Pucker Up

by Sara Hubbard

  He has no idea how much harder he’s made this for me by apologizing. It serves to remind me how I screwed up my chances with the only guy I’ve ever imagined myself falling for. Why couldn't he just continue being an ass? I frown at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “That means a lot to me.”

  “My email’s in the directory.”

  “Great. Thanks. I’ll look you up.” I push away from the car and take a couple of steps backward. His window rolls up, and he drives away, his red taillights the last thing I see before I spin on my heel and meander to the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I don’t see Emily at all on Sunday. When I finally charge my phone, I read through her messages, all of them asking about what happened with Ozzie and me. I don’t answer her until later that night. Honestly, I just want to be alone and I’m not up for conversation. So I kind of make light of what happened.

  He didn’t murder me. I’m fine. We’ll talk when you get home. C

  Because Monday is a school holiday, the floor is quiet tonight and Emily stays out until the middle of the night. She tries to wake me when she comes home, but I pretend to be dead to the world and she gives up easily. Moments after she’s in bed, she’s snoring like a lawnmower.

  In the morning, she lays on her bed in nothing more than a bra and panties. Alcohol radiates from her pores and fills the air so completely I have to crack a window. She’s going to be nursing an epic hangover when she finally wakes up—whenever that is. After a long shower, I get her a bottle of water and put it beside her bed, along with some Aspirin.

  I sit at my computer, hugging my knee as I stare at my screen. Ozzie wants to help me with my article. The story I told Mary about is a good one—I think. Perhaps one of my better ideas. I write up my questions and then look for Ozzie’s email address in the directory. When I find it, I fire all twenty of them off to him, along with a thank you note. Then I wait. The obsessive part of my personality keeps refreshing my email, certain he’ll email me back any second. Maybe not with the answers, but with some sort of quick note to say he got them. I don’t get the note, though. Am I surprised? I guess not.

  While I sit at the desk, staring at the screen, I imagine the story I wanted to write. It’s all in my head, ready to put down on paper. I have everything I need to tell the story about the boy who turned the energy from his loss and his anger into something positive. And how it propelled him to the top of his game. It’s only now I realize I don’t have a big part of the story. What exactly did he do that was so wrong? Why did he have community service? And why was he benched? As I go through his story, I decide to write it anyway. Not for Jack but for me. To see if I can do the story justice. I’ll never show it to a soul. But I need to write it. To see if I can.

  I’m almost done and it’s nearly one in the afternoon when he finally responds to my email.

  I'll have it back to you tomorrow. O

  Short and sweet. Sigh. I keep writing my story. I’m typing the last period when Emily finally comes back to life. She lets out a long groan and rolls onto her back. She clucks her tongue over and over as if she’s tasting it.

  “Ugh. Cotton mouth.”

  “There’s water on your bedside table,” I say with a grin. “Where’d you go last night?”

  “Ugh…we started out at Ceilidh.” Ceilidh is the campus pub. From what I know—because I’ve never actually been—people go there before they go to the bars on Main Street. It’s like an appetizer for the main course. “Then we went…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She clears her throat. “How’d it go Saturday? I was worried about you.” She props her upper body on her elbows and raises a brow at me.

  “Awful.”

  She doesn’t look surprised. She grabs the Aspirin and tosses it into her mouth before chasing it with the water. “I thought when you didn’t come home, that you guys worked it out.”

  “No, we didn’t. In fact, I told him to stay away from me if he’s not into me anymore, so in addition to him not wanting me, I don’t get to be his friend either.”

  “Well, that explains a lot...”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs and flops back down on her bed, groaning. “The whole room is spinning.”

  “Emily, what did you mean?”

  She sighs and lightly massages her stomach. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I thought you’d get upset.”

  “I’ll be upset if you don’t.” I lower my leg to the floor and turn in my chair so I’m facing her. I mean business, and she knows it.

  “When we left Ceilidh, we went to Ozzie’s house. There was a huge party there. I swear I don’t know how cops weren’t called. There were cars parked all over the lawn, for crying out loud, and some people jumping off the porch roof onto mattresses. It was crazy. Like right out of a movie, crazy.”

  Well, I’m glad he had a rip-roaring party last night. I hope he enjoyed himself. I roll my hand through the air to force her to get to her point.

  “Anyway, Ozzie was there. He was fucking shit-faced.”

  “Did he seem...okay?”

  She grimaces. “Not even close. I asked him about you because your fucking phone was turned off and he told me you guys were done, so I might have called him a douchebag before spitting in his drink.”

  “Emily...”

  “He didn’t see me do it.”

  I shake my head at her before moving to the edge of my seat, literally. I ignore the spitting for now because Em’s going to do what Em’s going to do, and I can’t really get mad at her when her heart was in the right place, even if Ozzie didn’t deserve her wrath.

  “I told him you had other options,” she says with a shrug. But she won’t look me in the eyes.

  “What the hell did you really say to him?” These emotions…ugh! I used to make fun of girls like me, all preoccupied with a boy. I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t turn them off, and now here I am. Stuck with the same annoying affliction.

