by Haley Pierce
Genevieve. Goddamn, being with her was the sweetest, worst brand of torture there ever was. She could be the total spoiled little snot, with the worst temper, and yet I kept coming back for more. I think of the last time we were together, at prom, when we’d fought so hard that she punched me, nearly knocking out my teeth. She’d told me she was going to be happy that I was going to be all the way across the country at UCLA, because she had her senior year and getting into UPenn to worry about, and didn’t need me as a “distraction”.
But that first year, away from her? It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I’d been miserable, all alone, across the country from everyone and everything I’d ever known. I knew that if I could just hear her voice, she’d make it better, even if all she did was yell bloody murder at me. I’d thought about breaking down and calling her every day, that first semester. I met other girls, went out with other girls, fucked other girls, even considered some my girlfriends. But I’d never wanted any girl as much as I’d wanted her, before or since.
Gradually, though, I let football fill her place.
But the way I’m feeling now? It’s clear it never fully did. That she never really left me.
And now, she’s right in the next room over. Probably cursing my name. And maybe she really doesn’t give a shit about me.
I think about tearing open that door and telling her how much I’d thought about her. What would she say?
I bet her answer would be another one of her famous right hooks. Damn, that girl can throw a punch.
So instead, I just lie on my back, restless, until an image floats into my mind. Genevieve, straddling Magee, naked, grinding into him. I cringe at the thought. I’ve texted with Magee a few times in the past few years, and he’d always had a thing for Genevieve. Would he have mentioned if he was banging my ex-girlfriend? Probably not.
Shit.
I can’t take anymore. I switch on the light over me and creep around the room, looking at every one of her pictures, from the time she was a baby, until her graduation from high school. Funny, there are no new ones, as if her life ended after she said goodbye to Union.
I limp over to the bookcase, reading some of the titles again. Le Fleurs du Mal. La Vie Suspendue. Shit, just looking at these titles should be enough to put me in a coma. There are a few college textbooks there, too. I catch sight of a paper sticking out from the pages of Elements of Modern Journalism, and pull it out, remembering what she’d said about not doing well in the class.
The paper is an article, with the title, Home is where your family is.
I read the first paragraph, and realize it’s all about how she missed her life at Bradys Bend. It’s damn good. One thing about Genevieve is that as good as she was at algebra, she was a thousand times better at writing. She mentions her parents, and how they were her roots, but it’s honest, and funny, and classic Genevieve. I laugh at some of her observations, because she’d had some of the same ones, living alone, far across the state of Pennsylvania, as I’d had that first semester, living across the country.
Then I scan to the bottom and frown. The asshole professor gave her a C. On the bottom, he’d written. To truly captivate your reader, you must dig deeper.
Fighting the urge to seek out the professor and shove the whole damn paper down his needle throat with my fist, I put the paper back inside the pages of the book and limp back to the couch. I’ve never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but as I lie back, I wonder how stupid Genevieve could be, to let one asshole’s opinion derail her future. Even if she had to come back home for her father, it didn’t mean she had to shut all her dreams down. There’s community college, and online courses she could take. Shit. Something. I lie there, thinking about it, until the sky begins to lighten. When I check my phone, it’s nearly six.
I get up and wash my face in the bathroom, then put on my clothes from yesterday and, yawning and wiping my unshaven jaw, start to make breakfast. As expected, Genevieve keeps quite the stocked pantry, all organized and perfect. Alphabetized, for fuck’s sake. I make eggs and bacon, with wheat toast. As I’m scraping the pan, she pokes her head out from the hallway. Her face is blank.
“Hey,” I say to her. “You awake?”
She gives me a look and crosses her arms. “How could I not be? You moving pans around in the kitchen was a noise loud enough to wake the dead. I thought you’d be gone by now.”
“Anyone ever tell you what a ray of sunshine you are in the morning?” I say, unfazed by the scowl she’s giving me. I point at the pan. “Want some?”
