by Sara Ney
Eliza shoots me an irritated scowl. “Would you knock it off?”
“I can’t seem to.” I laugh. “But honestly, Eliza, if you want to talk about it, I’m all ears.” Much like Prince Charles, I am all. Ears.
“Do you actually want to talk about it?” she shoots back, skepticism written all over her face. “Or are you just being polite?”
I’m always polite. Besides, don’t females like discussing how they feel and shite?
“You should get your feelings out since your two mates dumped on you.”
“I mean—I’ve been messaging my friends from back home. That has helped a lot.”
Her friends from back home. Makes me realize I don’t know her background all that well any more than she knows mine.
“Where are you from?”
“Not far from here—about three hours south. In Indiana.”
Indiana. Huh.
“Do you want to live in Indiana when you graduate?”
Eliza laughs, a tinkly, merry little sound I’ve not heard before. “No, probably not. There isn’t much where I grew up, and I think I’ll want to be more in a big city. What about you?”
“I’ll return to London. I have a flat there, and my brother is living there with his wife while I’m here.”
“His wife? How old is he?”
“Twenty-three. Just had a birthday.”
Her eyes go wide. Real wide. “Twenty-three! How long have they been married?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Six months? Eight?”
I don’t keep track of shite like that; Mum does. When it’s their anniversary, she’ll message to let me know, and I’ll text my brother HAPPY ANNIVERSARY and that will be that. Same goes for most birthdays and events.
“There has to be a story there somewhere…”
And clearly she wants to hear it.
“There is,” I begin, settling in to tell the tale of how my brother Ashley met, married, and fell in love with his wife, Georgia. “When my brother moved here, he partied a lot. One night, a girl walked up to him on a dare at the rugby house and asked him on a date—she was supposed to pick the ugliest bloke in the room and ask him out. And that bloke was my brother.”
“Wait, wait, wait—hold up. So what you’re saying is, she asked him on a date because he’s ugly?”
“He’s not ugly.”
“Oh. Then why did she ask him out if that was part of the dare?”
“Are you going to let me tell the story?”
“Sorry.” She locks her lips and throws away the key.
“Georgia was being hazed. Part of the track team and all that.” I wave a hand around airily, as if that explains it all. “If you met her, you would wonder how she left herself open to that—she’s quite formidable and it’s hard to imagine her falling prey to that behavior, but whatever. This is their story.”
Eliza nods along.
“So according to the legend, Georgia walked up to him and started chatting him up, having a bit of conversation before landing the final blow—the problem is, he was well aware that the track team hazes their members this way, and he was insulted, to say the least. What bloke wouldn’t be?
“Basically he told her to piss off, and she ran away with her tail between her legs. Unfortunately, they ended up in the same class the very next day and wound up in a group project together.”
Eliza gasps. “How horribly embarrassing for her.”
“I know, right?” I lean forward and grab the water bottle on the coffee table, twisting off the top and chugging before continuing on. “Now we’re at the point in our little story where they’re tossed together for this class project. Georgia tried to butter him up, as you say, by bringing him sweets. Muffins and cakes and the like, and blowing sunshine and smoke up his ass—and if you knew my brother, you would be surprised that it…did not work.”
“Then what?” Eliza is riveted, hanging on my every word.
“I’m not exactly sure when the tide shifted, but they eventually took a trip together to fabulous Las Vegas. Got trollied, shagged for the first time, got even more pissed, got married.”
“Shagged?”
Surely she’s heard of shagging. “Sex?”
The light goes on and her mouth forms an O. “Oh!”
“Shite. I skipped the part where they moved in together.”
“They lived together?”
“Yup.” Just like her and me. “She needed a place to live because she wanted to move out of the dormitories—felt too old to be living there—and Ashley had a whole house to himself and offered to have her move in.” I pause dramatically, although I already spilled the best part of the story.
“They were just friends then?”
“Nah—I think they’d made out a few times? I don’t know, he doesn’t tell me much. I have to improvise.”
“Okay, so what happened after they got married? Do they both live in England?”
I nod. “Yes, they both live in England. London, in my flat, remember? After they were wed, Georgia’s parents had a cow—kicked her out of the house and told her it was time to grow up. If she could get herself married, she could act and live like a grownup, some mumbo jumbo like that.”
“What did she do?”
“What do you mean, what did she do? She rang me, hightailed it to England, and surprised my brother by showing up on his doorstep.” Which is technically my doorstep. “And they’re probably shagging in my bed as we speak.”
A nice morning shag—one of my favorite things besides crisps and travel.
Oh. And dogs.
Pugs in particular.
“They’re happy?”
“Very.” I think. Granted, I don’t think Ash would confess if they weren’t—we haven’t had the best relationship, and we were never best mates, but we’re getting there.
He hated Caroline, and that put a strain on our relationship. With her out of the picture, however, there are no more excuses.
“It’s a good thing we have no plans to fly to Las Vegas.” Eliza chuckles as she stands. Begins collecting plates and garbage and taking them to the kitchen, depositing the disposables in the bin. “No one in this house is shagging or getting accidentally married.”
