“Go right ahead. Meanwhile, I’m giving you points for the breakup since in some respects, you are having to end this fictitious relationship Summer’s created.” I jotted down the number, daring to give voice to the question that had been lingering in my mind since I’d first acknowledged my attraction to him. “So, what is the story between you two?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“She’s a deceptive, superficial, manipulative, back-stabbing bitch.”
He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“I’ll share if you will.”
“I’m game.” He cracked his knuckles. “I know Summer wants to be more than friends, but I’m not into her.”
“What are you into?”
His eyes flickered over me, his grin widening. “That’s not part of our deal.”
My cheeks burned, and I stayed focused on my screen. “Fine. But then tell me this—if you know she’s into you even though you’re not, why do you hang out with her all the time?”
He tapped his pen on the table, his lips pursed. “Maybe because I know her better than you, and I know she could really use a friend. She’s not as perfect as she pretends to be. It’s all an act to protect her from what’s really going on.”
“Meaning?”
He stilled. “How well do you know Summer?”
“Apparently not well enough, since she was the one person who betrayed me.”
“Aha. I knew there was a history between you two.”
Flashbacks of that day raced through my mind, each one accompanied by a fresh wave of nausea. Summer standing on a chair in the center of the lunchroom, my stolen diary in her hand. Her voice, as loud as it was on the football field, reading each embarrassing line I’d written. The laughter that followed after each secret confession of my soul. The pointed fingers, snickers, and names that tormented me for the months that followed. The dark nights where I’d cry myself to sleep and pray for some serious illness so I wouldn’t have to go back to school the next morning.
“Just don’t share any secrets with her unless you want them broadcasted to the entire school,” I said, my voice hoarse.
One brow raised, but he said nothing.
I kept going down the list, acutely aware of the silence that bordered on pity. “Hey, at least neither one of us has been suspended from school or had a parent recently incarcerated.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” Then he grew quiet again, his mouse arrow hovering over the line that listed the value for “increased arguments between/with parents.”
His unease was infectious, worming through my stomach and twitching into my legs. But since he felt like he had every right to psychoanalyze me, I figured I could return the favor. “So, your dad’s really pushing you hard for that football scholarship, huh?”
He pushed back from the table and stood, turning his back to me.
Now he knew what it felt like when someone pointed out his issues.
“I suppose you might understand,” he started, then clamped up. He reached into his bag and pulled out a football.
Geez, did he lose part of his super jock mojo if he was more than ten feet away from one of those things?
I could have been completely snarky and told him to stay the hell out my problems if he didn’t want me returning the favor, but I couldn’t make my tongue form those words. Because perhaps I did understand. And because perhaps learning more about the real Brett intrigued me. “What?”
He squeezed the ball in his hands, his fingers splayed between the laces. “My dad played football. He even got to play in the NFL for a couple of years until he blew his knee out. And since I’m his only son, he’s been pushing football on me as long as I can remember.”
Now it was my turn to lean my cheek against my hand and study the person in the hot seat. “Do you even like playing football?”
“Are you kidding? I love it.” He pretended to pass the ball, the lean muscles of his body moving with the same fluid grace as they had on Friday night. “I love the intensity, the strategy, the physicality, the camaraderie of the team.”
“Do you really mean that, or are you just trying to incorporate your SAT flash cards into a sentence?”
He slapped the football, a single note of laughter breaking free. “Maybe both?”
“I thought as much.”
“But in all honesty, I do enjoy playing. What I don’t like is the fact my dad keeps trying to make it the only thing in my life. I mean, yeah, it would be great if I could play college ball and get a free ride because of it, but my mom is also right in that I need to make sure I have a back-up plan.”
“And what would you do if you didn’t have football?”
He stared the ball for several long seconds as through I was asking him to kill an old friend. “I have a few ideas, but nothing definite.”
“Meaning?” He was hiding something from me, something he didn’t want me to know about. And the way he kept dancing around on his feet told me he was struggling with whether to reveal his secret to me.
“Meaning I’ll explore them once I get closer to Signing Day. If I get any offers, then I’ll look at their programs and see which one feels like the best fit and make my decision then.”
“The football programs or the academic programs?”
“Both.” He finally looked over to me. “What about you? What do you want to do with your life?”
“I’m seventeen, Brett. I have no friggin’ clue what I want to do with my life.”
“Sure you do.” He set the ball back on the table and slumped back in his seat. “I wouldn’t expect less from you.”
“I’m just looking forward to graduating and getting the hell out of Eastline.”
“And then what?”
How had he managed to turn the tables on me again? It was one thing to have these honest—dare I say, intimate—conversations with Morgan or Richard, but how did I know I could trust Brett with my innermost desires? “Going to college and finding the answer to world peace.”
