"I was just thinking, we don't really know anything about you..." Her words sound like an accusation and I say nothing as Sam just glares at her and Carl is the one to come to my defense.
"You don't know anything, Chelsea, I've known Rory since I was like four." Carl is intentionally breezy, flippantly waving her hand as if to brush her off, but Chelsea doesn't relent.
"Is that so? How is that, since she lived down in Florida until a couple months ago?" she asks, still cheerily, as if she's genuinely just interested.
"Her grandma lived next to me. We used to play together when she came to visit," Carl explains.
"Hmm, so you hung out with her for what? One week out of the year? I'd hardly say you really knew her-"
It was two weeks, actually.
Carl narrows her eyes at her, and I'm vaguely aware that my grip on Sam's hand has tightened considerably, but it's Sam who interrupts.
"What is your point, Chel? Seriously, just get to it already," he demands, annoyed all over again.
"Well, Cap, I'm just trying to get to know Rory is all. I mean, we're all about to go on vacation with her, and what do we know about her really? She shows up in the middle of her senior year with no explanation and I'm just trying to figure out what she's hiding, after all, I don't want to go away with someone I don't even-"
"Then don't fucking come," I snap. I try to slide over to get out of the booth, but Sam is blocking me in. "Excuse me," I say, but Sam doesn't budge, instead, when I try to tug my hand from his, he holds firm and begins to trace small circles on the back of mine with his thumb. I'm immediately reminded of Cam, who used to do the same thing to soothe me, and I wince at the symmetry. My mind starts reeling, racing with confused thoughts.
How did I get so close to Sam so quickly?
Why does it feel like I’m betraying Cam?
No. That's not what's happening here. No one could ever take his place. Never. God, I miss Cam. I miss what we had.
What the hell is Sam doing to me?
I'm so damn confused. The comfort I feel with Sam is disconcerting. I've only known him, what? Two months? And how does he give me such comfort and yet make me so nervous at times? I thought that my jealous stirrings when Chelsea flirted with him were because I didn't like her, but what if it's about him?
What if everything is about Sam?
"You heard her, Chel. If you have a problem going away with Rory, then Don't. Fucking. Come," Sam says, his voice deceptively soft and vaguely threatening. Chelsea is clearly outraged by the way her long-time friend is talking to her, but I'm still reeling and it has nothing to do with her.
My breath is coming in short gasps now and I feel my pulse race.
"Rory, are you okay?" Carl asks, concerned.
"Please let me out," I plead to Sam, whose angry gaze flips to worry as it meets mine and, finally, he scoots out of the booth to let me pass. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stalk toward the back of the diner where the restrooms are located, but turn and head out the back door instead, stopping on the landing of the steps that lead down to the back of the parking lot. The rain has let up into a light mist and I soak in the cool air of early spring.
Fuck Chelsea and her accusations. I can handle her. It's Sam who has me thrown.
I close my eyes and start counting, but my mind can't focus on numbers right now. I breathe in, and out, in and out. I can't believe I haven't realized it before - how easily I've pushed my feelings down every time they threatened to surface.
In two months, Sam has forced his way into my heart, and nothing good can come of it. He's my friend, my friend! And here I am, lusting after him. I want him, and not just physically either. I've only ever wanted one other person in my life, and I only realized it when it was too late. And now, with Sam, it's already too late. I'm damaged beyond repair, I know it, and he knows it too. And maybe that's why he was so clear about only wanting me as a friend from the beginning, or maybe he simply isn't attracted to me. The reason is irrelevant, and I know it should make all of this easier to repress... but there's only one forgone conclusion: I will get hurt.
I am so fucked up.
I drop my head into my hands and try to regulate my breathing. In, out... in and out. But I'm gasping now, and sweating, and as I start to feel dizzy, I know I'm past the point of no return. Not without pharmaceutical assistance. I hastily yank open the zipper of the front pocket of my bag and grab my pill bottle.
