Unethical

by Jennifer Blackwood

  My dad should have been the last person I thought about while I was on a date with Andrew, but at every hole, some funny memory came to mind. There weren’t too many mini-golf places around, and since Rinky Dink was close to our home, we were regulars. In third grade, I fell into the pond trying to retrieve my ball. In eighth grade, I hit some random guy in the butt with a rogue putt. The memories left a bitter taste in my mouth, like somehow my dad robbed me of all my happy memories and replaced them with death. I tried to push him out of my head and focus on my date with Andrew.

  Andrew definitely lacked in the mini-golf-mastery department, so I took it easy on him. I stuck to sinking the ball in two shots instead of the hole in one just so I didn’t make him feel bad. I doubted he was holding back, because the way he bragged about everything he did, it wouldn’t make sense for him not to show off his mad golf skills. Which he claimed he had.

  As we traveled farther into the course, the idea of sending a rogue putt in the general direction of his head or drowning myself in the pond just to end this date sounded more appealing. Sure, he was cute, but I needed more than cute. I deserved the whole package, and though I had no doubts about Andrew’s package, it wasn’t the one for me.

  A waterfall gushed down at the seventh hole as we walked up the narrow path lined with garden gnomes and little shrubs. Water droplets ricocheted off the ground and smattered against my leg as I readied myself for the putt. With a windmill in the middle of the green, I loved the added challenge. No more holding back, time to go for the hole in one.

  “Your form looks a little off. Let me help you with that.” Andrew slid his hands down my arms, and my skirt rode up as he pressed himself against my body. My pulse quickened and pounded in my ears. My skin prickled, goose bumps cascading down my arms and legs. He was totally feeling me up. In public.

  “It’s all in the knees, sweetheart.” He pushed on the inside of my thigh with his knee, forcing my legs farther apart. The contents of my stomach curdled, and I hesitated, not sure what to do. On one hand, he was totally hot, but on the other, he did nothing for me. It was like he was Kraft when I wanted Velveeta. Both classified as macaroni and cheese, but I definitely preferred one over the other.

  “Mmhmm.” God, it really had been too long since I’d been with a guy, but something didn’t feel right about Andrew. Just the thought of being with him left a sour taste in my mouth.

  I looked down the green at the hole. A decade of mini golfing told me the position Andrew set me in wouldn’t get me anywhere near a hole in one.

  “There. You should be good to go.”

  Unable to decide what to do, I stayed pressed against him for a few moments until a father and his small son strolled up behind us, waiting for their turn. We broke apart, and I rolled my shoulders to release some of the tension. No, I couldn’t go for him. Stick with Velveeta. Stupid Velveeta.

  I readjusted my skirt. “Thanks, Andrew.”

  When he pulled out his phone, I couldn’t ignore my Grand-Canyon-sized perfectionist streak. I discreetly changed my stance, swung my arms back, and took the shot. The little orange ball squeaked between the blades of the windmill, rolled over a hill, and sunk into the hole. I fist pumped, and little bubbles released low in my stomach. Booya, bitches.

  My first thought after the ball disappeared into the hole was to high-five my father. But he wasn’t there. The fizzy bubbles in my stomach filled with lead, heavy and toxic. I tried to push away the emptiness in my heart, but thinking of him made my hole in one suddenly not so important. The need to be wrapped in one of his bear hugs rushed through my veins so abruptly and intense, I nearly doubled over from the impact.

  “What did I tell ya? All in the knees.”

  I forced a smile and refrained from rolling my eyes. “Yeah, thanks.”

  I managed to derail the freight train heading straight to memory town for the remainder of the course, which took us twice as long as it normally would have taken. I was hot, tired, and thirsty—definitely not the second date I was hoping for, but at least the view was a good one.

  “Wanna get us a couple of sno-cones? I’m gonna use the restroom.” He tossed his wallet to me and walked in the direction of the pro shop. I stared at the black leather wallet in my hand, the edges a dull gray from wear and tear. As I opened the wallet, I noticed how young Andrew looked in his license picture. Andrew James Centafont. One hundred seventy-five pounds of glorious muscle.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop the press. Centafont? Like in relation to Dr. Centafont?

