by Stacey Kade
“Are you in?” Liam asks, walking backward toward the table, to “our” side. “If not, I have to do this by myself.” People around him boo, giving the thumbs-down. Because we’re freshmen or because I might make him do this alone? I don’t know.
Who do I want to be? Okay, not necessarily someone who is a champion beer pong player, but definitely not someone who is afraid of it.
“Fine.” I make myself move toward him, despite the leap of nerves in my stomach and my suddenly trembling hands. All these eyes watching me. “But we might lose.”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve lost at beer pong,” Liam says. “You know Dante?”
Big guy. Football player. A senior when we were sophomores.
“Sort of.”
“He and I played once at Tyler’s house, and we lost so badly, they trolled us for the next two games.”
He sees my blank look, and explains. “They make you sit under the table as a penalty.” Again, his smile is fond, like this is a good memory.
One of our opponents, red-faced and sweaty, bounces the ball down to Liam as soon as the cups are set up.
“Wait!” The other guy, his teammate, shouts. “Back row!” Everyone around us stops, turning to look for . . . something.
I look with them, though I have no idea what it is I’m searching for.
“I should probably warn you,” Liam says, distracting me. “They apparently play by the back-row rule here.”
My eyes widen with alarm, and I shift my attention to him. “What does that mean?”
“If the other team clears their cups to the back row before we land a single shot, then there are consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?”
He jerks his chin toward a door on the other side of the basement, and I turn in time to see it thrown open by two very naked people, who run, shrieking and laughing, into the room. The girl is trying to cover everything with her arms as she bolts past; the guy, however, seems to be focused on making it across the space as quickly as possible. He’s skinny, so the muscles and tendons are standing out in his arms, which are pumping like he’s in a race.
I feel a rush of embarrassment, and I look away swiftly, but not before I recognize the guy and the girl. It’s the team from a few minutes ago. The one that lost at the table we’re now playing.
“Streaking,” Liam says.
I feel dizzy suddenly, like I might faint. “I . . . I can’t do this.”
“It’s a good rule of thumb,” Liam says, turning back to the table. “Always ask about the house rules before you agree to play.”
“But I didn’t . . . You’re the one who . . .” I can’t even find the words.
“Nothing like raising the stakes for motivation,” he says. “Forces you to operate under pressure.”
“No.” I turn and start to walk away.
He catches my arm. “Caroline.” He leans forward to whisper in my ear. “We’re in this together.” There’s a faint wrinkle of worry on his forehead that makes me soften slightly. “Trust me?” he asks.
Looking up into his familiar face, one I studied for years from across the cafeteria, various classrooms, even the basketball court, how can I say no?
I nod reluctantly.
“We’ll be fine.”
“All right, let’s do this!” the loud guy from the other side shouts.
Liam takes the first shot. And misses.
“It always takes me a shot or two to warm up,” he says.
Ignoring our audience—or trying to—I aim for the center cup, which seems to be the most logical shot with the best odds. But the ball skews inexplicably left, bouncing off the rim of the farthest cup on that side.
I feel like this is some horribly twisted game of strip poker—not that I’ve ever played that, either—where every missed shot gets us one step closer to nakedness.
I watch, in mute horror, as the other team makes shot after shot. The beer is poured into my cup and Liam’s equally. And I drink as much of it as I can, grimacing at the yeasty, sour taste, trying to keep up. I have no idea what the penalty is for not finishing the beer, but I’m not about to find out.
Finally the red-faced guy misses, and it’s our turn again.
Liam hands me the ball, and without letting myself think too much about it, I lob it toward the other end of the table. Better to get my shot out of the way so Liam, former basketball star, can try again.
But to my surprise, the Ping Pong ball catches on the rim of the center cup and rolls around for a heartbreaking second before dropping in.
The crowd explodes into cheers, and a few of them even pat me on the shoulder, while I stand still in shock. Some of the guys congratulate Liam on his choice of partner. Then Liam pulls my free hand up for a high five. “Nice job,” he says with a wink.
Liam sinks his next shot, and every other one after that. I hit a couple more but not enough, so we lose, but we are still fully clothed.
“You did that intentionally,” I say to him, after we’ve finished drinking and stepped back from the table. I’m feeling full from the beer and maybe a little tilty, but surprisingly good, like a weight has been lifted from me.
He shrugs, refusing to answer.
“I hit the shot,” I say in amazement.
“Yeah, you did.”
And for a second it feels real. Like I belong here.
Because of Liam. Just like I’d hoped, like I’d dreamed.
“Thank you,” I say, staring at him in wonder.
He smiles at me in a way that makes my heart bump in a disconcertingly uneven rhythm. “Knew you could do it.”
“Don’t do it again,” I add hastily. “But thank you.”
He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close against his side. He still smells good, like pine and soap and warm skin. How is that possible?
“You’re welcome,” he says, his gaze searching my face.
Acting on an instinct I didn’t know I had, I tip my chip up.
He leans closer, and my heart pounds so hard I feel shaky from it. But when his mouth brushes over mine, everything else drops away.
