by Ginger Scott
“What’d it say?”
Nosey fucker.
“Just thanks, you saved me, you’re my hero, I want you, take me…” I make a joke out of it, and Trent flips me off then grabs another cookie.
“You going to study hall tomorrow?” he asks, and I’m unusually grateful for the change in subject—even if the new subject is also a pain in my ass. Part of being in the university’s athletics department is making mandatory grade checks. It’s never a problem for me, but everyone has to log so many hours a week at the study room near the athletic department whether they really need to go or not. I’m always making up my hours at the last minute, and I’m five behind for the month.
I sigh in response, looking up at the ceiling before leveling my gaze back at my friend.
“Dude, don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault you’re smart and don’t need to sit in a library with the rest of us dumbshits,” he says. “You better go tomorrow though. You know they’re checking hours before the game Friday.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go,” I say over my shoulder. I leave Trent with the rest of the cookies and shut my bedroom door behind me. I pull Emma’s note from my pocket the second I’m alone, sitting on my bed and flattening out the paper against my leg. She wrote a lot. Maybe it’s a lot. I wouldn’t know—this would be the first letter I’ve ever gotten from her.
Dear Drew,
Thank you for being the kind of guy who pays attention to lost things. You have no idea the trouble you saved me. I made you these cookies because they’re my favorite. It was the least I could do. I’m glad you met Lindsey. She’s a great girl, and I think you’ll like her a lot (do not tell her I said that ;-) )
Anyhow. Really, thank you again. I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me—and here I was a complete stranger.
Enjoy the cookies.
~ Emma
I read the letter six times, each time flipping it over, expecting more, expecting…I don’t know…a joke maybe? What the fuck? This…this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her? A complete stranger?
After my last read, I crumple the note and throw it on my desk, then grab my jacket and keys. I pace a few times, my hand twitching and wanting to hit something, my body craving adrenaline. By the time I step from my room, I must look like an amped up bull given the way Trent reacts to me.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asks, sitting up a little straighter on the sofa, squaring his legs as if he’s considering tackling me or holding me down.
“Nothing, just…just some shit I found out,” I say, not wanting to give him more.
“Owen? Your ma?” he asks, one eyebrow up. Trent hears me argue with my mom over not visiting enough, over making sure I’m following rules, driving safe—she and I argue over everything. She thinks I’m a fuck up and that I’m going to blow it now that I’ve climbed back this far. And Owen just calls to echo everything she says. I take a deep breath and remind myself to act rational.
“Sort of,” I say, simultaneously thinking of the number of lies I’ve told my friend in the last two days. I’ll never be able to keep up, so I stick with half answers that never satisfy, but at least aren’t totally wrong.
“Wanna go shoot some pool?” Trent asks. I don’t make eye contact and do my best to think if that would help. What I’d really like to do is find Pitch Black and go a few rounds with him, but Harley usually likes to schedule fights on Wednesdays, so I’m pretty sure the gym is closed.
I grip the back of my neck and stare at Trent’s feet for a beat before nodding. He doesn’t pause at all, just moves to the door, leaving the TV on in the room behind us. He slips on his shoes and the sweatshirt he left hanging on the back of a nearby stool. He locks up as I start down the walkway to the main road.
We live on the first floor of a two-story building. No need for elevators. No doorman greeting me as I come and go. No one doing amazingly nice things for me that would make me want to bake them cookies. I fume over the words in Emma’s note the entire way, sometimes talking to myself. Trent can sense I’m pissed, so he doesn’t question me. He’s used to seeing me get worked up over a bad game or a weekend with my mom and stepdad. Usually, I’m frustrated at having to defend myself, prove that I’ve grown up. The only sound he makes tonight is the occasional huff of breath in his hands to keep them warm. Winter is coming in Northern Illinois.