“Ha.” I trail behind, shutting off lights and tidying as we go.
“If it’s all right with you,” she says, “I should probably get upstairs and make up the bed.” She punctuates her sentence with a yawn and has me yawning, too. “Otherwise I’ll be sleeping on a bare mattress.”
“Good idea, you’re probably exhausted.” She hasn’t technically done a lot of intensive moving, but I imagine emotionally she has worn herself out. I’ve only met Kaylee a handful of times, seems like the high-maintenance and dramatic sort—not just physically but also emotionally draining, too, the kind of girl that gets on your nerves.
Can’t imagine what it would have been like to live with her.
Dreadful.
Sixteen
Eliza
I do not understand why Jack has not quit the rugby team.
We’ve been living together for almost a week, and in that span of time, I have witnessed him stress out after practice, make up several excuses for why he cannot attend practice, nurse a minor wound to his body (and dozens more to his pride), and lose sleep.
Our bedrooms may be down the hall from one another, but there is no mistaking the sound of footsteps on the carpet during all hours of the night, or the sound of the toilet flushing when he should be out cold.
It’s Saturday and I’ve wandered downstairs after several hours of studying, making my way into the laundry room to do a load of wash.
T-shirts.
Pair of jeans that may be clean but I’m unsure about.
Two hoodies.
One pair of pajama bottoms.
Shorts.
Socks, bras, and three pair of the underwear I wear to bed—not to be confused with the ones I wear during the day, ha ha.
Jack has a game, and I have the ho
use all to myself.
Humming as I load the washing machine and add detergent, my eyes scan around the room, taking in the outdated but classy wallpaper, the dark cabinets above the machines, out to the backyard beyond.
There are hooks on the wall behind me with our jackets, shoes on the floor. Keys to the little shed in the far corner of the property, labeled Shed.
The counters are laminate but clean and—
Oh shit.
Is that Jack’s mouthguard?
What’s it doing here at the house? Is this his only one, or is it a spare?
Why would he have random spare mouth guards lying around, Eliza? Use your common sense.
I’m not an athlete—how the hell would I know?
Chewing on my bottom lip, I deliberate then check my phone for the time—his game would have started by now, but he wouldn’t be that far into it, and if I hurry…
On foot?
Maybe check the garage for a bike?
Yes, yes—I’ll check the garage for a bike and can cut my time in half.
Look at me being a good roommate and coming to the rescue!
Flying through the house to the door nearest to the garage, I hit the remote for the large door, and it raises at a glacial pace. Spy a high-tech-looking bicycle leaning against the wall of a carefully constructed home gym, benches, free weights—the whole works. It’s like a mini Lifetime Fitness in my own backyard!
Dang.
How did that escape my notice?
Jack is a crap tour guide, that’s why.
Shit. I don’t have time to stand around gawking—I have to get this mouthguard to the field so his beautiful teeth don’t get knocked out of his skull.
Uber.
I can Uber—that will get me there the quickest, though it’s going to cost me a few bucks.
I use the app to catch myself a ride, locking up the house on my way out, jogging down the short driveway, marveling at how pretty and picturesque this neighborhood is compared to being near campus.
Definitely need to take more time to explore, perhaps this Sunday—have plenty of time now that I’ve lost half the friends I had here.
Time to make new ones, I suppose.
Jack’s my friend now, too—I like him. He’s funny, smart, and witty. Makes me laugh for sure. Cute.
Just cute, Eliza? Please.
He’s handsome and…and…debonair.
Not the point.
One should not fixate on the attractiveness of one’s roommate, especially when one is trying not to develop a big, giant crush on him.
The car pulls up and I hop in after checking the license plate, knee bobbing up and down as the driver slowly makes his way toward the park.
I could jog beside the vehicle faster than he’s going.
When we’re finally at the park, I’m out the door before he can come to a complete stop. Sure, I know that’s not safe, but I am in a rush. No time to lose. The longer I wait, the more of a chance Jack has to get his teeth pummeled by an errant elbow.
I’m doing my civic duty.
No time to spare.
He is slightly difficult to spot amongst all the giants on his team. There is certainly a type among rugby players: big, brutish, and bearded. Jack is the tidiest one of them all with his side part and clean-shaven face, the polo shirts and crisp clothes he most definitely irons.
Ah.
There he is.
My roommate and the guy who saved me from being homeless this semester, standing on the outskirts of the field, shrinking back near the bench, arms folded over his massive chest.
I speed-walk in his direction.
Lift my arm to wave it, wishing I were able to be a bit more subtle but choosing to give a small shout instead.
“Jack!” I wave my arm again, wave my hand in an attempt to get his attention so I won’t have to walk into the thick of things and embarrass myself further.
As if I were a worried girlfriend or doting mother.
Jack spots me in no time. Of course he does—I’m wearing the only clean hoodie I have in my closet.
Bright.
Yellow.
Anyone with a functioning set of eyes would notice me standing on the sidelines, waving around a guy’s mouthguard piece. Whatever they call it.