  She closes her eyes and cinches them shut. “Don't be mad! I might have told him that Brad has a half-dozen friends who want to get in your pants, and I thanked him, on behalf of those guys.”

  “What guys? Why would you say that?”

  She groans. “Don’t yell at me. I’m ill.” She makes a pitiful face, her bottom lip stuck so far out it might just hit the floor.

  I sigh and slouch back in my seat. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s not a huge deal. I’m sure he knew you were lying, anyway. I told him I haven’t had a lot of luck with guys.”

  “Well, he also thinks you’re a liar, so I'm pretty sure he believed me.”

  “Emily!”

  “What? It’s not my fault what happened next!”

  I shake my head. It takes me a moment to register her last comment. “Wait. What happened next?”

  “Totally not my fault! This guy walked by and bumped Ozzie—accidentally. The place was so crowded. So Ozzie shoved him back so hard he almost put him through a wall. I’m not kidding. He was like the fucking Hulk. When the guy finally stumbled to his feet, the outline of his back was embedded in the wall.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  She frowns. “Maybe he’s on ’roids.”

  When I toss a pillow at her, she whines. “Stop. My head hurts so bad.” She takes the pillow and hugs it to her stomach. “He might not want to be with you, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have you either. Guys are fucked up. I don't bother trying to understand them anymore.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “About what? You just said it’s over.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

  She reaches for a T-shirt on the corner of her bed and pulls it over her head. She sits on her bed cross-legged, giving me a sympathetic smile. “The same thing we all do when we get dumped…we move on. Whether we like it or not. What other choice do you have? He told you he was done. The rest is up to him. You
know, set him free. If he comes back, he’s yours...and all that bullshit.”

  “Life was so much simpler when I couldn’t be bothered with guys.”

  She chuckles. “Welcome to my world. I’ve been here for six years, and it ain’t no picnic.”

  “I liked him, Emily. I liked him so much. Now I have all these feelings inside of me, caged in my chest. I feel like I’m going to explode.”

  “It sucks. It really does.”

  “Then why do you let yourself fall for anyone at all? Why go through all the pain?”

  She slides her bum across her mattress and lowers her feet to the floor. With outstretched arms, she invites me in for a hug. I don’t hesitate. We fall back on to her bed to lie side by side. She smells worse up close. The stench of rum is bleeding through her pores.

  “You need a shower,” I tease.

  “I’ve been wearing these underwear for three days.”

  “Ugh. Why?”

  “I don’t have any clean.”

  I chuckle, but then it grows into belly-busting laughter, which Emily joins in with. I love this girl. More than she’ll ever know. My opposite, but my soul mate. Somehow, I know with her beside me I’ll be okay, though when our laughter stops, the stabbing pain in my chest returns. I hurt him. I broke his trust, the worst thing I could have done to someone like him. And now he’s drinking and fighting. And it’s all my fault. Yet I can’t be the one to help him. I’ve never felt so completely useless and powerless before.

  “Your sister called while you were gone,” Emily says. “She told me to tell you that you need to try on some dress before the engagement party.” Emily mimes a blowjob with her hand while her tongue pushes on the inside of her cheek. “She was so snotty. Like I’m her messenger. Ugh. You need to stand up to her.”

  She’s right. In the past, it was always easier to give in to her. But right now, giving in just makes me feel like a pushover.

  “Want to come to her party with me?” I ask.

  Emily laughs hysterically. “Not a fucking chance.”

  “I don't blame you. I wouldn't go if I didn’t have to.” And I wouldn't. Amanda is treating her party like a second wedding. With a new expensive dress and professionally-done hair and makeup. A caterer and fresh flowers and a registry. Why can’t she just have a party at someone’s house and drink some beer and wine like normal people? Why make people dress up and suffer through an uncomfortable formal party that people only RSVP to because they’re either A, family or B, they feel bad for not attending.

  “I’ll call her later.”

  “Good plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Later that night I am still at my desk with the lamp on and my head buried in a history textbook. I read pages, but I can’t remember what I’ve read, so I have to go back and reread them. It’s insanely frustrating.

  I’m rereading another page when my computer dings to alert me that I have an email. I press the spacebar, and the screen lights up. It surprises me to find an email from Ozzie. And it comes with an attachment.

  The email is short. Just Hey, here are your answers. Let me know if you need more. O. That’s it. I’m disappointed but not surprised. I imagine the scene Emily saw last night: him drunk and agitated, pushing some guy into a wall. What was he thinking?

  I reach for my phone, the instinct to call him more than I can stand. My fingers hover over the four, the first digit in his number, but then I set the phone back down, and the sound echoes through the solid wood desk surface.

  Emily is fast asleep but the sound rouses her. She moans softly before rolling from her back to her side. Her sheets entangle her limbs like a half-ass mummy.

  I open the attachment and browse through his answers. The first one is their schedule. I won’t lie. It’s crazy. I don’t know how any of them manage a full-time course load. Practice, gym, practice, gym, practice, gym. Over and over. When practices aren’t listed, it’s because there are games. Ozzie said hockey kept him out of trouble, and there’s no wonder since his time is stuffed with so many activities. How does he have a life? He said he never had a girlfriend, and I didn’t believe that was possible. But how could he? I don’t read all the answers in their entirety. I do a quick scan, and there appears to be enough to write the story.