It takes me too long to open the child-proof cap and by the time I can get my hands on a pill my vision has started to blur. I swallow the pill dry, certain that I won't make it back inside to get water without hyperventilating and passing out.
I close my eyes and wait. Wait for the magic to save me from my pathetic self. I count backwards from sixty, my eyes clenched tight against the spinning world around me.
"Ror?"
It's Sam. Of course it is.
I keep my head resting on my knees. I know Sam can see the pill bottle in my hand, I know I've let him down, and I also know he'll judge me for it. He'll know he was wrong. That I'm not stronger than I think I am - that I'm just as weak as I knew myself to be. And it serves him fucking right. He can't save me. No one can, and his trying is just confusing me more. He keeps trying and trying to be this good friend to me, and I don't know why. He barely even knows me, just like Chelsea said. I don't deserve him or his good will. I had someone. I had a boy I loved, who loved me. And I lost him, and it was all my fault.
Slowly, calm spreads through my veins as my damaged heart pumps my now medicated blood through my body, scarred inside and out.
"Carl went to the bathroom to check on you but she said you weren't in there..."
I still don't respond. Sam sits down next to me on the concrete steps that lead to the back parking lot.
"I just wanted to make sure you were alright," he murmurs softly.
"Fine," I whisper, finally lifting my head, but not meeting his eyes.
"You took a pill," he observes. A statement, not a question.
I shrug. So fucking what? They're my pills, and my doctor says I need them, so who the fuck is he to say that I don't? "Yeah, I did. I took a pill, Sam, because I needed it. And I needed it because I'm fucked up. And no amount of you tellin' me how I'm stronger than I think I am is gonna change that, okay?" I hiss in full southern drawl. Damn, I hate when I can't control my accent. And that angers me even more. I have no control. I have no control of anything.
Sam winces at my words. "You're not fucked up, Ror," he insists.
"Yes I fucking am! And if you weren't so damn busy tryin' to fix me, you'd fucking see it!" I shout. I stand and face him, eyes locked, needing to know he hears me. Sam slowly stands as well.
"I'm not trying to fix you, Rory, I'm just trying to be your friend," he replies slowly and carefully, but though he's trying to stay calm - surely for my benefit - I can tell I'm pissing him off. His jaw is clenched; he's practically gritting his teeth.
Well, good.
"You can't let Chelsea get to you like-"
"I can't? Of course I can, Sam! She was attackin' me! Accusin' me of God even knows what! But you know what? It ain't even her. I can handle her. I've known girls like her my whole life. It's you. You're the problem," I spit, glaring at him.
I don't know why I want to hurt him right now - maybe to get him back for making me want him, for making me care for him, but I do. I want to hurt him. And from the look in his eyes, I've no doubt that I've succeeded. He doesn't reply. He just stands there looking affronted.
"I am fucked up. Broken, okay? You can't fix me. I'm not fixable. I don't need you to defend me and I don't need your bullshit about how strong I am. You're not helping, you're only hurtin' me, you know that? And the worst of it is I was almost starting to believe you... but... I am fucked up. The sooner you just accept that, the easier it'll be on both of us," I mutter bitterly. I blink back tears and take a deep breath. "I understand if you don't wanna be my friend anymore." I choke back a sob be
fore swiping at my wet cheeks, and run down the stairs and climb into Carl's back seat to head back to school.
Carl and Tina both ask if I'm okay, but I don't reply. I just ask her to drive, and she does.
****
The rest of the day I'm numb. Or at least I try to remain numb. But thoughts of Sam and my words to him creep back into my consciousness, as do words from Robin, from Cam. Words from a different lifetime. One that may be over, but one so heavily ingrained into what I've become that I can't move on to a new lifetime. I'm in limbo, and I fear I'm here for good.
I know my words hurt Sam. I meant for them to. But I'm not sure why.