  The wallet slipped through my trembling fingers and dropped to the ground. I scrambled to pick up the Visa cards that had fallen out of the folds. He had failed to mention this little tidbit of information. I mean, sure, I didn’t tell him about my dad, but his dad was our freakin’ teacher. Justifiable piece of info in my mind.

  I pulled out my phone to text Jules.

  Plans have changed. Call me so I can make up some excuse to leave. NOW.

  A hand landed on my shoulder as I hit send, and a loud yelp slipped past my lips. “Hey, I thought you were going to get us sno-cones?” Andrew gave me a lopsided grin, showing off his dimples.

  I froze, thinking of some excuse, any excuse, of why I was sans sno-cones. “Uh.” My phone buzzed, and I showed him my screen with Jules’s call picture where she was sticking out her tongue. I hit accept and brought the phone to my ear. “Hey, Jules. I’m kinda busy on a date.”

  Jules scoffed on the other end of the line. “I know, lame ass, you texted me.”

  I quickly turned down the volume on my phone just in case Andrew had super hearing. He hadn’t bragged about that in the car or on our date, but I’m sure if given the chance, he’d cop to being able to understand bat echolocation.

  With one semester of high school drama under my belt, I put my skills to the test. I widened my eyes and said, “Uh, huh.” Exaggerated gasp. “Oh no. I’ll be right there.”

  “You’re welcome.” She laughed and hung up.

  Andrew’s brows knit together as he shifted from side to side, his thumbs hitched on his belt loops. Definitely much cuter when he didn’t talk. “Everything okay?”

  I tucked my phone into my purse and stared at the zipper. He’d call bullshit if I looked at him. No amount of drama classes could help me in that aspect. “No. Jules is sick. She needs me.” I kept my eyes trained on my purse when he cocked his head. Oh look, I need to polish the metal emblem on my purse. Yesiree, it looks really dirty.

  “Oh.” He unhooked his finger from his belt loop and caressed my shoulder. His lips turned into a pout like he’d just learned that Santa didn’t exist for the first time. “Okay.”

  After running my thumb over the leather a few more times, I resorted to zipping and unzipping my purse, still not able to look at him. Maybe I should sign up for a drama class next semester. “Sorry.”

  Could this date climb any higher on the awkward meter? My guess was no. After tonight, I wouldn’t go out with him again. Knowing who his dad was solidified that for me.

  “I guess I’ll take a rain check on the sno-cones.”

  Yeah, right, buddy.

  The door swung open before I even had a chance to pull my keys from my purse. Jules peered out of the apartment and turned to me. “What happened?”

  “It was horrible! He’s the definition of narcissist. You know how I can’t stand braggers.”

  “Bummer. Seemed like he’d be a good lay.”

  I smacked her arm. “You don’t even know the worst part.”

  Her eyes lit up, and she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the couch. Once we both plunked down on the cushions, she put her hand on my leg and said, “Spill.”

  “Andrew’s dad is Dr. Centafont.” I buried my face in my palms and let out a muffled grunt.

  “Say what?” Her eyes bulged. “No way.”

  “Why does there always have to be something wrong with the people I like?”

  She pried my fingers from my face and held my hands in her own.
“In his defense, he can’t help who his dad is.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you.” I couldn’t hide this from Jules anymore. She was my best friend, and I needed to talk to someone.

  She squeezed my hand. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “What? No!” I swallowed past the hard lump in my throat. What if she got mad that Blake was talking about me when he said he wasn’t over his ex? Well, I assumed it was me, at least. “It’s about Blake.”

  “You found out who his ex was? Let’s go spit in that bitch’s drink.”

  “Jules.”

  “Or key her car.”

  Damn, remind me not to get on her bad side. “Jules.”

  She gave a mischievous smile. “What?”

  “I’m the bitch.”

  “Como?” She cocked her head, her brows disappearing beneath her bangs.

  “I mean, I dated Blake. I think I’m the ex he was talking about.”

