by Ginger Scott
“Get inside. I’ll draw you. But then, I’m undressing you and living out all kinds of fantasies,” I say, and she hops up from my lap, opens her door and practically pulls me inside with her.
I didn’t expect her to strip. But she did. She’s actually playing out that scene from Titanic, lying topless on her bed, rings of her hair teasing at her nipple. I so don’t want to be drawing right now. Why is this pencil in my hand?
“If I find out you can’t really draw, and this was all some ploy, I’m going to be pissed,” she says, only half kidding.
“One, I never asked you to get naked,” I say, pausing and gawking, mouth wide open. “Sorry. Little distracted. And two, I can draw. So hush and don’t move so I can get this over with,” I say, pulling her spiral notebook to my lap so I can begin sketching and shading.
I’m doing my best to block my view of most of her body with the notebook so that maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to get a decent portrait of her face done before I completely lose my mind. “How long have you drawn?” she asks after a few minutes of silence.
“Shhhhh,” I say, and she whispers an apology. “I’m teasing. You can talk. I already have your lips and face. I started drawing for fun in high school. Superheroes and stuff like that. My mom is really good at this stuff. She’s an artist. I guess I picked up a few things.”
“Do you paint or do other stuff?” she asks, something tickling her nose and forcing her to crinkle it so she doesn’t move. I lean forward and run the back of my knuckle down her nose for her. “Thank you,” she says, the redness creeping up again at my nearness. I can’t believe she’s just lying there for me to take—and I’m drawing. What the hell?
“I paint. Not as much as I used to. But after…you know…after the accident? I painted a lot. It was sort of therapeutic,” I say.
“Why don’t you study art?” she asks.
“Oh no. That would ruin it. It’s a hobby. I never want it to be a job. And it’s really hard to make money at it. My mom, she’s one of the lucky few able to make it a career. And I like money, so…hence the business degree,” I say, caressing my thumb over the lead lines that shade Cass’s breasts. I’m touching the paper with the same reverence I use on her.
“Can I see it?” she asks, pushing herself up a little, trying to sneak a view.
I tilt the notebook quickly and throw my pencil at her. She throws it back. “No peeking. Patience, young grasshopper.”
“Grasshopper?” Nose crinkle and sour face follows.
“Do you, like, have any pop culture references? Like…at all?” I continue shading her legs, and then begin filling in her hair.
“Not from the seventies, old man,” she fires back.
“Oh, ha ha. I’m four years older than you; I’m not a senior citizen. I watched a lot of Nick at Nite, and I appreciate the classics. Plus seriously, that’s like saying you don’t know Elvis.”
“Grasshopper is nothing like Elvis,” she says with a little sigh.
“Valid point. Nevertheless, now you’re watching Kung Fu DVDs too,” I say, putting the final touches on her sketch.
“Oh…goody,” her tone completely lacks excitement.
“Just wait, you’ll like them,” I say as I move closer to her, the notebook held to my chest.
“You’re done? Lemme see!” she reaches for it, but I hold it tight, for some reason nervous to show this to her.
“Hold on. Before you look at it, remember, I did it fast, on notebook paper, and I haven’t done this in a while,” I say, but she interrupts with a tsk sound and yanks the pages from my hand. When her eyes hit the paper, and soften, and her bottom lip gets sucked up under her teeth, I finally breathe.
Cass
I wish I really looked like this girl in the drawing. What Ty has done on a spiral notebook in ten minutes is one of the most beautiful and heart-melting creations I have ever seen.
“Well?” he asks. His face looks nervous. It's cute that he's nervous, wants to please me.
“Ty…it’s beautiful. I mean, I don’t look anything like this, but what you drew…it’s beautiful,” I say, letting my eyes wash over the softness in pencil sketched in front of me.
“Yes, you do,” he says, pulling himself closer to me. “I really need paints to do you justice. But yes, this is what you look like—how I see you.”