He doesn't seek me out, and I don't expect him to. But I'm not quite prepared when he passes me in the hall and intentionally averts his gaze. He doesn't speak to me, he doesn't even look at me again. It's like that second week of school all over again. We've reverted back into strangers. I'm invisible once again, and I'm not sure why I expected anything else. I asked for this.
But the pain I didn't expect. Not like this.
I realize that he will likely take me up on my offer to end our friendship. Why wouldn't he? I basically took everything he's ever done for me and thrown it back in his face. What I hadn't realized was how much I needed him. How much I need him. How much I looked forward to seeing him, to talking to him, to joking and teasing with him. To his simple, friendly, innocent touches, that I now know were only innocent from his end.
And that's the reason I needed to do this, I remind myself.
I can't have feelings for Sam. I can't have feelings for anyone. Not for someone else who's just going to betray me or abandon me. Or find some new way to hurt me.
And yet he's gotten me to trust him. Why do I trust him when I know better? I'm so confused. And he says I'm not fucked up. That statement alone should be enough to tell me he doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm fucking broken.
I go from class to class still on the edge of losing it, despite the fact that I'm medicated. It's technically too soon to take another pill, but I am allowed to take two if I have a really bad attack. But I'm not about to have another attack, I don't think. Not unless I'm triggered somehow.
I grimace when I realize I'm making excuses, talking myself into taking drugs - even if they're drugs that were legally prescribed to me - to numb myself and for no other legitimate reason.
God, I'm fucked up.
We walk the track outside during phys ed, and I'm grateful not to have to participate in a group sport right now. I walk alone, around and around, and though I'm aware of Chelsea walking somewhere behind me, snickering with her friends, I ignore her. She got what she thinks she wanted - to cause a rift between Sam and me, but the joke's on her. Sam never wanted me as more than a friend - it wasn't me holding him back from being with her - and now that he's washed his hands of me, he still won't want her.
I hope.
I walk to the bathroom next to the cafeteria to change back into my school clothes. I go through the motions like a zombie. I tug my gym tee off over my head and dig in my bag for the grey U2 concert tee I wore today.
Where is it?
I'm vaguely aware that there's someone else in the bathroom - which is strange for this time of day when it's usually empty since it's just about the last couple minutes of the school day, but it doesn't especially concern me. But my missing shirt does. I can just put my gym tee back on, but it still doesn't make any sense. I had put my clothes in my school bag like always and left them on the bleachers during gym...
Click.
I hear the sound of the camera app on an iPhone. And it's close.
Too close.
I hear snickering - more than one voice, several in fact, and look up to see Chelsea, that fucking bitch, taking a second photo of me without a shirt on.
"See guys, I knew she was hiding something!" she calls excitedly out to whoever her partners in crime are. "She has a fucking c-section scar! I knew it! Shit, Rory, you had a baby?!" she screeches triumphantly so anyone in the vicinity will hear, and then cackles with laughter.
It takes me a second to fully register what's going on.
She's photographed my scar.
I lose it.
Instead of running out of the stall, I jump up onto the toilet seat and grab at her hair.
"Ow! What the fuck are you doing? You're crazy!" Chelsea yelps.
She doesn't know the half of it.
She tries to push my hands away and I use the distraction to grab her phone from her hand.
"What the fuck! Give me my phone!" she squeals.
This bitch has balls.
I hop down, throw her phone into the toilet, and flush just as the bell rings to indicate that school has ended for the day. I know it probably won't go down, but the water will destroy the phone, I know that from an unfortunate experience at the Linton lake, and with it - God willing - the photos.
I burst out of the stall and Chelsea comes at me. The two girls who initially flanked her - a sheepish looking Lily and a girl named Tanya - are joined by others who must have heard the commotion from outside the door.
"Give me my phone!" Chelsea tries to push past me into the stall I just exited, the stall that still has my bag with my clothes - minus the shirt I should be wearing right now - but I shove her back.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" I demand.
"Wrong with me? You're the one who had a baby and tried to hide it! Look at her scar!" she screams to the crowd that has grown exponentially in the past minute.