  She stared at me like I had a forked tongue and spit fire, her mouth hanging wide open. “Holy shizballs! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I stared down at my hands. “I wasn’t exactly proud of how I ended things with him.” Crap, she was totally going to hate me now. She had already voiced her opinion loud and clear about the bitch who broke it off with Blake. Maybe I was a bitch.

  “That’s insane, Payton.” She let go of my hand and ran her hands through her hair. “Now I’m the bitch, dating my best friend’s ex.”

  I grabbed her hand again, which had a slight tremor. God, she had nothing to be sorry about, couldn’t she see that? “You’re not a bitch. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t know how.”

  “How about, ‘Oh, hi, Jules, you’re awesome and everything, but back away from my ex or I’ll kill you in your sleep.’ That’d work.”

  Wow. I was so going to win best friend of the year. “I’m sorry.”

  Shaking her head, she stammered, “I wouldn’t have said all those things if I knew it was you.” She looked down at our hands and after a long pause said, “I wouldn’t have gone out with him if I knew you’d dated him.”

  “I know. I just…” I wiggled my hands out of her grasp and pushed a loose curl behind my ear. “I don’t know what to think when I see him. It brings up so many memories—ones I’m not ready to deal with yet.” Or ever. “Are we okay?”

  She pulled me into a hug and ruffled my hair. “Yeah.”

  Jules lay sprawled across the couch in our living room as I shuffled along the carpet in my robe and slippers to start the coffee maker, her anthropology textbook draped over her face like a sleep mask. A really big, uncomfortable sleep mask. The book moved as she let out a groan. “If I have to read any more about European colonial expansion, I’m going to throw this book through the window.”

  “Go for it. But you’re paying the security deposit.”

  Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks as she peeled the book off her face and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Ha. Ha.”

  “Jeez. How long have you been up?”

  “It’s morning?” Her diamond-studded belly-button ring peeked out from under her shirt as she stretched her arms above her head.

  “Dude, you need some sleep.”

  Even though she came off as carefree, she studied as much, if not more, than I did. Come to think of it, besides weekends, I hadn’t seen her make it to her bedroom to sleep. Either I lived with a vampire or a hardcore insomniac.

  “Yeah, yeah. Make me some coffee, woman.” She waved her hand, dismissing me to the kitchen.

  I planted my hands on my hips, holding back a smile. “Be nice to the caffeine supplier.”

  My response remained a moot point, because Jules softly snored on the couch, drool pooling on the cushion.

  I settled next to her and pulled up the medical ethics class forum. I needed to respond to three students in order to get full credit.

  Scanning the topics, I found a few that sounded interesting enough to respond to, but then my gaze landed on a post from B Hiller. Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the response.

  B Hiller 11:58 p.m.

  Many might argue that assisted suicide is not an optimal choice, but here are the reasons a person might choose this medical route:

  Dying with dignity. Who really wants their loved ones to see them perish and suffer? Which would be more traumatizing for children: their parent leaving this world just as they remember, or as a lifeless skeleton?

  The right to die is a fundamental freedom. Every person has the right to end their life for whatever reason they choose. If they can’t deal with the pain anymore, and it’s not treatable, they should be able to leave this world pain free.

  Closure for family. People might argue that loved ones don’t get closure from assisted suicide, but I disagree. If someone died in a fatal car crash, no one gets to say good-bye to them, but with assisted suicide, you know when they are going to pass. You can say your final good-byes and therefore have more of a sense of closure.

  I stared at his list. He went into cons, but not in as much depth. I had to admit that his argument made sense. I wouldn’t ever tell him that, but I could see why people would agree with his logic. He was still wrong, though. I didn’t get closure. Instead, a cold rush of bad memories left me empty and lifeless, just like my mom’s body in Spring Hill Cemetery.

  Mom. What would she want me to do about Dad’s predicament? She’d stick by him ’til the end—she did until he helped her die. Would I have kept in contact with her if the situation had been reversed? Or would I have ignored her the same as I did Dad? The stack of unopened letters from my closet called to me. Open me.