  Part of me is sad, though. I won’t get to tell his story. I don’t know it all, but the parts he told me were so compelling I can’t believe I’ll never know the rest. I still wrote it, though. But not as a nonfiction article. I wrote a short story about a boy reminiscing about his past as he drove to all the places that shaped him into the man he is today. I took some liberties. Filled in some blanks. It might be the best thing I’ve ever written, and it will never see the light of day. That’s probably a good thing. And I guess I like that this is just for me and always will be.

  I hit reply on the email but after typing his name, I draw a blank. It takes me a full hour of writing and deleting before I come up with the brainchild of Thanks. And then I hit send. I’m such an ass. What I wanted to say was, Thanks for doing this for me when you didn’t have to. Please don't be stupid and get into fights. Short and sweet.

  I don’t go to bed. I try once or twice, but I can’t sleep. I could take a sleeping pill that my doctor prescribed for me when I get anxious and worry keeps me up. Sometimes I can worry about the silliest things that are so intangible, yet they seem like the most important thing to me at the time. But I don’t want to take a pill. I’m actually glad for the extra energy. I spend the whole night writing the article I'm going to submit to Jack. When my alarm goes off at six am and I’m still at my desk, I push the print button. I want to hand it to him in person so I can see his face when he reads it. A look says more than his words ever could.

  When it’s printed on soft white paper, I give it one last read through. It’s not what Jack wanted, but I told him I’d give him a story, and this is what I’m willing to give him. I take a shower and get dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved cotton blouse. After going to my first two classes, I have a break in the day, and I head to Jack’s with a spring in my step. His door is closed. I knock twice and take a step back. He doesn't invite me in so I knock again. And again. Finally, after double knocks, the door swings open.

  His eyes fall on my face, and he lets go of a long sigh. “Back again so soon.”

  I hold out the article.

  “You got the story?”

  “Yes. And it’s a good one.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He takes a few steps back and turns on his heel. I follow him inside his office, and he waves to the door. I take it as a sign to shut it, so I do. I sit down in one of the chairs while he slowly sits in his, his eyes not once leaving the story. But it doesn’t take long before he slaps it on his desk. “This isn’t even close to what I asked for.”

  “No, it isn’t. But I think this will be a popular story. Sort of a peek into a hockey player’s life. Students can imagine what it would be like to be them. I think it will sell. Anything with hockey in it sells, right?”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “Even if I print this, and I'm not saying I will, this was not our agreement. Are you willing to give up a spot on the paper to give me something less than what I asked for?”

  I think of my dad, of how proud he would have been when I finally got a hold of him and told him I made the university newspaper. My interest in journalism was the link that kept us together. The one thing we had in common when our conversations turned to nothing but “how are you?” and “how’s school?”. It also gave me an excuse to call his satellite phone when he told me not to call him unless it was “important.” I considered getting on the paper important news that had to be shared.

  But now, as I stare at Jack’s rosy cheeks and beady eyes, I consider how much I hurt Ozzie by lying and what his real story made public would do to him, and I don’t feel the slightest bit of regret. The story I’ve given Jack is good. It’s enough. I’m just not willing to compromise my integr
ity and Ozzie's feelings to get what I want.

  He picks up the article again. I watch the seconds hand, on the clock on the wall, circle the clockface’s off-white background. He lifts a finger to flip the page, and the first page dangles from the stapled edge. He runs a finger along his lower lip and hums and hahs. I have no idea what he thinks. I’m confident it’s good. He’s lying if he says it isn’t.

  When he finally finishes it, he lays it down on the loose papers that clutter his desk. He leans back in his chair and looks around the room.

  “Well?”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling, but my cheeks burn from the compliment. It doesn’t matter that I knew it was good. I’ve always found it hard to accept praise, even when it’s due.

  “So, you’ll use it?”

  He sighs and nods. “It depends.”

  “On?”

  His expression changes. He opens a drawer on the left side of his desk. He pulls out a black book. My black book. My day-timer. My jaw drops open, and I want to snatch it from him and demand to know why he has it. But I know. Sam. Or Piper. Or maybe both. My whole life is in that book, including how I’ve gone to Jack’s office every Monday since the first week of school. Not to mention all the details I found out about Ozzie, including his real last name. In fact, I printed out the article and put it in a little folder in the front.

  “I didn’t think you’d be able to get him to talk. I didn’t think you’d be able to get any details on him that I didn’t already know, but it seems I was wrong. Perhaps your investigative skills are much better than all my writers combined.”

  I shift in my seat. I can’t decide if I’m angry or upset. That’s not true. I don’t need to decide because I can easily be both. Neither are more important than the other. I’m outraged, too. Sam claimed to care for Ozzie, but she gives my notes to Jack? She dated him for months. She had to know how much this would hurt and embarrass him. And she didn’t care. At least when I got to know Ozzie, I gave him the respect he deserved. She went out of her way to hurt him. And to hurt me. But all of this doesn’t matter when compared to what might come next.