“Jack.” I shout again though there is no need. He started stalking over as soon as he saw me, waving back and smiling quickly—a smile that fades into a frown.
He’s embarrassed that I’m here; he doesn’t want me to watch him playing like shit.
Well too bad—does he want his teeth knocked out? Does his mother?
No.
I’m doing him a favor.
He trots over, closing the distance between us. “Hey.”
I hold out the plastic—and probably riddled with germs—mouthpiece. “You left your thing at home.” I give said thing a wiggle. “It was on the counter in the laundry room, and I worried you’d need it.”
“I would if I were playing,” he scoffs, popping the mouthguard into his mouth, wiggling it around until it fits. “Thanths.”
I jam my hands into the pockets of my hoodie with a curt nod, watching as he jogs back to the sideline slowly. Watch his ass as he strolls away. His hamstrings.
Calf muscles.
Whoa, back up, this train of thought is not allowed.
I spend a few more minutes admiring him, basking in the fact that this handsome boy is my friend and roommate. Basking in the fact that he wants more, but he was willing to sacrifice that more to help me out.
Any guy who is willing to stick his neck out for me is truly a remarkable person.
But.
Nothing can come of our attraction for each other—not while I’m living with him. I just can’t do it, cannot muddle things. Cannot mix business with pleasure, as they say.
Standing here on the sidelines, it’s clear (at least to me) that Jack does not want to be put in the game—a fact that his coach does not share the same feelings about, because one of the staff walks over to Jack, clamping his hand down on Jack’s broad shoulder and telling him something. Giving him instructions?
Regardless, Jack is nodding, his eyes scanning the field.
Somewhat hesitantly, he takes himself over the painted lines on the grass, putting himself in the game.
One of his teammates comes out, replaced by Jack. Slaps him on the back for a bit of good luck, going immediately to the water bottles scattered on the ground, on and around the wooden bench.
I can’t watch when the play begins; I’m too afraid of what I will see. I pray our team takes possession of the ball so Jack won’t have much to do, because he doesn’t have a clue what to do.
He’s like a fish out of water.
It’s obvious he has no clue what he is doing.
Coach begins shouting, expletives directed at Jack, his face turning red, his clipboard already thrown to the ground. This isn’t going to end well.
I can’t watch.
Oh god.
Shouting.
Cursing.
The sound of guys tussling, running, yelling to one another on the field as they make plays Jack is not a part of.
I cannot watch.
Covering my eyes with both palms, I peek through the crack in my fingers, cringing.
He’s a sitting duck.
Oh god.
“Jones!” the coach shouts again. “You’re going the wrong fucking way!”
Indeed he is; even I know this, and I know less about the game than Jack does.
It happens in the blink of an eye. Mud, dirt, grass. Arms, legs.
Cleats.
Headgear.
The sound of it all coming together, the sound of bodies hitting, the sound of grunting and sweat.
Jack is on the ground, on his back.
The playing stops.
Players gather.
I can’t see him anymore; where is he?
Frantic, I crane my head, moving closer.
“Jack!” I
call out—to no one because I am here alone.
My heart is beating wilder than it ever has before, and I know I can’t stand here not knowing what’s going on inside that huddle around my roommate. My friend.
If he is hurt, I have to help him.
If he is hurt, I want to hold his hand, cradle his head in my lap.
No one seems to be concerned except me, the crowd playing on their phones as if this were some kind of intermission or timeout.
This is part of the game that is rugby, I suppose—and yet, that doesn’t make me feel one bit better or less anxious.
He remains on the ground as I approach, eyes closed, arms and legs spread out like a starfish on the beach.
I say his name for what feels like the millionth time, trying to get his attention, pushing through the large group of guys standing around staring down at him.
“Isn’t anyone going to do anything?” I ask, dropping to my knees and feeling for a pulse in his neck—he is breathing, I know this, but that doesn’t stop me from checking for it anyway.
“He looks fine to me,” one of the giants says. “It’s not like he’s dead.”
One of the coaching staff walks over to join the conversation. “Why don’t the rest of you guys go take a quick break while we sort this out. Grab some water.”
Sort this out.
How are men so cavalier about injuries?
“Are you his girlfriend?” the staffer asks me, also kneeling beside Jack.
“No. His roommate.”
“Well, I don’t think he was hit that bad—just had the wind knocked out of him most likely, wasn’t hit above the belt.”
“Are you sure? He looks so pale.”
“We already checked him out and he was lucid before, pupils aren’t dilated. He just needs to catch his breath before we have him stand and get him off the field.” He looks down at Jack, then over at me. “We can move him to the bench.”
“I think he should come home with me.”
He’s watching me skeptically. “You think you can get him home? You’re a little thing.”
My back stiffens. “I’m sure I can get him home just fine. I’ll order a car. Just have to get him in it.”
“I can send someone along with you.”
“It’s fine, sir.”
Sir.
The word has his brows rising; he can’t be much older than me, most likely a student trainer working on his internship.