I think I love him. I know it sounds ludicrous, and yeah, maybe I’m easy, because he just said a full string of magic words that pretty much just flushed the air from my lungs, and wrapped all of him around my heart. But I don’t care. I would risk it all to have him say something like that about me, just one more time.
“Ty,” I say…the rest of what I want to say hung on my tongue, my nerves keeping my feelings on hold, but my will fighting, wanting to push them out. Maybe it’s reason working against me. I know most of what I’m feeling right now is complete and utter swoon from the fact that this older, sexy man has just made me feel beautiful—truly beautiful. But screw reason. I want to jump in with both feet, arms in the air.
He runs the back of his hand along my cheek, grazing my arm and breast until he hits my hand, and he brings it to his lips to kiss softly. I love you, Tyson Preeter. I practice the phrase over and over in my head while he looks at me, touches me softly, and seduces me until I’m ready for anything. Then—there is a chime on my phone, and one on his.
Ignore it, Ty. Ignore it. We’re both frozen, having a silent conversation about how whatever that is, can wait—it isn’t important. And then our phones chime again.
Ty breaks first. And it burns a little that he does.
“It’s Nate. He said he and Rowe—” He doesn’t finish, because I’m reading my phone now. It’s a text from Rowe. She needs to come home, to our room. She and Nate had a fight.
“We could pretend we didn’t hear—” Ty starts, his mouth twisted into a half smile full of equal parts hope and disappointment.
“We could. But we’re not assholes,” I say.
“Well, I’m an asshole. But…no…you’re not an asshole,” he says, taking a deep breath. “All right, you better get dressed. I’m going to go try and console my needy brother and knock some sense into him.”
“Maybe we can pick this up again…tomorrow?” I ask.
“Baby, you can count on it,” he says.
“Don’t call me baby,” I smirk, and he kisses me one last time, hard, whispering “Baby,” against my lips with his perfect, self-righteous, I-own-you smile.
When he leaves, I pull my clothes on and flip through channels on the TV. Rowe comes in soon after, and we spend the rest of the night watching bad music videos on MTV and not saying a word. That’s probably for the best, because she looks sad. And all I feel is happy. I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I had to speak tonight.
Happy. Happy. Happy.
Chapter 14
Ty
Her call comes when I least expect it—on my way to the gym, to run Cass through her workouts. It’s a special day. I lined up a visit with the McConnell women’s coach—nothing formal, just a quick meet-and-greet. I still feel like Cass is on the fence about trying out, so I thought this might be just the nudge she needs.
Of course, now my focus is shot to shit.
The last time Kelly called, I sent her a text a few hours later. I didn’t hear back from her again…until now. My phone is vibrating in my hand, and I’m tempted to pretend I don’t feel it—to tuck it back in my pocket until I can lock it away in the gym—and continue to put off whatever is waiting on the other line. But I’m also desperate to know.
So I answer.
“Hey,” I say. We’ve been playing phone tag for weeks; formalities seem forced at this point.
“Hey,” she says back. She sounds tired, and not at all like the person she was pretending to be when she left me those messages.
“Hey,” I say again, finding a shaded area a few yards away from the gym entrance, away from the busy path of students. That old, familiar smile falling i
nto place.
“You said that already,” she laughs. It comes out soft, her voice a little raspy, almost like she’s fighting a cold.
“I know. It’s just weird…talking to you,” I admit. My heart feels heavy. This is why I never called before. I knew it would make me feel bad, would make me…miss her.
“I know whatcha mean,” she says back, so much about the way she speaks is familiar. I miss her. I really fucking miss her.
“How’s Jackson?” I ask, hoping her son is okay, hoping that’s not her big secret. I breathe in relief when she giggles lightly at my question.
“He’s so good,” she says, her pride shining through. I always knew she would be a good mother. She’s made for this.
“Good. I…I can’t wait to meet him,” I say, trying to find a way to broach the topic about Thanksgiving—me visiting, and why she wants me to visit.
“Me, too,” she says, the sudden distance in her voice spurring me to react.