Majerle’s is warm, and I don’t waste any time ordering up two shots of Jack and commandeering a pool table in the back corner. This is a common scene for Trent and me—honestly, this is what we do for dinner most nights during the off-season. Trent is easy going, and I like to look for trouble. He keeps me in line—usually—and Majerle’s accommodates us both nicely. I rack quickly and toss a stick to Trent. He grabs it in the air.
“I’ll break,” I say, positioning myself and bending forward to line up my stick without waiting to hear his answer.
“Do you have to be a bossy fuck, too?”
I lean forward with my hands on the edge of the table, my stick leaning against it too, between my palms. I’ve gotten myself so worked up that I’ve lost sight of reason—and being reasonable. I let my head sling forward more as I exhale, then tilt my head up to look at my friend leaning against the wall across from me.
“Sorry,” I sigh.
“You know you’re miserable when you get like this?” He picks up the white ball in front of me, tossing it in his hand a few times before motioning for me to step to the side.
“I know,” I say, taking two steps back.
“Okay, as long as you know,” he says, leaving his eyes on mine for a few seconds, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll explode some more or actually calm the fuck down this time. I hold up a thumb and nod, mouthing I’m good.
“You wanna tell me what this is all about?” he says, leaning forward and lining up his break. He slides his stick twice before sending balls in all directions on the table, sinking both a stripe and a solid. He works his second shot, sinking a solid again. “You’re stripes.”
Our waitress drops off two shots, and I take mine fast, setting the glass back on her tray before she’s more than a step away. I hold up my fingers for two more, and Trent tells her to make it only one.
“Pussy,” I call him.
“I have a test in the morning. And then we’re going to the tutoring lab. You show up hung over, and I guarantee you that’ll be worse than telling coach you’re two hours short on your time,” Trent says.
I keep my eyes level with his, reach for his shot on the tray, and drink it.
“Two more,” I tell the girl. She smiles at me uncomfortably and heads back to the bar.
“Fuck,” Trent breathes, shaking his head in disappointment.
I sit back on my stool while he works most of his balls from the table, missing with only two left. I take over and sink three before missing—just in time for my next two shots to arrive. Trent reaches for one of them.
“Hey, hands off, bitch!” I say, smacking the top of his hand. He flips me off and drinks it down, leaving me with only one to grab and follow suit. “Two more!” I shout, holding up two fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“Drinking.” I don’t look at him, instead circling the table like an animal.
Nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
Is she fucking serious? I bet someone lent her a penny once when she was short. Is that guy higher on the list, too? I guess I shouldn’t complain, at least she thanked me for returning her missing ID.
Emma wouldn’t have had to go to a place like Lake Crest.
“Are you going to shoot or what?” Trent asks. I’m irritating him. Good. Melissa, our waitress—whose name I got from the nametag pressed against her tits—has brought more Jack. I think I’ll drink these two first.
I grip the first glass between my finger and thumb. Trent takes my stick from my hand when I do.
“Andrew,” he says, leveling me with the kind of look I s
hould only get from my father. If I had one. I have Dwayne. Fuck Dwayne. And fuck Owen.
I push his chest so hard he stumbles backward, knocking over one of the high-top tables. The bar isn’t crowded, but the dozen or so people around us get quiet, and one of the security guys walks over.
“It’s fine,” I say, raising my hand up. “Go on, get back to the front door with your stupid tight black T-shirt and flashlight, like that really helps you spot fake IDs.”
Trent’s face falls into a look of disgust, and he sighs, shaking his head and tossing both of our sticks on the pool table before walking away.
“Come on,” the bouncer says, his arms folded in front of his body as he steps into my personal space. “You’re done for the night, kid.”
I hate being called kid. I haven’t been a kid in years, since I ran after an ice cream truck with a crumpled dollar bill. I spit on the floor, and for a brief second, I consider taking a swing at him. Luckily, I’m not drunk enough for that yet. This place—it’s my favorite bar. Trent and I come here after games and tough practices. I’d hate myself more than I already do if I fucked that up, too.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pulling my beanie from my back pocket and sliding it on my head. I toss two twenties on the pool table, then shove my hands into my jacket pockets when I leave, stopping a few steps from the bar’s front door. Trent didn’t wait for me; he’s already a block away. I let him go, because if I caught up with him I’d only keep being an asshole, and he didn’t do anything wrong.