“That sounds like something your mother would say.” He leaned on the table, his body turned toward mine. “What do you want to do when you get out of college?”
I fought the urge to jump up from the table in an urgent need to refill my glass. Or better yet, help myself to some of my mom’s chardonnay. “I’ve tossed around the idea of going to law school.”
“And then what?”
“You said it yourself—I’m good at ball-busting. Maybe become a prosecutor.”
He nodded. “I can definitely see you doing something like that, especially after reading your blog. You like exposing wrongs.”
Once he turned back to the assignment, the muscles in my body finally started to unkink themselves. What was it about him that kept setting me on edge? Kept making me struggle to maintain my boundaries and not let him get closer?
Even though I secretly longed to let him closer?
But I just couldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.
We both got points for being seniors. And Brett only raised a brow when he saw me mark the line about having the absence of a parent from home. He’d probably guessed that my family was completely dysfunctional.
In the end, we tallied up points. Brett’s were higher than mine. I pointed to his total. “I can see you’re on your way to the ICU at this rate.”
“Yeah,” he said glumly. “Time to find ways to reduce my stress.”
I looked at the clock. “Football practice should be starting soon.”
“True.” He closed his laptop, but didn’t leave the table. “You want to know something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“It kind of helps having someone to talk to who isn’t, you know, caught up in the same little world.”
“You mean the highly superficial in-crowd?”
“Or the team. Or—well, yeah.” He slid his hands into his pockets and stretched his legs out under the table. “You’re kind of unreason
ably harsh at times, but sometimes it’s needed, and you do have a different perspective on things.”
“Like the fact I’m grounded in reality?”
He shrugged. “Or just the fact you’re willing to listen. It’s like you’re one of the few people I can really be myself around.”
And once again, I felt that terrifying warmth in my chest that signaled I might actually care about him. Only this time, it flooded into my arms and made me want to wrap them around him in a comforting hug.
I couldn’t afford to be soft and sweet and huggy around him, not if I wanted to maintain my status on the pecking order at school.
He straightened up before I gave into temptation. He put his stuff back into his bag. “I suppose I should get going before school lets out and someone sees my car in your driveway.”
“I could always just say you were here looking for Taylor.”
That got another of those one-note chuckles from him. “I see you’ve already thought this through.”
“Pretty much.”
“So you want to meet back here on Wednesday to finish up the assignment?”
Could I handle another afternoon alone with Brett?
Was there a better alternative?
I didn’t see any. “Sure.”
“All right, then.” He got up and moved to the door, stopping in front of my mom’s shrine again. “You know, you look a bit like your mom.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult?”
“Just stating a fact.”
Just before he left, I blurted out his name, stopping him. My mouth made a few choked sounds before I finally confessed what had been on my mind since yesterday. “Thanks, you know, for being willing to work with me when whoever drew my name chickened out.”
He met my gaze, and something new sparked between us. Yes, we’ve had moments of anger and flirtation and sexual tension and humor. But this was different, more intense. It was almost like we were connected and were baring parts of our souls, as ridiculous as it sounds.
“It wasn’t out of pity,” he said softly, his voice with a raw edge I’d never heard before.
“Yeah, I know.”
And for once, I truly believed him.
Chapter 13
“Dear Justin Wallace, if you’re going to cheat on your girlfriend with a girl from another school, don’t go to the local Fro-Yo shop and share spoons (and spit) with her. People will notice the lip-locking and take pictures.”
The Eastline Spy
February, Freshman Year
The next morning’s handoff was made even sweeter by a large vanilla hazelnut nonfat latte…and a smile from Brett. The tension from the previous morning had vanished, and thankfully, he respected my wish to keep our public interactions at a minimum.
That, of course, didn’t extend to health class. He took the seat to my right, just as he had last week, and arched a brow at me, daring me to tell him to get lost.
I didn’t.
In truth, he did make the class more bearable.
That was the only reason I permitted him to stay.
The bell rang, and Mr. DePaul stood, double clicking on another PowerPoint presentation. “I can see by the flood of emails in my inbox that most of you have completed your stress inventories, and we have a lot of potentially sick teens in this class. So, now we’re going to start a discussion on stress reduction. Today’s topic: Physical Ways to Reduce Stress.”
“Sex,” Brett whispered under his breath.
I rolled my eyes. Just when I was beginning to think highly of him, he did something immature and testosterone-injected like that. “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”
DePaul was droning on about the beneficial aftereffects of exercise such as reduced cortisol levels, increased mental acuity, blah blah blah.
Brett nodded to the slide. “Sex is physical exercise.”
“So is running,” I countered, ignoring the flush that rose into my cheeks.
“But running isn’t as fun.”
“Football?”
“Still not as fun.”
Would sex be fun with him? “Is there a point to this conversation?”
