by CJ Martín
I nod as we both plop onto the threadbare carpet that we pilfered from Mrs. Kennedy’s trash years ago. “How have you been?” I ask, the question laced with meaning.
“Good,” he says. “I’m glad to be back at my mom’s. She’s having a hard time. My gram’s house still hasn’t sold, so it’s a lot for her and my aunt to take care of.”
“It will,” I say optimistically, even though the house is in the middle of nowhere and needs upgrading. “Are you really doing okay?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “I promise.”
“Good.” I poke his stomach. “Now, fill me in on everything, Jesse.”
“Lily and I broke up.” He exhales once.
“What happened?” Truthfully, I’m not surprised. For one, Jesse doesn’t do long-term relationships, and after their rather awkward goodbye before his gram’s funeral, I’m shocked they lasted this long.
“Nothing. It’s just…” He shakes his head. “How about you? How’s Dave Thomas?”
“Stop!” I swat his chest. “That joke was funny the first five times.”
He smiles. “I’m gonna start calling you Wendy.” My eyes widen but he continues, “You do have red hair.”
“Seriously?”
He laughs again but then becomes more serious. “How are you really?” The sincere way he speaks the words tells me exactly what he’s asking.
“I’m okay.” I squeeze his hand.
He squeezes back. “I worry about you.”
“Same.” I stare into his eyes that begin to cloud over with emotion. I’m unable to tell which emotion exactly; maybe it’s worry, or conflict, or something else entirely. “So, tell me. How did you finish this semester?”
He pulls back, rests his arms on his bent knees. “I don’t know yet.”
I make a face. “Jes, grades post online almost immediately.”
He shrugs.
“We can check?” I lean forward to pull my phone from my back pocket.
He snatches the phone from my hands. “No.”
I turn to face him. “What aren’t you telling me?” I nudge his shoulder. “We said no more secrets.” He’s quiet, but I persist. “I know when you’re lying to me.”
He scoffs. “Really?”
“Fine.” I huff, voice angry. “Let’s not talk about it.
There are several moments of strained silence before he finally speaks. “I failed my classes.” I suck in a breath, and he glances at me before dropping his gaze. “That’s why I was a little later getting home. I had to meet with my advisor and Coach.”
“How many did you fail?”
His voice is sullen. “Four.”
After the words settle, after the initial shock wears off, I switch into fix-it mode. “It sucks, but you can make up the credits. Did they talk to you about enrolling in summer school?”
“Yeah.” He pulls at a loose thread on the carpet.
“Well, that’s a start.” I bolster my inner optimist. “I mean, your dad might be a little disappointed that you’re not spending the summer with him, but I’m sure he’ll understand. And if you need help, I can—”
“I’m not doing it, Riley.”
I gasp. Loudly. “What?”
“I’m not going back to college.”
“Jes.” I push myself to stand and begin pacing the small square of space to dispel some of the nervous energy. “You can’t be serious.”
He stands, shrugs off his zippered hoodie and hands it to me. “Here.”
I stare at him as though he’s grown two heads, but he shakes the jacket in indication for me to take it. “You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-factly.
I’m about to argue, but I watch as his eyes fall to my chest, to my hard nipples poking through the thin tank top. I snatch it from his hands and push my arms into the sleeves. It’s huge but warm and smells like him, woodsy, like fresh-cut cedar mixed with earthy pine.
We stand, facing each other, a challenge in our stares daring the other to speak. I cave first. “Have you thought about this?” I tug the sleeves over my hands. “Really thought about this?”
He exhales. “I don’t know. What’s there to think about, really? I failed.” The way he says the word failed rips my heart in two. He sounds tired. Miserable. Defeated.
“So, what?” I counter. “Millions of people fail classes.”
“You don’t.”
I give him a look that says I’m a nerd. “You can make up the credits and start fresh your sophomore year.”
He shakes his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but…I don’t belong there. I enrolled because it was the right thing to do and because I got a kickass scholarship for basketball, but…” His voice trails off. “With my gram passing away, it’s like life’s too short to invest time and money into something I don’t care about. I’ve never been good in school, you know that.”
I think about the truth in his words, about how we never really had a choice regarding our future. Everyone—from our parents, to our counselors, to the college admissions reps who set-up tables every lunch period during senior year—it wasn’t a matter of if we’d go to college, but a matter of where.
I never really considered the alternative, mainly because I liked school. I liked learning. But if I’m being one hundred percent honest, Jesse never did. He always scraped by doing the bare minimum, even though I knew he was capable of more. He cut classes, ignored homework assignments, and never took notes. Maybe he had thought about this decision more than I gave him credit for. Maybe he was finally doing something that was right for him, even though the decision seemed counterintuitive.
“What will you do?” My eyes search his.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Have you talked to your mom yet?” It’s a loaded question and we both know it. Ms. Collins is a single mom who started as a nurse’s aide and paid her way through night classes to become a registered nurse. She has an incredible work ethic and currently supervises an entire team of nurses in the cardiology department at our local hospital.
