straight from wishing I could sleep at night—I think that number is dead on.

  Mom was way off when she'd called me a skeleton impersonator the other night. Ghost would have been a way better word. That's what I'll become if I can't regain control over my sleep schedule, and make the nightmare go back to a reasonable level.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gray

  “A different name for me? Hmm. That's going to be weird,” I say, motioning to the door of the minuscule office Jess and I have been assigned to share. “Can you move into the hall? I need to put this desk against the wall you've been holding up with your back.”

  I'm joking, but I'm also serious. Worried as hell about her, actually. She looks really pale and fragile again—like how she looked the day we made the contract.

  I step around a box overflowing with brand new office supplies and shove it to the side. Clearing the way for her to exit more easily. She trades one leaning spot for another and props her weight against the door. I know I won't be able to concentrate unless she sits down. Rests. Sleeps? I grab one of the wheeled office chairs and traverse the mess with it to set it near her.

  “This chair is also in my way,” I add, pausing to scan her face up close. “Maybe you can drag this out into the hall and just hang while I finish?”

  She makes no move to touch the chair. “I'm good.”

  I'm certain she's lying. Coach's words haunt me as I scan the etched circles under her eyes. They're so dark today they look like bruises. Does Jess need to sleep, even now? It's not like I can ask directly, or call her on her answer. It's going to take some time before I can just know if she's having a bad day or not.

  I wish she'd talk about herself. Most girls usually have no problem doing that. I've already deciphered that Jess is not like other girls. Her eyes haven't left the chair.

  “Might as well take a load off,” I encourage again. “This is going to take me a bit, plus I could use the extra twenty inches of space.”

  “Yeah, but you're doing all the work. I can't just sit and do nothing.”

  “Only one of us can fit in here while the big stuff is moved around. I don't mind being the grunt. I'm the paid employee. Remember?”

  “Oh, I remember.” Her tone is dry and possibly sarcastic, but I see her flush. She turns away to thankfully, pull the chair out into the hallway and sit. She lets out a sigh that sounds relieved. When she leans into the seat I'm unexplainably happy and relieved.

  I pretend to ignore her and shove the long, rectangular workstation into the center of the windowless office we've been given. It's down in the basement near the shipping department. Takes five minutes just to find it. Mr. Foley told us not to worry about the tight space or the bad location. The office is supposed to be more of a room to store our things and a place to learn the database. Apparently, once we get through that, we'll be assigned to special projects and work in the one of the larger warehouses. According to the smug dude I'd met in the employee lounge this morning, the summer slaves (as he called us) were usually stuck working on the jobs no one else wanted. Whatever. Bring it on. I can't wait.

  “Names,” I call over my shoulder. “Let's get it over with. What are you thinking I should be called? I'm terrified,” I joke. “Name me Edward, or Peeta, or Prince Charming, and I swear—I'll quit.”

  She laughs and it takes all of my strength not to look toward that sparkling sound. “We need to pull a real guy's name from our class,” she says. “Once my mom latches onto the idea of me being into a guy—she's going to head straight for my yearbook and look him up. Kika will be right behind her turning the pages. Plus, I'm going to have to add you to the contacts in my iPhone. Right now when you text me, I have you listed as InternshipGuy. Meaning you aren't really anyone to me, yet. That has to change soon because my mom and sister have started tracking that already.” Jess holds up this year's yearbook. “Let's just choose someone, anyone, I guess.”

  I glance up and watch her half-heartedly flipping through pages. “What if I think who you choose is a downgrade? Pick someone cool, or at least good looking,” I joke.

  “Did you really say that? You're so smug about how you look. Must be nice to be so perfectly put together.”

  “Ooh. You did not just say that.” I smile and pause to rest. Does she really think that? “Might I return the compliment, Miss Jordan? Love the pencils you stuck in your bun. I can honestly say I've never seen any girl look hot in what appears to be…a 1940's school teacher outfit?”

  “Shut up. I was not complimenting you, and we both know this outfit was selected to deter all hotness.” She fingers one of the long, stick things coming out of her bun. “These are not pencils. They're a Geekstuff.com product called Sushi-hair. These chopstick bun makers are top sellers. DUH. How did you make it to the second interview round again?”