He’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m lost. I was barely with it before, but then I saw her. Now I’m done.
I lean to the side and spit again before looking up into the eyes of the dickhead who kicked me out. I thrust my chest toward him, juking him with my arms out wide. He doesn’t flinch.
“Fuck this place,” I say…to no one.
I walk the long way home, circling through campus, by the lake. A few students are out running, and others are walking quickly from the library in the center of campus out to cars or to their dorms. I bet they’re walking fast because they’re afraid of me. I pause at a bench that’s shadowed by the only tree around that seems to still have its leaves. I sit down and pull my phone out to check the time. I notice a few texts from Owen.
Are you making it to mom’s and Dwayne’s for dinner Sunday?
He sent it only a few minutes ago, so I respond.
Yeah. I’ll be there.
I don’t want to go. But I don’t want to hear the mountain of shit I’ll get for not going more. He writes back a minute later.
Good. Mom’s really freaking out because Kens and I are going to Germany. Try not to be an asshole, K?
Yep.
I lean my head forward into my hand, my arm rested on my knee. Owen and his girlfriend are spending a year in Germany thanks to some offer my brother got to play basketball there. His girlfriend Kensi plays…like…a dozen instruments or something. She got into some master’s program over there to study with the national symphony. They’ve lived together in the city since graduation—Owen coaches at some prep school and Kens plays in an orchestra. I think they’ll probably end up getting married, which is good because I like Kensi; she’s good to my brother and my mom. Better than I am.
Kensi visited me at Lake Crest. I can’t even count how many times she came to see me—sometimes with Owen, sometimes on her own. When I got in my first fight there, she was the one I called. I was beaten by a guy twice my size and two years older than me. He was in Lake Crest for committing armed robbery; he drove the getaway car. When he asked me to write his term paper for recent American history, I said no. So he fucked me up when I rounded the corner after my shower in gym. My eye was swollen shut, and he cut me on my cheek and arm with a knife he wasn’t supposed to have, but no one dared take away from him. I called Kensi so she’d come up with an excuse to keep my mom away for an extra week. She did.
Kensi made a lot of excuses for me.
That right there—that small thing that the girl, who will probably marry my brother, did for me, no questions asked—is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Kensi wrote to me, too. She sent me clips from the college paper on Owen’s games, and she took pictures and printed them out to make collages of things I missed—my car, my old house, the rink.
I gave up a year and a future, and Emma Burke couldn’t be bothered to stamp a goddamned envelope.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll to the string of texts between Lindsey and me, and I send her one more.
Can’t wait for Friday. Can I see you tomorrow? I’ll come over. Oh, and don’t tell your roommate, but her cookies made me sick. Had to throw them out.
Standing from the bench, I push my phone back into my pocket and stuff my hands into my jacket, walking back to my apartment feeling entitled to lots of things. First on that list is Emma Burke’s roommate.
And I intend to have her.
* * *
Emma
I didn’t sleep.
Lindsey did.
She slept right through the sound of her phone buzzing on the bed between us. She’d brought it in with her, never stopping in her happiness to leave things in the kitchen or her room. She came to take care of me, then left her phone there as she fell asleep. I know she didn’t do it on purpose; she doesn’t have a clue about any of it at all, about who Drew really is. But it still all feels so carefully played, as if she’s working with him to make sure just the right everything finds my ears and eyes and insides.
…her cookies made me sick.
My body ached reading those words. They weren’t for me, but yet…they have to be for me. I lay there and thought about the way he looked at me—and the way he looked.