Jesse’s decision to quit school would gut her.
He shakes his head. “No.” He toys with the zipper on my hoodie—his hoodie, but whatever. “She’ll understand. My dad didn’t go to college, and he does all right.”
Because I met Jesse after his parents divorced when he was five, I don’t know his dad well. I’ve seen his dad, Ray Collins, a few times, most recently at his grandmother’s funeral, but our conversations were limited, at best. Ray Collins was a man of few words. At fifty-three, he’s never remarried and has devoted his life to the small motorcycle shop, Ray’s Rides, he owns and operates in Outer Banks, North Carolina. I looked it up online once, and it seems nice enough.
Jesse spends his summers with his dad working at the shop but has never really said much about it, other than the south is “hot as balls” and that the mosquitos are “fucking ridiculous.”
A cricket chirping in the distance pulls me back to the present. “I guess,” I agree half-heartedly. “If you go through with this, you’ll have to figure something out.”
“Creysto Plastics is hiring.”
My nose scrunches. “You want to work in a factory?”
He shrugs. “Just until I can figure out what the hell I want to do with my life.”
I nod.
He slides the zipper up and then down, his eyes tracing the movement.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He avoids my gaze as he asks, “You’re not disappointed in me?”
“What? No!” I halt his hand. “Why would you think that I’d be disappointed?”
He shrugs. “Because you’re so smart and I’m…”
“Stop it.” My voice is strong. “We’re both smart in our own way.”
He grunts.
“I’m serious. You’re good with your hands.” His eyes flash to mine, burn with heat, and I continue on, flustered. “You know every basketball play imaginable. And don’t get me started on the cra
zy player statistics you rattle off out of nowhere.”
He cracks a smile.
“We’re different. That doesn’t make one of us better than the other. Different is different. Different is good.”
His voice is quiet when he says, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He grins as his fingers grab the zipper once more and tugs it all the way up to my neck. He nearly catches my hair in the teeth of the metal, but I pull away just in time.
“Stop!” I knock his hand away. “What are you doing?”
“Covering you up.” A sexy smirk tips the corners of his lips. “Your nipples are seriously distracting.”
I’m thankful that the darkness disguises my blush. “God, you’re such a guy.”
“I like tits.” His voice is proud, as though he just solved a global crisis and not just declared his love of breasts.
“Not mine,” I retort.
“Especially yours,” he answers back, and I tell myself that I’m imagining the desire in his voice, the heavy weight of his stare.
I shrug to diffuse the tension. This is our new normal. The teasing banter, the sexy flirting, the playful touching. “Then I better keep ’em covered.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come on.” I climb down the ladder and he follows. “Let’s go for an ice cream, and then you should talk to your mom.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats, this time adding a salute.
I shake my head at the silly gesture. “Let’s move, soldier. My treat.”
“In that case, I’m getting a double.”
I fish for the twenty dollars I found in the pocket of his hoodie and wink. “You can get whatever you want.”
“Hey!” he scolds, and tries to snatch the bill from my hand, but I pull it away.
“You want it?” I tease. “Come and get it.”
Laughing, we both take off running down the street.
26
Riley
Time has a funny way of slipping away. I remember when I was a little girl, counting the days until my birthday. Back then, time passed as slowly as molasses. Each day dragged on, the minutes crawling by at a snail’s pace, and it felt like I had all the time in the world. Time to do anything and everything I wanted.
I longed for those days. Because now? Time passes in the blink of an eye. It felt like just yesterday I started at Lennox University, my stomach a ball of nerves and eagerness all cramped together at the idea, the excitement of a new beginning.
Now, as I start my senior year, I embark on another first: my first apartment on my own. It’s not much—and I’m not being modest. In the tiny bathroom, the paint’s peeling from the ceiling after a previous water leak from the above apartment that the landlord hasn’t bothered to fix. The kitchen is dated and boasts scuffed, laminate countertops that are a putrid, mustard-yellow color. But I don’t care in the least, because it is mine.
Even though I loved rooming with Liza for the past three years, even though we synchronized our schedules to damn near perfection, I secretly yearned for a place of my own. I longed for my own little corner of the world where I could sit in silence and think. Or blast the music and dance. Or walk around buck-naked. Or leave dirty dishes in the sink just because I didn’t feel like washing them.
I’d found the apartment by accident. It was late July and I was driving back to campus to attend a one-day training at Stock House Furnishings, a local business where I was completing a (non-paid) internship during my fall semester. The gig was a sweet deal—apart from it being unpaid—because it was within walking distance to campus, and the owners agreed to work around my class schedule.
I’d just gotten off the freeway and turned down the main avenue, when I spotted the “For Rent” sign stuck in the small patch of grass near the front steps of the building. On impulse, I pulled over and snapped a quick photo of the contact info.
With my busy day of training, I’d forgotten all about the apartment until later that night as I scrolled through my pics. The next morning, I called and set up an appointment for my mom and me to see the unit the following Tuesday.
Fast forward four weeks, and here we are. Moving day.
