Vérité

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Ginny and I trekked across the lawn to the dining hall for athletes. All of us benefitted from the school being big on football and basketball with a long history of boosters with deep pockets. Not only did we get special housing, but top-of-the-line food too.

  The August air was muggy, heavy with the end of summer. We were still hours away from nightfall, yet I couldn’t stop the darkness from pouring over my soul. This lawn, that bench, the road to the French building all held such fragile memories.

  “Campus is so quiet, it’s eerie,” Ginny said as we neared the Loft Building.

  “I know, I kind of like it. It’s peaceful,” I replied, trying to hide my guilt over being caught thinking of Pierre.

  Pasta e fagioli. Pâtisserie. Prairie dogs. Plums.

  “Well, I’m ready to be around people other than the guys from the football team,” Ginny said quickly, her voice unusually tight. “Those guys are ignoramuses. If I have to watch them shovel five million calories down their throats one more time, chewing with their mouths open and bragging about the girl they screwed the night before, I’m going to scream.” She blinked rapidly, as if holding back tears.

  I stopped abruptly and waited for Ginny to notice I wasn’t behind her. When she caught on, she whipped around to face me and said, “What?” Her emotions betrayed her innocent tone. Closing the distance between the two of us, she swallowed heavily and sniffed back tears.

  “Come on, Ginny, just admit you like Bryce. I see your eyes getting all wet, and I’ve seen you watching him every time he’s around. We don’t need to sit near the football team. There are plenty of soccer players and runners and just regular nice guys around campus, you know.” I grabbed her hand in mine, squeezing her delicate fingers with affection.

  She turned and gave me a hug, and I hate to admit it, but it felt amazing. It was the most physical contact I’d had in a year, and I allowed myself to get lost in her arms until she broke free.

  Not letting go of my hand, she leaned her forehead on my shoulder. I relaxed, trying to give her unconditional affection and nonjudgmental listening, or at least what I thought those friendly gestures were like since I’d never experienced them before.

  “I know,” she said with a sniff. “It’s so silly. I was his tutor, not his girlfriend, and he wouldn’t want a geeky girl like me anyway.”

  “Ginny, don’t say that. You’re magnificent in every way. Any guy, football player or not, would be lucky to steal your heart.” I gave her cheek a little pinch, making a soft glow spread across her freckles.

  How could I be so confident in my advice yet a train wreck when it came to my own love life? That was the sixty-million-dollar question, one I was afraid would never be answered. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t help a friend.

  As I spoke, I caught sight of a colorfully clad group of men leaving the dining hall. All of them were unusually tall, which made them stand out in comparison to the regular coeds in the area. They were loud and rowdy, pretending to trip one another as they made their way onto the lawn.

  Keeping a grip on her hand, I resumed walking toward the dining hall, swinging our arms like schoolgirls. I noticed a few of the tall dudes’ attention still lingering on us and our bold display of affection, more than likely dreaming up lesbian fantasies of Ginny and me.

  Dinner was uneventful. After having my usual training meal—a salad with the dressing on the side, pasta, grilled chicken, fruit, and a small waffle for dessert—I was out the door to walk across campus for study hour.

  The sun had begun its descent, the sky’s color transitioning to pink and purple. It was a gorgeous evening. I took a deep breath of the crisp Midwestern air, filling my lungs to the max. Even though I’d fucked up so badly here, I loved this place. Everything was so green here, and the change of seasons, the way everyone smiled, it was so different from LA. Despite everything that went down last year, it was still more welcoming here than home.

  When my world had been shattered last year, I didn’t even want to go home. I stayed in Ohio and recuperated mentally and physically, taking a correspondence class from my tiny dorm room and bullshit deep-breathing lessons from a psychotherapist.

  Coming to a stop outside Henderson Hall, I realized with surprise that I’d walked all the way without thinking of Pierre. It was the first time since “the incident” that I’d crossed campus unencumbered by pitiful lovesick memories of my ridiculous schoolgirl affair.