I let Lindsey stay asleep in my bed. Sneaking out of my room to the shower, I slip into my workout clothes so I could head to the gym before my morning class. I packed a bag with everything I thought I’d need, the plan to stay away until I heard from Lindsey about a date—that he’d come, and they’d both be gone.
But that text never came. Not a word. Nothing—not even an excited text from my friend about how he wants to see her now, because he just can’t wait.
I fought the urge to text her leading questions that would prompt answers about Andrew. We only shared labs on Mondays and Wednesdays, so I was on my own today, which made it harder to stretch things like lunch and studying into taking longer than they really needed to. By the time the sun was down, I was exhausted, running on maybe an hour of sleep in total. If they were going out, they’d be gone by now, and Lindsey would have let me know.
My backpack loaded down, I drag my tired legs to our apartment building, through the lobby, and to the elevator where I’m so exhausted I drop my bag from my shoulders during the ride and drag it along the floor as I exit and walk to our door.
It’s a weird season here now—not quite the snowy winter I’ve grown to love, but not warm enough to wear single layers. Every hallway and classroom is pumped with heat, though, which makes me sticky and uncomfortable by the end of the day. I’ve hit my limit for today.
I listen before putting my key in the lock. It’s quiet, which makes me think that maybe Lindsey left without telling me. My mind runs away with this thought, jumping to the conclusion that Andrew mentioned how he knows me—and my friend didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so of course now they’re off somewhere both talking about how they need to keep this a secret from me. I let these thoughts dance in my head until I open the door and see the both of them laughing, throwing strings of pasta at each other in our kitchen. Confronted with what’s real, I actually wish the daydream in my head from seconds before were the truth. At least then, I wouldn’t really know and see it all.
I’m too noisy, and they both turn to look at me, my clothes disheveled from being stuffed in my bag for the morning, my hair limp and stringy from my rushed shower, my back sweaty from carrying my heavy bag all day. Lindsey covers her mouth, hiding her giggle from whatever th
ey were doing before—whatever was funny—but finally lets it go, laughing without abandon as she walks closer to me.
Andrew isn’t laughing at all. She doesn’t notice he’s stopped. He’s behind her, and all he’s doing is staring.
“There you are!” she says, rushing at me with a spoon. “Here! Oh my god, taste this.”
There’s a red sauce in her spoon, but I look at it as if it’s poison, my eyes flitting to Andrew for a second, but looking back to the spoon because he’s still looking at me, not smiling, and if it is poison, I think it’s still my better option.
“What…is it?” I ask, pulling my bag back up to my shoulder and adjusting the weight of it.
“It’s marinara. Drew made it, and it’s so freakin’ good. You have to try.” She holds the spoon to my lips, and I lean forward, letting her feed me like a child, my eyes glancing to Andrew—Drew—as I taste it. His mouth tugs up on one corner into a smirk, and I can’t help but hear his voice in my head.
Her cookies made me sick.
“It’s good,” I say, my eyes on him the entire time. It’s delicious, but good is polite. It won’t make me sick, and it won’t make me well. It’s just a taste that somehow feels very much like the boy I knew…know.
“Made it from scratch,” he smirks. Lindsey joins him in the kitchen again, and he takes the spoon back from her, but his gaze lingers on me. “Dinner’s served in ten minutes,” he adds, waiting for me to react. My stomach sinks.
I was gone the entire day. My body hurts, and all I want is a hot shower. I wanted to miss this, yet somehow, I timed it just right.
“Oh…it’s okay, I’m not that hungry,” I say, looking down to my feet. His stare—it hurts. And he won’t stop.
“You sure? We made plenty. We didn’t want to leave you out,” he adds, turning back to tend to the stove. Lindsey’s looking up at him with stars, hearts, and probably rainbow unicorns in her eyes; it makes my breath feel heavy.
“I’m sure, but…thank you,” I say. His arm stops moving, no longer stirring the noodles in the water. Lindsey steps away, carrying a pile of bowls and plates to the small kitchen table by our window, and the second she leaves the room, he turns to face me, the mask gone.