“What’s going on, Kel?” I finally ask, unprepared for the tears that I hear my question trigger. She’s hundreds of miles away and crying, and I can’t help. It hurts that I can’t. She’s trying to muffle the sound, to hold it in. But she just can’t. “Oh, Kel bear…what’s wrong?”
Kelly was my whole entire heart for so long—it’s almost like muscle memory. The need to care for her when she’s hurting—I don’t think that will ever go away.
“It’s Jared,” she says, and I feel my muscles flex, ready to go to war over whatever she says next. “Ty, he used to—”
“Did that son of a bitch hurt you, Kel?” my other hand fisted at my mouth, my teeth biting my knuckles, trying to keep my temper in check.
“No, no…nothing like that. I promise, Ty,” she says.
“Then what is it?” I ask, still suspicious, my mind traveling a million miles per second to all of the worst possibilities—each one ending with my fist in Jared’s face.
“I think he might be using again,” she says, and everything about this conversation takes a U-turn. Using? What the fuck?
“What do you mean?” I ask. I don’t know Jared well. Kelly met him in college. I wasn’t around to get to know him. And maybe that makes it unfair for me to judge him quickly. But I have a feeling my hunch—the one that Jared is an asshole—is about to be confirmed.
“He’s been clean for a long time, since way before I met him. He did drugs when he was in high school. But lately…I don’t know. He seems weird. He doesn’t come home on time, by…like…hours. And there are so many things that seem…I don’t know. Not right? Weird phone calls, strange amounts of money missing from our checking account from cash withdrawals…” she sounds frantic, and I can hear Jackson starting to cry in the background.
“Does he act…like…high or anything?” I ask.
“No. Maybe? I don’t know. He’s jumpy, and just weird. And he gets a temper—it just comes out of nowhere,” she says, stopping to hum something to Jackson, to calm him. Even her humming sounds stressed and sad.
“What was he on…before?” I know so very little about drugs. I’ve never liked them—not even the prescription kind. My mother begged me to take something for my depression, but I refused. I don’t like the idea of chemically changing my mind. It just seems dangerous.
“He took a lot of things. Pills, mostly. But at his worst, he tried meth,” she says, and I react poorly.
“Fuck, Kel? Meth? Jesus…and you married him?” I feel bad the second I finish talking, because I can hear her tears picking up again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just don’t like that he’s making you feel this way—for whatever reason.”
“I know,” she sniffles.
“Can I talk to him?” I ask, seriously considering buying a ticket to fly home tonight so I can choke the fucker.
“No! No…he, he would just get angry that I’m talking to you about any of this,” she says. “Ty, I never said anything, but Jared…he doesn’t care for you. It’s not personal, it’s just our history.”
“Yeah, well, that goes both ways.” I’m hot now, and I don’t care to spare Jared’s feelings. “Sorry,” I throw in at the end, but only for Kelly.
“No you’re not,” she says, her voice evening out a little.
“You’re right,” I smirk. “I’m not.”
Silence starts to fill our time, and I can hear the sounds of her house in the background—the water running in the sink, her working a bottle together, getting it in her son’s mouth, and the soft sounds of a music box starting up behind her.
“I think I just needed to talk to someone, honestly. Maybe…maybe if I feel like there’s more to this—or if he starts acting weird again, more often…I don’t know. Is it okay if I call? I don’t want my parents to get involved. Not yet,” I can’t believe she’s even asking.
“Kel, it’s always okay for you to call,” I say, wishing I could just hug her and make this okay.
“Thanks,” she says after a few more seconds. “Listen, I have to get Jack down for his nap. But Ty? Thank you so much…for listening. I think—” she pauses to laugh lightly. “I think I might just sleep tonight.”
“Anytime, Kel. Anytime,” I say, and I wait for her to hang up.
I’m fifteen minutes late for my appointment with Cass. I didn’t want to bring the anger and sinking feeling from my phone call into anything with her. But I’m not sure that’s possible, because she’s started her workouts, and all I can seem to do is sit here in the corner and bark orders at her—hoping I can pull my shit together by the time the coach shows up to surprise her.