  Just then a tall black guy—huge, actually—passed by me. He pulled the heavy door to Henderson open with one hand and held it as he turned to me and said, “You coming in?” Spoken with a northeastern accent, the three words hung heavy in the air between us.

  New York, maybe?

  He stood there patiently, grinning as he waited for me to move through the doorway or answer him, and pinned me with his unusual blue eyes, so pale in his handsome face against his deep brown skin. His gaze seared right through me, just like it had earlier, before dinner in the courtyard.

  Completely unnerved, I didn’t respond. His size was daunting, his large frame loomed over the threshold, and I was struck speechless. Uncertain whether it was his obvious good looks that threw me, or the overtly friendly wide grin on display, I simply stood there for a moment, trying to figure out his angle.

  As I took in his long athletic shorts, tight gray athletic hoodie, and the pair of spiky Air Jordan slides on his feet, his left eyebrow cocked up at me like I was the next sideshow. Well, I’d already played that act countless times at home, including but not limited to last year when I was caught with the professor’s dick deep inside me. Now I was all about slipping under the radar, getting by silently and with little fuss.

  “Hey, you okay?” he asked, his deep voice interrupting my thoughts. “I’m talking to you . . . you coming in? I’m over here holding the door.”

  His pale blue eyes scanned my brown ones as his smile faded. I imagined him knowing who I was and what I did, perhaps mentally undressing me one piece of clothing at a time, wanting to give the slut a whirl.

  Oh God, was my name being passed around—again?

  Self-disgust consumed me, spurring me to action. “Um, yeah. I am,” I answered, averting my gaze as I shifted my backpack up on my shoulder and stomped through the doorway.

  I turned ever so slightly to witness him ducking to fit through the doorframe. It was crazy how insanely tall this guy was. Obviously, he was a basketball player, probably with a huge ego to boot.

  I managed to mutter, “Thanks,” as I swept past him, and the door clanged shut behind us.

  “Bad day?” he called after me.

  What was with him being all smiling and friendly? Was he for real, or was he trying to bait me? I couldn’t help my self-doubt; skepticism was woven so deeply into my personality, I questioned everyone’s motives.

  “Bad life,” I tossed back without thinking. For some reason, I felt the need to share my feelings with this stranger, and it scared the shit out of me.

  So I did what came naturally to me—I ran. As I sprinted toward the elevator, I caught him heading toward the staircase out of the corner of my eye. I got off on my floor feeling relieved until I heard a heavy pair of footsteps coming around the corner.

  Shit.

  As soon as I yanked open the door to the athletes’ study hall, he called out, “Hey again. Looks like you beat me, but you cheated by taking the elevator.” He laughed good-naturedly at his own joke, but sobered quickly when he realized I wasn’t smiling.

  I felt my brow furrow and willed it to smooth, plastering a phony smile on my face. Propping the door open and turning my head around, I saw Mr. Tall and Not-at-All Lanky behind me.

  “Yeah, I guess I did.” I turned away and walked into the room, making only a half-assed attempt to hold the door for him. Hopefully, he’d take the hint to stay away.

  But he didn’t.

  After checking in with the proctor, I took a seat and pulled out the syllabus for my economics class, trying to ignore the way
he folded his long body into the seat next to mine. As athletes, we had an advantage of sometimes receiving the class assignments ahead of time, so we could get an early jump. I needed all the help I could get in macroeconomics, and was determined not to visit the professor during office hours, wanting to ensure I had as little teacher-student contact as possible. I wasn’t even sure why I needed the class, but it was a mandatory requirement. Although I was finding it very hard to concentrate on my textbook . . .

  My new friend sat next to me, very tall and yet broad. I couldn’t stop my gaze from drifting, taking little side glances at him while I pretended to read. The room was warm, and when he tugged off his hood and lifted his sweatshirt over his head, his T-shirt rode up, revealing the standard-issue six-pack for male athletes.