Chapter Thirteen
The morning light through the open curtains is too bright. It takes me a second to figure out why it seems to be coming from below me.
Because I’m in Liam’s lofted bed. With Liam. His back is pressed against mine. And a quick glance down shows me that, yep, I’m wearing his T-shirt from last night.
And nothing else.
After that first kiss, we played one more game of beer pong, which we lost. And then Liam suggested we go back to his room. His roommate was still out of town.
My whole body goes warm as I remember where he touched, where I touched, in vivid detail. We didn’t have sex. Not in the most technical definition. But waking up next to him is intimate on a whole other level.
It feels surreal, like it happened to someone else in a show I was watching. Except it didn’t. It was me! It is me.
A giddy smile spreads across my face. I knew that a fresh start at Ashmore was what I needed. I never dreamed it would also give me everything I was too afraid to even hope for. In the first week, no less!
I roll over, careful to keep my mouth below the line of Liam’s shoulder—no point in sending morning breath to greet him. “Hey,” I whisper, resting my hand on his side.
I’m expecting him to roll over toward me, maybe touch my hair again. No kissing because, again, morning breath.
Instead Liam jolts beneath my touch. “Hey . . . Caroline.” His voice is foggy and distant with sleep—and possibly a hangover.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say. Not exactly true. I shift closer. “I was thinking we could go get something to eat.” Make out a little more. “I don’t have class until one.” I have two new classes today, in fact. In addition to all of yesterday’s homework, which I should be worrying about or at least making a plan for. But I can’t seem to bring myself to care about either of those things with
Liam next to me. “And maybe later we could go to the union? I think they’re showing that new movie with the guy who played Magneto. Or we could try the bowling—”
Liam shifts away from me abruptly to sit up.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Are you feeling sick from the—”
“Listen, Caroline . . . ,” he begins, without looking at me.
A distant alarm sounds in the back of my mind, like a siren growing closer and closer, and my heart is thumping like I’m being chased by a serial killer.
“This is awkward,” he says with a forced laugh. “Last night was fun, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea. I just got out of a relationship, and I don’t want to . . . you know, move too fast into something else.”
I feel the blood draining away from my head. Is it even possible to pass out while you’re lying down? I have no idea. “No,” I say faintly. “I . . . understand.” No, I don’t! He was the one who kissed me ! He was the one who started this!
I need to get out of here, but I can’t seem to make myself move.
“You were, um, great,” he says, reaching out to pat my leg. “But I think maybe we should just be friends, you know?”
Get up, Caroline. Move. Or he’s going to keep talking, and it’s going to get worse.
I lurch upright, scrambling away from him and down to the floor.
“Caroline, are you okay?” he asks.
I can’t speak. The words are locked in my throat. I’m standing, pantsless, in Liam’s room. In front of Liam, who is telling me how much he does not like me “that way.”
I make my chin jerk up and down in the semblance of a nod, so he won’t ask me again if I’m okay. Then I find my clothes and get dressed under the cover of his shirt.
“We’re still friends, Caroline,” he says.
“I’ll . . . your shirt . . .” I can’t get the words out. The thought of being exposed in front of him again, even for the few seconds to switch tops, makes my throat lock up.
“You can give it back to me later,” he says with a careless wave of his hand. He sounds relieved. Relieved that I’m leaving. I can feel the embarrassed heat scorching through me.
Tucking my/Lexi’s shirt under my arm, I start for the door.
“I’ll text you later,” he says. “We can meet for dinner.”
Mute, I bob my head at him without looking back.
I can’t get out of his room, off his floor, and out of Granland fast enough.
• • •
No one is out and about on campus. It’s still too early. So I am the sole witness to my heart-crushing humiliation. Other than Liam, of course.
I hurry the short distance to Brekken, the grass damp on my feet through my flip-flops. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’ll just be awkward for a few days, and then it’ll be like it never happened. It’s not like I ever really expected that Liam and I would . . .
Except after last night I kind of did, and suddenly it feels like I’m losing something. Even if I never actually had it. Or only had it for a few hours.
Tears slide down my cheeks to drip off my chin. It’s not fair. I had everything for a brief shining moment, only for it to vanish?
Breathe, Caroline. What would Felicity do?
I don’t know. Because this never would have happened to her!
That only makes me cry harder.
At the Brekken entrance, I fumble in my pocket for my ID card to unlock the door.
“Hey,” a voice says out of nowhere
I jump. But it’s only Tory, sitting against the wall, half hidden by the bike rack. Actually, “sitting” might be a generous term. She’s slumped against the wall, waving lazily at me. She’s wearing . . . I’m not sure what she’s wearing. It might be an Alice in Wonderland costume. If Alice were prone to teased hair, body glitter, and deep cleavage. Also, Tory’s dress has what appears to be vomit stains down the front.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, swiping at the tears.
“Forgot my ID,” she says. Her accent is heavier when she’s been drinking. Ah-Dee. “Couldn’t get in.”