She pushes me again and grabs for my hair, but I duck and block her. She's startled for a moment by my self-defense, and I take advantage of her surprise.
I punch her.
Chelsea holds her cheek that landed my fist before launching herself at me with a war cry. She slaps at my face, but I block her again and knee her in the stomach.
That's right bitch, I grew up playing with boys. And I know how to fight like one.
Chelsea is hunched over and I'm vaguely aware of the crowd's movement. Some flee to avoid the violence while shouting reports of a fight between Chelsea and the crazy new girl and my supposed C-section scar. Others flock toward the action.
I'm also somewhat aware that some of the new audience members include the male sex - in the girls bathroom - and I'm not wearing a shirt. But Chelsea swings another smack in my direction and I dart out of the way, but not before her nail makes contact with my chin and breaks skin.
"You fucking slut!" she screams. "Where's your baby?!"
"Fuck you!" I yell back, pushing her away from me.
We've squared off, and my back is to the only exit as well as most of our gaping peers.
Chelsea shoves at me again, claws out, and we grapple. She's scratching and slapping, but I'm punching with a closed fist just like my daddy taught me before he decided I wasn't worth a damn more than a whore linking him to a potential pro football player.
I kick her leg out from under her and she tumbles to the floor, giving me a moment to regroup.
I have a choice.
I can attack her when she's down, like she's attacked me in so many ways, or I can take the time to diffuse the situation. I can take the high road. I can be the bigger person. I can be a better person....
I attack.
I'm straddling her as my fists meet her flailing hands, landing a few good punches, reveling in the power of having the upper hand. So many times I'd been the weak one. So many times I'd been powerless against one hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle exerting its will over me.
But not now.
Now I have my attacker where I want her.
We continue to sling bitter curses at one another as she fists my hair tightly, and I keep trying to get enough of a foothold to throw effective hits. The crowd does everything from cheer, to yell for us to stop, to shout suggestive comments, and in the back of my mind I realize that the scene is likely something of a wet dream for the boys lucky enough to have scored a front row seat t
o this clusterfuck.
"Shit!" I hear Tuck's voice through the commotion, but Chelsea and I still claw at each other, neither able to do much now besides defend ourselves.
I'm too busy trying to maintain the upper hand with my hair being clutched in a death grip to do any more real damage. Somewhere I hear Tuck calling out "Cap! Cap!" and as desperate as I am for Sam not to see this, for him to stay the fuck away from this pathetic shitshow, I can do nothing but continue to push and shove as we roll and grapple.
"Fucking whore!" Chelsea's voice is a high pitched, pained, screech of an accusation.
"Fuck-"
Strong, male arms envelop me and yank me off of her. I struggle against whoever has a hold of me, but I know it's him, even before I register his scent.
When did I become so sensitive to his scent?
He holds my arms to my side like a strait jacket, like I've been held before, but something about his embrace is intrinsically protective, and I'm not afraid of him.
I'm barely aware of my half naked state as I twist and turn, still enraged, unwilling to concede the first bit of power I've had in a physical altercation since I fought Chip over an argument about whether I was "out" or not after sliding home in the championship little league game when I was ten.
No! I will not let that bitch get away with this! Not when I can overpower her. Not when I'm finally the stronger one.
"Let me go!" I demand, still struggling against the restraint of Sam's arms, but they hold strong.
"No," Sam whispers calmly into my ear. "Not until you calm down."
Chelsea staggers to her feet, huffing and puffing. I'm practically gasping for air, but I'm still full of energy, still ready to take her down if she comes at me again. If only Sam would just let me go!
"Cap! Thank God! She's fucking crazy!" Chelsea shouts.
I squirm again and Sam tightens his hold even more, not hurting me, but not giving me room to twist myself out of his grip.
"Calm down, Chel. What happened?" Sam asks calmly.
I'm panting, my chest heaving under his arms, covered by nothing but a black satin bra. He doesn't seem to notice.
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