Cass
“Faster. You can go faster!”
Ty’s been…he’s been a little tough today. I like tough in a trainer. I can take tough. I thrive off of tough. It’s what made me good in the first place. But there’s an extra edge to everything, too. And I don’t like that edge in a boyfriend.
I push the speed up on the treadmill and go faster anyway, because I also like to win. And if he thinks I can go faster, I’m going to go twice as fast just to prove to him that I’m better than he thinks. Run, legs! I promise, we’ll rest later.
I barely notice the next two minutes of sprints that pass—mostly because I keep stealing glances to the side where Ty is talking to Coach Pennington. I recognize him from the pictures I’ve indulged in of the soccer team’s website.
McConnell was never one of the schools I dreamt about when I had fantasies of playing soccer in college. I always thought I’d go Pac-12. But that was all before I gave up on myself and spiraled into self-pity and degrading behavior—before my mom cried that I was pushing myself too hard and going to ruin my parents’ marriage.
I’m dreaming of playing for McConnell now—dreaming stronger and harder than I have for anything in months. I tick the treadmill up one more level for the final sprint, just to show off how badly I want this.
When I’m done, I spend five minutes walking a lap or two on the indoor track. My body feels alive, my veins pumping blood faster than my muscles can burn it off. It’s adrenaline—I’m sure from knowing the coach is here…waiting for me.
“Listen, legs—we’re almost done. And tomorrow, I promise—rest. I won’t push you as hard,” I say to myself, chugging the last bits of my water and walking over to Ty, who’s waiting with arms crossed, a cocky sense of pride worn on his face. I definitely like that in my boyfriend.
“Those are some fast sprints you were doing there,” coach says, reaching out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Matt Pennington. My son works out with Tyson here, and he said you were thinking of coming out for our squad.”
Of course Ty has a connection. I glance his way, and he smiles quickly and winks.
“Cassidy Owens, nice to meet you,” I say, still a little out of breath. “And yes, I have been thinking about it.”
“I remember you,” coach says, looking at me sideways. “Your team took state in California, am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Striker. Yo
u had a mean penalty kick,” he says, pointing a finger out to punctuate the fact that he’s sold on me. I’m actually a little surprised. While the rest of my team put out recruitment feelers, I disappeared. I figured nobody would remember my name—let alone my stats.
“Thank you,” I say, not sure what else to add.
“Well, I’d sure like to see what you can do, see if you can do any of that…” he says, nodding toward the treadmill I just lit up, “out on the field. We have some friendlies, non-mandatory, this weekend. Maybe you’d be up for coming out for a workout tomorrow and sticking around Saturday for a game? Inter-squad.”
“I’d like that,” I answer, and the speed at which I do surprises me. Yeah, I want this. I REALLY want this.
“All right, well, I’ll get Ty the info, he can pass it along. We’ll see ya there,” he says, giving me one more shake, sealing the deal.
When the weight-room doors close behind him, I feel Ty’s hands at my waist, and soon I’m trapped on his lap.
“You were amazing today,” he says, his lips close enough to my ear that his breath sends shivers down my neck and spine, my skin finally cooling off from my sprints.
“Yeah, well, my trainer was a little pushy today,” I squint at him.
“I was,” he says, his eyes caught on mine, his mouth in a firm line. “I’m sorry. I sort of brought some baggage from earlier in here with you. That’s not fair, and I shouldn’t have done that.”
He nuzzles his nose against my arm and kisses my skin lightly before looking back up at me. “Wanna talk about it?” I ask, sensing that whatever it is that’s resting behind his eyes is weighing on him even more than he’s letting on. He takes a long deep breath and our eyes remain locked for several seconds before his lip finally curls into that familiar Preeter smile.
“Nah, it’s okay. Just some stuff with Nate, personal—ya know,” he says with a shrug, and I almost believe him.
Almost.