She lets out a sigh. Her voice is glum. “I guess. Since it’s mine. But then you’ve got to leave.”
“As you wish,” I say with a smirk.
She steps into the kitchen so that I can see her. She’s wearing a giant robe and fuzzy slippers, like an old lady. Through the slit in the robe, I can see she’s still wearing the same Philadelphia Eagles shirt. Genevieve was never one to put on airs, especially for me. The only time I ever saw her in make-up was during my senior prom, and she’d worn Chuck Taylors with her gown. She reaches into a cabinet and brings down plates. When she slides them onto the table, she pulls out a chair and slumps into it, like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“You have a coffee maker?” I ask her, spooning some eggs onto her plate.
She picks up a fork and pokes at them like they’re poisoned. “I don’t drink coffee,” she mutters, not looking up.
“You don’t drink coffee?” I ask, stunned.
“Yeah. It tastes gross,” she says like she’s twelve. “If you absolutely must have your caffeine fix, go to Sheetz. I, however, have no vices.”
I snort. “No vices, huh? Is that what caffeine is?”
She nods. “There’s OJ in the fridge. That’s enough for me.”
I get it and pour us each a glass. When I sit across from her and start to dig in, I can feel her watching me. Finally, she says, “I’m surprised you still know how to cook. I thought you probably have a maid to do that for you, now.”
I swallow the eggs down with a gulp of OJ. “I have a maid, yeah. But she doesn’t cook for me. I like to cook for myself.”
She narrows her eyes. “She lives with you? So she services you in other ways, too?”
I suck on my teeth. “No, in fact, she’s only in three days a week. Helen is sixty, and a grandmother.”
She shrugs, and in the cold, bitchy voice that is total Genevieve, says, “I didn’t really think you’d let that deter you.”
I finish shoveling my eggs into my mouth and drop the fork on the plate. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Obviously you have a lot of women after you,” she says, her voice casual. “And from what I’ve seen lately, you’re not exactly discriminating.”
I knew it. So that’s what this is about. The girl who was blowing me in the parking lot, the girls I was hanging out with at the Roll-A-Rama, who were just random girls who’d graduated from Union High a couple of years ago. They were fans who’d hooked onto me, and I was too nice to tell them to get lost. Genevieve is never going to let me live these things down, so I shouldn’t even try. “You jealous?”
She rolls her eyes. “Disgusted, is more like it. I mean, why bring three porn stars to the National Porn Awards? One wasn’t enough?”
I exhale. So she’d heard about that. Of course, the whole world probably heard about that. “It wasn’t three porn stars,” I say meekly. It was two and a model. “And those awards are actually a big honor. It sounds sleazy, but it can be an art.”
She just glares at me.
Fuck me for thinking that I could actually justify porn as art. To Genevieve, of all people.
“And they were friends and insisted on going together. I was just their arm candy.”
Her expression doesn’t soften. “Did you partake of their services afterwards, too?”
I can’t answer that. She wouldn’t like the answer, anyway. It had been a wild night, and things had gotten out of hand. I remember
thinking that it was the best night of my life, at the time. But afterwards? I felt empty, and shitty, which was why I’d kept away from that circuit, since then. I’d wanted to get as far away from Bradys Bend as possible, but not that far. Things moved way too fast for me, there. Afterwards, I’d gone to church every day for a month.
The pause I take is too long. Disappointment clouds her face. “And now you’re dating Ella whats-her-face. Didn’t she show all her assets off in Penthouse?”
For someone who doesn’t give a shit where I’m concerned, she sure has been paying a lot of attention to the tabloid stories about me. “First of all,” I say, trying to swerve the conversation away from the ugly direction it’s heading in. “Who the hell uses the word ‘partake’ in normal conversation?”
She just shakes her head. My attempt to sway the conversation has totally failed, because she says, “I don’t know. I thought you were better than that.”
“And I thought you were better than Chuck Magee.”
“He’s top shelf, compared to someone who does it on camera, for all the world to see.”