  “Must have been something about my looks.” I wink.

  “God.” She's turned bright red. “FYI, I do not need your ridiculous player-charm to be turned on all the time.” She slams the yearbook shut and places it in front of her like she means to use it as a shield against me.

  I can't help but tease her a bit more. “Maybe it's you that has all the moves, not me. When you say FYI like that, and then shoot me the hateful-looks my heart kind of melts. FYI back. You don't have to work so hard to catch my attention, chopstick-bun girl. We're already dating,” I finish, loving the way her eyes snap at me.

  “Seriously?” She's sputtering now. “I really want to hit you. You swore no more joking like that.”

  I take in the tense set of her face and realize she's truly upset, so I tone it down. “Right. Sorry…jokes getting out of hand again. If you really have the urge.” I point to my left cheek. “Do your worst. No extra charge. I'm sure I deserve it.” I tear my gaze away from her distracting chop-stick bun, pink face, cute freckles—adorable pursed lips.

  Hell. I'm positive. I deserve to be punched.

  I think I just stared at her lips so long I wonder if she noticed where my focus had been stuck? I turn away to pull the desk out another foot, but my imagination flashes to the line of her neck, then back to her lips. She has really cute lips.

  The blood in my head and body is pounding in a way that is about to have me really embarrassed.

  “Finished,” I say, refusing to look up as I force my interest and thoughts away from the beautiful girl in the room and onto the office supplies in front of me.

  Pencils, printer, pens, paper.

  Staples. Staples. Staples.

  It's working.

  “We can now easily share this desk. Let's set up our supplies,” I say as though I'm still on track, as though I've been able to erase the image of her lips from my mind.

  Inside I'm screaming: printer cartridge, paperclip holder and paperclips!

  “Do we have any other choice than this?” She swallows, looking supremely uncomfortable and if possible, she's paler than she was five minutes ago. She's surveying my desk set up.

  “What's wrong?”

  “We'll be, like…two feet apart, and staring at each other. Kind of too close don't you think?”

  Hell yes. Too damn close, I think, before saying, “We'll have the monitors back to back. You'll see. It will create a sense of privacy. Plus, it's not as if I don't shower every day,” I sneak in another joke, hoping to put a smile back on her very worried face.

  “No…it's not that.” She looks at me, through me, into me.

  I can't breathe.

  “It's going to be fine, right?” she whispers.

/>   Her gaze is so open I think I can see all the way to her broken heart.

  Does she mean the desk or the whole summer?

  Either way, I only want to erase this terrified look from her face. “Fine? Fine?” I grin. “It's going to be perfect, Jess Jordan, girl-who-worries-way-too-much. The signs of greatness are all here. Look at these babies.” I pat the brand new twenty-seven inch Macintosh computers Mr. Foley brought us. “These boxes alone should make both of us scream like it's Christmas morning! Snap out of it. Santa came! Now we get to play with all of our toys!”

  She laughs and appears to relax. “They are over the top, aren't they? I hope I don't hurt your feelings when I get mad at you for your…jokes. I'm just getting used to all this banter. I don't talk this much, to anyone. And the flirting, even though I know it's not real—that you're just pretending—trying to do your boyfriend thing.” She flushes. “But it's, um, very weird for me. Besides, I'm sure it's inappropriate at work. Can we put a hold on that kind of stuff until we're used to each other?”

  “Uh…yeah.” I swallow. “I suppose that's what I've been doing…practicing…flirting with you. You sure you want me to stop? Practice makes perfect. Plus, it's pretty weird for me too,” I quip, knowing I wasn't practicing. I'd simply forgotten.

  Forgotten she wasn't just any girl that I had a crush on. I turn and crack open one of the Macintosh boxes, pull out her computer and set it on her side of the desk.

  “Honestly, it seems like you don't need to practice at all. Like you're a natural. So…how about you only do that when it's important, okay? Like when people are looking. And only after we are ‘official’?”

  “Right. Makes sense.” I nod, wondering if any of this will ever make sense.

  “Thanks. And…just thanks for understanding.”

  “You draw the lines and call the shots. I might joke around, but I promise to be a gentleman, okay? I don't want you to feel weird…or like I'm going to take advantage of you. I won't. Swear. Remember? We promised to trust each other.”