  I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the book in front of me, but my attention wandered again as he pulled out a textbook for freshman English.

  God, he’s a freshman. Was that what I was reduced to . . . ogling jail bait?

  The guy was crazy handsome in an exotic way. His skin was a rich brown, neither dark nor light. In stark contrast, his eyes were the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen. They were two translucent aquamarine orbs that complemented a perfectly formed nose, well-defined eyebrows, and luscious lips. His dark hair was clipped tight, but would probably curl if allowed to grow. And then there were his arms. Every time he moved, his sleeves lifted past his bulging biceps and defined triceps.

  There was zero fat on this dude’s body. He was a specimen. For a freshman. Not to mention, he was probably one of those beer-pong-loving jocks about to turn frat boy.

  And I wasn’t getting involved with anyone, certainly not with a party boy with looks to kill, and trouble written all over his long, lean frame.

  I hadn’t realized I’d spent the whole hour studying this kid until the proctor stood and dismissed us. When I tossed my book back into my bag and stood to leave, the object of my obsession unfolded himself from his tiny chair and said, “Hello, officially this time. I’m Tiberius. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  “I guess,” I said, and turned to head toward the door.

  “You got a name?” he asked from behind me.

  Surprised, I turned to face him and hugged my bag closer, like a shield. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Tingly,” I said, waving my fingers in the air as if they were asleep and all tingly. It was my go-to gesture when telling someone my name, really more a defense than an explanation. I’d rather make light of something so toxic than reveal the disgust that rolled through my stomach every time I heard someone shout Ting-lee.

  “Well, I dunno what sport you play, Ting-lee, but you could definitely win the weirdest-name-I-ever-heard contest,” he said with a chuckle. “This may be the first time I met anyone with a stranger name than me.”

  Sadness bled through me. God, even this kid couldn’t just leave my name be; it did nothing more than remind me of my past. The one before Pierre, the real reason I was such a mess. Except there wasn’t enough therapy in the world to get me to relive that shit.

  “I know,” I whispered as I turned again to leave.

  “Tingly,” he called out. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Don’t be mad; I thought it was funny. I didn’t know it would offend you. You have a nickname?” he yelled after me.

  As I walked away, I waved my hand in the air and dismissed his apology. “It’s fine,” I yelled back, then ran down the stairs and out of the building. The last time someone called me a nickname, it didn’t exactly work out so well.

  “I think I’ll call you Tigger because you’re fast like a tiger and sweet like honey. You know, the way Pooh is always eating his honey and Tigger is by his side.”

  And then I ran all the way back to my dorm mentally reciting words that begin with P.

  Pamela Anderson à la Bay Watch. Perfetto. Pumpkin pie. Peppers. Pasta.

  A week later I was bent over, leaning on my knees, catching my breath as my lungs clawed for oxygen, when a pair of male running shoes showed up in my limited field of vision.

  “Hey, Tingly, welcome back. Hope you’re feeling better,” Logan Salomon said to me before he leaned in closer than I would have liked. Getting right up in my ear, he whispered, “Maybe you’ll give one of us guys your own age a whirl this year,” before he slapped my ass and ran off.

  Logan and I met at freshman orientation when we were new track recruits searching for another friendly face. He was a piece of shit, even back then. He’d tried desperately to get me drunk that night in a full-on hot pursuit of getting inside my pants. Sadly, he was just like all the other rich, spoiled boys back at home who thought they were entitled to anything and everything.

  Well, not me.

  I’d spent all of my freshman year turning Logan down. Of course, he fell off my radar last year, enjoying his sophomore year while my soul died. Now that I was back, he was apparently chasing me again, unable to believe I would choose to sleep with a forty-something-year-old professor over him.

  While I watched Logan run away, his surfer-boy blond hair flopping all around his head, I nearly barfed up my Gatorade. What an ass.