I throw up my hands. “Guess you’re right. I’m not very discriminating,” I tell her, taking another sip of my OJ. “I mean, I dated you.”
I see her fist clench around her fork. “You’re an asshole, Silas St. Clair.”
I nod. “So I’ve heard.” Then I smile. “But this is something new. Usually I hear that after I’ve fucked them. But you always were the smart one.”
She drops her fork. “You’re so disgusting, I don’t even want you in my kitchen anymore.”
I give her a mock hurt look. “After I made you breakfast?”
She looks away. Her voice is calm and controlled. “Get out, Silas.”
“You won’t even—”
I’m silenced by her throwing her fork so hard that it clatters against the cabinets, landing on the floor and skittering across the linoleum. “GET OUT!”
I guess I shouldn’t push my luck. She could’ve thrown it at my face. I push my chair out from the table, stand, and grab my sweatshirt. She stands, too, taking her full plate and tossing it into the sink, its contents uneaten. I make like I’m going to leave, but in a split second, I’m overtaken by that insane need that only Genevieve could spark in me.
I grab her, bringing her to me, and kiss her mouth, hard, forcing my tongue between those lips that are turned down in hate for me. My chest rubs up against those tits, those fucking glorious tits, and I can feel the sunshine-like warmth radiating from her. She struggles against me, pushing me away, and I think it’s because I know she can hold her own that makes it more exciting. I’ve only just started to explore when the sting of a slap snaps me back to reality.
Then, to top it all off, she brings her knee between my legs and with one upward motion, I’m doubled over, gasping in pain. Starbursts cloud my vision as the pain shoots right through my balls.
“Really?” she says, looking at me as I fall to the floor. “You are so gross, Silas. Believe it or not, you can’t just take whatever you want in this world.”
I stay there, in fetal position, letting the ache subside, and laughing to myself. It was worth it. “Just had to do it, for old time’s sake. You know you want me, still.”
“I know I want you to leave. You’re not the person you used to be,” she says, pacing the room. “And that means, you don’t get me.”
I sit up, putting my hands on my knees. “Oh, so I’m a disappointment to you? What, you expected me to stay a virgin, is that it? When you’re the one who threw me away and said I would only distract you?”
“I didn’t throw you away,” she mutters. “I told you. Long distance relationships never work.”
I shake my head. “You’re not the person you used to be, either, Genevieve. Look around you. The Genevieve I knew wouldn’t have been satisfied with this as her life. She would have fought for her dreams, instead of hiding because of what one asshole professor thought. You could’ve been so much more.”
“Well, I have news for you, Mr. Football. Your opinion means nothing to me anymore.” She raises her upper lip in a snarl.
“It doesn’t?” I shoot back at her. “That’s not true. You can’t tell me you don’t still care about me. If you didn’t, you would’ve let me sleep out on the street last night.”
She whirls to face me, and I wait for her to deny it. But she doesn’t.
“Why did you come back here, Silas? This is my home. Not yours, anymore.” She looks out the window, at the empty alley, and points. “Your life is out there. Out, far away from here.”
I stare at her for the longest time. When I left Bradys Bend, I had it in my head that Genevieve Wilson was too good for me. Every game I won, I thought of as a step toward deserving her. As quarterback of the Steelers, I almost felt worthy.
But now, it’s clearly not enough. I thought I’d grown. I thought I’d learned a thing or two. But she’s just as fucking baffling to me now, as she was then. The lack of control is infuriating. What the fuck do I have to say or do to make her want me?
I stalk to the couch, grab my sweatshirt, and without another glance in her direction, throw open the door and make my way down the steps.
Geni
I wish things with Silas were “Out of sight, out of mind.”