“Have you been out here all night?” I ask, hurrying over to help her up. Yep, definitely vomit.
She pats my cheek. “Bless your heart, no. Only about . . .” She squints at me. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Early.”
“See?” She points at me with a laugh as we stumble toward the door. “You were a bad girl too.”
I help Tory to our floor and then to her room, where she collapses on her bed. I shove piles of discarded clothes out of the way until I find a trash can and set it next to her.
I let myself out, closing the door behind me, and then, dread curling in my stomach, I head to my room.
After slipping into the darkened room as quietly as possible, I shut the door and tiptoe toward my bed, pausing only long enough to put Lexi’s shirt in my laundry basket.
Lexi stirs. “You okay?” she mumbles.
I go still. “I’m . . . great!” I say, forcing my voice up into near-apocalyptic levels of peppiness. “Thanks for the loan. I’ll wash it and get it back to you.”
“Mm” is all she says.
I ignore it—and her—to yank back the covers on my bed, climb in, and then pull the sheet and comforter over my head.
But I can’t cry, not with Lexi in the room. So I lie there, my brain circling through everything that happened, trying to find the place where I messed up.
It can still work out. It will still be okay.
I keep telling myself that over and over, trying to believe it.
Eventually I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes again, the room is brighter, the light managing to penetrate my bedcover cocoon.
I peel back the covers to find that Lexi is up and gone. Checking my phone, I see that it’s almost noon.
And I don’t have any new texts. About meeting for dinner or otherwise.
But then again, it’s not like he doesn’t know where to find me at the last minute. Maybe he’s not thinking about dinner yet. It is just lunchtime.
Or maybe he’s never going to text me again.
Against my better judgment, I pull up our last text conversation. An ugly desperation moves me to type. Sorry about last night. Still on for dinner? How about the union caf? In the mood for pizza. I add the cross-eyed, tongue-sticking-out emoji for good measure. A perfectly normal “we’re still friends” text if I ever saw one. Which, frankly, I haven’t, but I think I’m on point.
I hold my breath and hit send.
The “delivered” notification pops up. A moment later the gray typing dots appear, and I exhale in a loud rush; the relief is so intense it feels like I’m falling.
But then the dots stutter, pause, and vanish.
And even though I wait, they don’t come back.
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday passes in a slow blur. I try to focus on classes—you’re overreacting, Caroline; he’s just busy—but it’s hard to concentrate. The silence from Liam is so loud.
In my room at the end of the day—after eating pizza in my room by myself—I pull up my favorite episodes of Felicity—my never-fail for comfort—but here and now all they do is remind me of everything I don’t have. By the time the theme music comes up, I’m crying, and I have to switch over to House Hunters.
I think about calling Dr. Wegman, but that would involve leaving out a lot of pertinent details. And he’d probably only remind me (again) that it’s a process and that not everything will go the way I want it to. Obviously.
When Lexi comes back to the room at the end of the day and settles in with her laptop on her bed, I catch her watching me from time to time. She wants to say something, clearly, but she refrains.
Which is good. Because everything is going to be okay. It’s not like she was right about Liam. Yes, things got out of hand last night, but it happens. It’s a bump in the road.
Come tomorrow, once we’ve had a little time
and distance, everything will be fine. He and I will be back to eating together and going to parties, as friends. Ashmore is still the place for me. When Liam and I are seniors—and probably dating other people, a thought that hurts my heart—this will be an experience that we’ll look back on and laugh about.
Except that when tomorrow does come, still no texts. He’s avoiding me. He has to be.
I want to believe that’s just paranoia talking, but it’s starting to seem like the most likely explanation, especially when I see Jordan and the other PBTs at the lunch table in the union cafeteria on Thursday, like before, but no Liam.
By Friday morning, my rationalizing is growing thin. I’ve been at Ashmore less than a week and somehow managed to ruin everything.
Life around me is going on like normal; people are laughing and talking like they don’t have a care in the world, which only makes me feel worse. Like I’m isolated again, trapped in a bubble that separates me from everyone else.
I drag myself to classes, but only because Lexi will notice if I don’t go, and I refuse to have that conversation. The minutes tick by excruciatingly slowly. I look for Liam everywhere, until I realize that he might catch me doing so, and I can’t decide if being caught is worse than missing a glimpse of him and the small possibility that he might wave me over and say hello, like nothing happened.
Distantly, I’m aware that it’s a perfect day outside. The sky is that deep shade of blue that means autumn is coming, and the leaves on the trees are starting to change to lighter shades of green and yellow. Groups of people are out on the quad, studying on blankets, playing Frisbee, or standing and chatting. Students in brightly colored armbands are chasing one another across and up and down the sidewalk, with flags on little metal wires.
Scavenger Flag. That must start today. It’s a weeklong Ashmore tradition, a unique combination of a scavenger hunt and capture the flag. Liam mentioned it at lunch, told me we should sign up as a team.
Guess that won’t be happening. Sadness and regret cut through me.
On my way home from my last class on Friday afternoon, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I immediately grab for it, nearly dropping it in my eagerness.