  Then I heard a whistle.

  My section coach, Stephanie, wasn’t a big believer in long breaks. Before I could even get my breath back, she was flipping her long shiny brown ponytail around while blowing her whistle, calling us back out on the track. With every strike of my foot, angry thoughts of Logan faded and my emotion bled away, diluted by endorphins. My heart was empty, not capable of trusting or caring for others, and that was a very, very good thing.

  Nadine paced next to me, her lean pale legs struggling to keep in stride with mine as her bushy blond ponytail full of curls bounced in the wind. Her breath came out in short ragged puffs, but she didn’t waste her energy trying to talk to me. Although normally peppy, she was a quiet running partner, something I could finally appreciate.

  As soon as practice was over, I hightailed it out of there, forgoing a shower in the locker room for an extended run back to my dorm. Running, feeling the burn was my only relief. Only when my thighs were screaming and my feet felt numb did I forget the real pain.

  Yet I found myself slowing when I neared the field house. As I made my way past the large basketball arena, I wondered if Tiberius was in there, getting hazed as one of the new guys, or maybe lifting weights. We’d been avoiding each other for the last week. At least, I’d been doing the dodging, and he was finally obliging.

  For a few days after our first stilted conversation, he’d call after me when study hour was over. “Tingly?” My name would come out all velvety in his deep, husky voice. Although he somehow knew not to drag out the end of it like he had the first night, I kept blowing him off.

  Tossing a hand up in the air and giving him a quick wave, I’d say, “Gotta go. Sorry, got an early morning,” even though it was only eight p.m.

  I couldn’t go there with him, but oh, my traitorous body wanted to go all the way.

  It had been such a long time since I’d made a new friend or someone asked me if I was okay the way he did the first night. I was hungry for contact. I’d starved myself for so long, I was like an Olympic gymnast on a severely low-calorie diet. Except, it was the no-relationship fast. Forever.

  Although Tiberius’s curious stare made me itchy at study hall every night, I wasn’t willing to surrender to his sticky-sweet charm and concern, no matter how contradictory it was to his physical appearance. Yet I couldn’t make my feet move from the outside of the basketball arena. Maybe I thought if I stood there long enough, Tiberius would appear, asking me how my run was or how my day had been so far.

  I’d never been inside the building or witnessed a hoops game live. Considering I lived with two female players, I’d have to learn a little. Maybe they were working out too—right now? With Tiberius?

  Shoving any more errant thoughts of the basketball player out of my mind, I picked up my pace despite my legs begging for a rest. My quads burned,
and my calves raged with my brain to stop. Air was pumping in and out of my lungs as I breathed deeply, maintaining my pace all the way back to my dorm.

  Ginny was on the couch when I got home—reading, of course. My practice was in the morning and hers mid-afternoon, so we ended up watching a mindless rom-com together after I showered before lunch. When she took off for her practice after lunch, I decided to take another quick run.

  Unsure of what to do with myself following my second brutal workout, I texted Ginny. Last year, all my hours were filled with therapy and crying. The year before that, it was running and Pierre. And now, this year, they were filled with nothing but psychobabble.

  Pillows. Peace signs. Pisa. Pilots. Puppies. Puff Daddy. Pomegranate.

  ME: Hey, hope practice was great. I’m going to grab coffee and read in the Union before study hour. Catch you later.

  It seemed like a normal collegiate activity to fill my time.

  GINNY: OK. I’m skipping dinner too. Not in the mood for the football parade. See you later.

  As it turned out, sipping coffee while reading in a comfy overstuffed chair in the Student Union was surprisingly relaxing. Every so often, I would glance up from my book and get caught up in watching the people streaming by. This evening it was mostly students grabbing a few extra credits during the summer session, plus a couple of frantic teaching assistants running around with their arms full of stacks of paper. I didn’t even know these people existed on campus while I was busy fucking up, but now found comfort in their ordinariness, and the lingering smell of pizza.