“Just making an observation. Perhaps you should consider it.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Taylor had blabbed about my virginal status, and he was using it to torment me. “Is this some kind of lame pickup line?”
He sent me a wicked grin that sent shivers straight to the pit of my lower stomach. “What do you think?”
Mr. DePaul interrupted me before I could reply. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Ms. Wyndham?”
Part of me wanted to melt under the table in complete mortification. The other part of me wanted to call Brett out. “Brett was just talking about how he could reduce his stress level.”
“As excited as you two are to be working on your assignment, please keep your discussions for after class.” Then he went back to lecturing.
I closed my eyes and wished I could get up and walk out of class right now.
I didn’t need them open to know Brett was leaning closer. His scent grew stronger, and my heart rate spiked as though I was on a treadmill that just increased the incline and speed at the same time. “Your face is red,” he whispered.
Who needed exercise when I had Brett nearby? “Shut up.”
He retreated, quietly laughing as he did. This round was his. He’d successfully gotten a rise out of me, and that was all he seemed to care about until the end of class. Once the bell rang, he revived the subject. “You really need to find a way to loosen up.”
“Or my stress levels will reach yours?”
“At least I know how to handle it.”
“Oh yes, I forgot, you have a fuck buddy.”
That wiped the grin off of his face.
And just in time for Summer to appear. She glared at me from the doorway.
I grabbed my bag, relieved to be baby-free for the rest of the day, and paused long enough to say to her, “You might want to help Brett unwind.”
More than likely, she’d offer him a blow job in the parking lot.
I didn’t care. Let the hornball have her.
I had a meeting with Morgan at The Purple Dog.
***
“You okay?” Morgan asked as soon as I arrived.
“Why?” I snapped. I’d taken the bus like I’d always done because parking was a nightmare in the U-District, but even the extra time it took using public transportation hadn’t quelled the boiling pot of emotions left over from fourth period.
“Because you seem all on edge about something.”
“Brett.”
I didn’t need to say more. Understanding bloomed in her eyes, and she nodded sympathetically. “Just make it until Friday, Alexis.”
“I’m trying.”
Gavin swung by our table, diverting Morgan’s attention from me. She gave him a smile that lit up her face, but he barely acknowledged it. Instead, he said to me, “Hey, Professor, whatcha going to have?”
“Is it too early for vodka?”
His grin left me wondering if he’d be happy to supply it for me in exchange for something. “Depends.”
“Never mind. Just a soda—diet.”
“You got it, babe.”
Babe? My spine grew hackles, arching in indignation from the derogatory term.
Morgan grabbed my wrist, silently urging me to get my shit together.
It worked long enough to let Gavin get out of ear range. “You seriously like this guy?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Besides the fact he’s hot and in college and has those narrow hips that are just perfect for riding?”
I leaned on the table, massaging my temples. “Why does everything today revolve around sex?”
“It revolves around sex every day—you’re just too wrapped up in yourself to notice it.” She took a sip of her coffee through a straw and flashed Gavin another mill
ion-watt smile when he delivered my can of Diet Coke. “So what did Brett do today?”
“Actually, it started yesterday.” Thankfully, Morgan had the patience to wait for me to spill my guts about the meeting at my house before saying anything. “Just when I think he’s above most of the boys in our class, he does something completely immature.”
“Your problem is just that—he’s a boy. You need a man.”
“He said I was too uptight and that sex might help me cope with my stress better.”
“He’s right.” She set her cup down and hid behind her copy of Aristotle’s Poetics.
“Thanks for your support. Gee, and here I thought you were my best friend.”
She peered over the top of the book. “I am your best friend, which is why I’m agreeing with him. Sex is fun. You’d probably enjoy it if you gave it a try. You’re just too picky.”
“I’d like to know I’d be with someone who respected me and my body, thank you.”
“All men respect a woman who’s comfortable with her sexuality and doesn’t just use her body as a bartering chip. You just need to do it and get this whole ‘losing your virginity’ thing out of your system. Then, once you no longer have that hang-up, the fun can begin.”
“I wish it was that easy.” In truth, I wished I was more like Morgan when it came to boys and sex. She didn’t play games. She didn’t suffer from slut-shaming or morning-after regrets. To her, sex was purely physical and nothing more. I was too much of a coward to follow her path. I suspected I’d form some sort of emotional attachment—good or bad—to the first guy I slept with.
Morgan went back to reading, and I started working on this week’s blog post. Since sex was still on my mind, I decided to do a piece on the objectification of women in light of the recent locker room videos.
Gavin came by about an hour later, pulling up a chair. “So, what are you working on today?”
Morgan held up her book. “Aristotle.”
“A blog post,” I replied while I typed.
Gavin peered around my shoulder at my screen. “Feminist?”
“You have a problem with that?”
Confessions of a Queen B* Page 12