“Where’s Dad?” my mom asks as she sets another box on the kitchen counter.
“Last time I saw him, he was interrogating my neighbors.”
She chuckles, because we both know how overprotective my dad can be. It’s the cop in him, I guess. “Nice. He leaves us to carry the heavy boxes.”
“Hey!” Jesse nudges past her with another box labeled Kitchen stuff. “I’m helping.”
“You’re such a dear. Riley’s lucky to have a good friend like you.” My mom kisses him on the cheek before turning to me. “Riley, tell me again, why couldn’t Dave help today?”
“Because he’s a douchebag,” Jesse mumbles low under his breath, so low that my mom can’t hear, but I do.
“He had to work,” I say for the hundredth time. Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean he’s obligated to help me move. But the truth is I am a bit annoyed that he isn’t helping. We had this date scheduled for weeks, and I’m not buying the excuse that his boss refused to give him the day off. It’s most likely that he’s avoiding my parents, even though they know nothing about the incident.
“Well, at least you have Jesse,” my mom says, as she swipes a strand of hair from her sweat-stained face.
I look at Jesse and smile. I’ll always have Jesse.
27
Jesse
For the past two weeks, every free minute outside of work has been dedicated to helping Riley settle into her new apartment. My job duties include, but aren’t limited to, moving heavy items, assembling the new furniture she purchased from Ikea, and killing bugs. Two spiders and one earwig, to be exact.
I’m not complaining—I’d do anything for Riley—I just don’t understand what role Dave, her boyfriend, plays in her life, and more importantly, why she tolerates him, still wants him around, especially after what he did to her. He hasn’t lifted one piece of furniture, unpacked one box, or even come over to see her new place. He’s busy. But honestly, how in-demand are cell-phone reps anyway? At least, I think that’s what he does; he lost me somewhere after “increased network coverage.”
“Penny for your thoughts.” Liza sits next to me on the sofa.
I lift the can of Sprite to my lips to avoid answering her question.
“My back hurts,” Riley complains, as she flops into the armchair across from us. She winces as she leans forward to rub the sore spot. “I think I pulled something.”
“Getting old,” I tease.
She sticks her tongue out. “Shut up. Not everyone can be as fit as you.”
I turn my head and flex my arms. “All muscle, baby.”
Riley rolls her eyes, but Liza grips my bicep, her eyes widening in surprise. “Holy shit, Jesse. Your arms are ripped!”
I shrug out of Liza’s grip. My job at the warehouse is physical, and two days a week I play with a recreational basketball league at the community center. It’s not like I work out every day, but I am extremely active.
Liza’s eyes drift to the unopened gift bag near the door. “Hey! You didn’t open your present.”
Riley’s eyes dart toward the present. “Liza! You didn’t have to do that.” Her gaze flits to where we sit. “Besides, I should be buying you guys a thank-you gift. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
Liza smiles. “Trust me. This present is as much for me as it is you.”
Riley pushes herself to stand and groans. “Ow.”
“Does your back hurt you that bad?” I question, genuine concern in my voice. She did move a heavy stack of boxes labeled Books, even though I told her I’d move it for her after work.
“Yeah.” Liza sneaks a glance my way. “I’m sure Jesse would be happy to rub it for you.”
My eyes narrow; Liza always makes these types of comments about Riley and me. She’s convinced that we want
each other or some shit. Well, she’s half-right.
Riley ignores the comment and carries the bag into the living room. The telltale clang of glass, combined with the way Riley hefts the bag, is a dead giveaway as to its contents: bottles of wine.
Riley pulls the first bottle. “Niagra.” Her smile is huge. “My favorite.” She lifts the second bottle. “And Moscato. You know me well.” Her voice turns soft. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, girl.” Liza walks toward Riley and hugs her. “Congratulations on your first apartment. You’re officially a grown-up.”
“Eep!” Riley squeals, and the girls laugh before Liza says, “Okay, now which one are we crackin’ first?”
28
Riley
My body is already starting to feel the effects after only two glasses of wine. My eyes find Jesse’s as Liza uncorks the first bottle. His eyes communicate everything I need to know: I got you. You’re safe. Have fun with your friend.
Knowing Jesse’s here, knowing he wouldn’t let anything happen to me, I let myself indulge a little more than I should. And by the time we’ve opened the second bottle, I’m feeling downright giddy.
As Liza and I chat, Jesse remains quiet, somewhat paying attention and occasionally commenting on or laughing at something silly we say. But then the conversation turns to sex. I’m not even sure how—well, that’s not true—I know exactly how this conversation started: Liza.
The girl loves to talk about anything and everything related to doing the deed, a trait that has earned her the reputation of slut, but those close to her know the truth. She’s fairly conservative in bed, and has had fewer partners than most.
“Come on,” she says, as she munches on another handful of chips. “All I’m saying is that if they made wax replicas of Chris Hemsworth’s penis, you’d buy one.”
I arch my brow skeptically and cast a glance in Jesse’s direction. My eyes plead with him to jump in and end the conversation, but his head is bent in concentration over his phone.