But they’re not, and never have been. After he left my apartment, he was all I could think about. I ruminated on the kiss way more than was healthy, to the point of near insanity. He now has more raw power, more stubble, more confidence. The kisses we’d experienced in high school felt like child’s play compared to the way his mouth had felt on mine. I’m embarrassed to say I’d never even kissed another guy besides Silas, but I couldn’t imagine it being any hotter than what he’d done to me in my apartment. My knees knocked together for an entire day afterwards. I tried to carry on with my regular schedule, working at Billy’s six days a week, mostly for the lunch crowd, but I kept watching the door, wondering if he’d come in, giving me that sly smile that made me simultaneously want to kill him and jump his bones.
But he didn’t. He didn’t try to call me, or come by. Remembering what he’d said about being on his way back to Pittsburgh, after three days, I figured he’d left Bradys Bend.
It still didn’t stop me from thinking of him, and of that kiss, non-stop.
And yes, he was right. I had let him go, telling him he was a distraction. It was true, I was distracted, but not by college and my future. No, I was constantly worrying that he was moving away from me, especially during the end of his senior year. He’d gotten a full-ride to UCLA. Women were throwing themselves at him, everywhere he went, even when I was with him. News reporters were constantly trolling around outside the locker room, wanting to talk to him. Our last few months together, he was so busy being Mr. Football that we barely spent any time together.
It was excruciating. I didn’t see any sense in putting off the inevitable. And yes, I’m competitive. I wanted to do it before he did it to me.
The second I’d gotten home after dumping him at his senior prom, I cried my eyes out. I left my window open for him, thinking if he showed up, we could patch things up, like we always did. But he never showed. We’d fought one too many times, and he’d clearly had enough. He moved on. That pain? Turned out, it was even more excruciating.
A few days after he stormed out of my apartment, I’m waiting on tables during the usual lunch rush when Abby nudges me. “Look at this,” she says, pointing at the screen.
It’s ESPN Sports Talk, and there are two announcers sitting behind a desk, talking animatedly to one another. Great. Abby knows I hate hearing the news stories about Silas. I’m about to tell her I don’t care when my eyes scan the closed captioning and I see the words OUT FOR THE SEASON?
“What’s this about?” I ask, coming close to the bar and setting my tray down, eyes glued to the screen as the show cuts to a pre-recorded video of a surgeon. I read on: THE INJURY ST. CLAIR SUSTAINED WAS EXTENSIVE.
I look at Billy, who’s pouring a beer for a customer and shaking his head. “Damn shame, if it’s true,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I ask him, thinking of what he’d said. He’d seemed so damn positive that this was just a blip in his career and he’d be back on the field in no time. “I thought he was having surgery done. You think he’ll be out for longer?”
Billy nods, giving me a curious look. That’s what I get for pretending I don’t care. “He didn’t seem too worried.”
“Yeah. He said he was only going to be out another few games,” I muse, wondering if that was a cover-up. Silas never was very good at showing pain, which is why, two seconds after I’d kneed him in the balls the other morning, he’d laughed like a madman.
And being out for the season? Or maybe longer? I think that would qualify as the ultimate pain for someone like Silas. It’s his life.
“Yeah, he told me that, too,” Billy says.
Maybe he’s in denial, I think. I lean my elbows on the bar and wonder how I can phrase this so I can appear disinterested. “So, where is he now? Getting the surgery?”
Billy’s curiosity melts into amusement. “If you want to know where he is, why don’t you call his cell?”
I toss my ponytail. “I don’t care about him. Just the Steelers,” I say, which he has to know is the biggest crock of shit, since I never rooted for the Steelers before. “Looks like they’re not going to make it to the Super Bowl after all. Besides, I don’t have his cell.”
He winks at me. “Well, is it okay that I gave him yours?”
My eyes widen. “What? When?”
“He asked, yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” So he was still in town yesterday, and thinking about me. He asked for my number. I have to wonder why. But no, I’ve never gotten any calls. I rush to fish my phone out of the pocket of my apron and see that I haven’t missed any calls or texts. That’s just like Silas. He probably only asked for it because he knew Billy would tell me, and he wanted to play mind games with me. “He was in here yesterday?”