  Would it give me closure like Blake argued? Doubtful. Yeah, I missed him, but I couldn’t go back to being a daddy’s girl. Couldn’t go back to the days when we watched cartoons on Sunday mornings and went on evening runs after dinner. Or daddy-daughter dates to catch a movie and share rocky road ice cream at the Tasty Freeze afterward.

  Dad ruined everything.

  I blew out a shaky sigh while my cursor made it to the reply button. Blake needed to see how wrong he was.

  P Daniels 10:30 a.m.

  Dear B Hiller,

  You make some valid points, but I feel that your logic is flawed. How can you speak about something you have not personally gone through? I agree that no one needs to die as an emaciated skeleton, but there are many treatments that could be tried before resorting to assisted suicide.

  The right to die is a freedom, but what about from a religious standpoint? If you were from a religious family, this would be considered committing suicide, which is against most beliefs. I’d think you would want your loved one to end up in heaven on judgment day.

  And as for your opinion on closure for family, I completely disagree. Yes, you had the option to say good-bye, but is it really better when you know exactly when your loved one is going to pass? In some ways this can be more painful and leave loved ones wondering if there was something more they could have done.

  I didn’t mention Mom and Dad’s decision to keep me out of the loop, like I wasn’t important enough to be a part of the discussion—that hurt the most. It fueled every stabby opinion on everything assisted suicide related. Life was an unfair bitch.

  I hit send before I could chicken out. Good. Much less personal than talking about it face to face. Even though he’d see my post, dialogue through a computer gave a sense of anonymity. Maybe he’d realize his logic was skewed. He wouldn’t have wanted his mom to commit suicide. She was a devout Catholic; he’d want her to go to heaven. And, even if my mom wasn’t religious, I prayed she went to a better place.

  Chapter Twelve

  Blake

  “Your arms are shaking worse than a fat girl’s ass on the treadmill. Now c’mon, bro, give me one more.” Andrew’s words of encouragement took shit talking to a whole new level.

  I clenched every muscle in my body as I struggled to push up th
e bar. With one last burst of energy, I straightened my arms. The metal clanged against the rack, and I loosened my grip. A zigzag pattern imprinted on my palms as I peeled my hands off the bar. My body melted into the bench. Nothing beat the liquefied feeling my muscles got after being pushed to the max.

  Andrew put his fist in front of me, and I bumped it with my knuckles. “Nice, bro.”

  Shifting out of the bench press, I grabbed my towel and wiped off the black vinyl dotted with my sweat. “Thanks. How was mini golfing?”

  Andrew slid onto the bench press and gripped the bar. “Fucking disaster.” He did three chest presses, grunting like a roided-out gym rat. “Her roommate called, something about being sick. She had to go home and take care of her.”

  Hmm. Jules seemed fine in class earlier that morning and had texted me that night wanting to hang out, clearly not getting I wasn’t interested. Somehow her text and Andrew’s comment didn’t add up.

  “That sucks.”

  He pushed the bar up again, and, with the way his right arm shook, I’d put money on him only making it a couple more reps. “Isn’t that your job? Being her boyfriend and all.”

  “We’re just friends.” Single as ever. I had a feeling it would stay that way until I figured out my shit.

  His arms shook as the bar stalled halfway on his rep. Through ragged breath, he squeezed out, “Friends with bennies. Good for you.” The vein in his forehead throbbed against his red face. If he didn’t breathe soon, he’d burst a vessel.

  “I guess. Stop holding your breath; you’re gonna pass out.” I was not in the mood to deadlift the bar after three sets of incline and decline bench.

  “Even though our date got cut short, I made progress. It’s just a matter of time.”

  He struggled with the bar and, without warning, his muscles went limp and the bar slammed down onto his collarbone. He let out a loud oof and fought to push off the bar. A good spotter would help him out a little. I wasn’t feeling like a good spotter today. Especially when he was so insistent on getting into Payton’s pants. Instead, I let him wrestle around with the bar a few more seconds before helping him lift the weight off his chest. “Sorry, bro.”