Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Work isn’t terrible, and I’m swept up in the continuous flow of keeping busy and not giving my mind or my body time to slow down and stop.

  “I just had a super weird encounter with Luke.” Maddie frowns at me, turning her straw in her glass of water and taking a sip. “Your Luke.”

  “He isn’t my Luke,” I’m hasty to clear up. “What happened?”

  I’ve had nothing at all to do with him since I left him cold and dry and he left me with a slightly sticky condom.

  Dumbass.

  “He’s over there making sly jokes out of you trying to convince him you were a virgin. He’s telling all his fanboys no fucking way was that true, if you know what I’m trying to say here. Brooke, he is awful. I feel like I owe you an apology for cheering you two on.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, and I didn’t sleep with him. Not in the end.” It occurs to me this is the first time I’m coming clean with Maddie, but I hope she won’t be too upset with me for not being honest about what really happened that night sooner. “I should have told you, but it wasn’t one of my finer moments.”

  “He’s basically telling anyone who’ll listen that you’re a slut.” Maddie’s indignant gaze slides to a spot over my shoulder. “Ugh, he’s right there. Don’t even look at him, Brooke. He’s an idiot.”

  I rehash that night with Maddie in a blur of rushed speech because we only have five minutes on break left.

  “He’s only bad-mouthing you because he’s upset. If his pea-brained friends really knew he only got the tip wet they’d all be laughing at him.”

  “He could have not said anything,” I say on a frustrated sigh. “No one knew but us.”

  “Yeah, but for all he knows, you’re blabbering and making him look as horrible as he is, so he’s playing you at your own game.” Maddie huffs, then hops down off the bar stool. “Fucking boys. Why the hell do we even bother?”

  I don’t actively try and stay out of Luke’s way, but luck must be on my side because we constantly miss each other throughout the rest of my shift, although his presence in the bar haunts me like a restless spirit, and now Maddie’s told me what he’s saying about me, it hasn’t been the easiest task not storming over to the booth he’s at and telling everyone there how anticlimactic that night really ended.

  The only reason I haven’t already has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. I don’t want people to know. It’s nobody’s business, and I’m not proud of how I acted, nor do I want to share it. Luke can talk crap until his jaw cramps and his minions’ ears bleed, but I won’t be joining him.

  I get so stuck on Luke and his dramatic personality transformation, I’m not sure if I imagine everyone’s looking at me or they really are. I fill orders and deliver the food, the whole time wishing I was slinging flyers in the freezing cold because at least he wouldn’t be there.

  I overreact to a hand on my waist from behind, but it’s only Booker. Then I remember he’s friends with Luke, and I gather animosity like a storm, aiming it all at Booker.

  “What do you want?” I carry on walking as I talk, smiling as I drop off a round of drinks to a rowdy 40th birthday crowd.

  “To talk to you,” he says, but it’s stiff and demanding, his tone difficult to ignore or brush off as nothing.

  “I’m working,” I say.

  “Then take a two-minute break.”

  Booker follows me like an annoying but slightly pissed-off puppy. When I realize I can’t shake him by simply avoiding his existence, I sigh in exasperation and say, “Fine. Let’s talk.”

  Booker knows exactly where he’s going, and he leads me to the back of the bar, pushing open the fire exit and walking outside.

  I shiver before the hostile air hits my skin, my nipples straining in protest against my silly bikini top. Folding my arms over my chest, it’s all I can do to hold onto what little body heat I have left. Booker had best make this snappy; I’m not dressed for the outdoors.

  Folding his hands behind his head, his broad chest expands and his breath billows out in a cloud of mist. “I don’t know how to fucking say this, Brooke, so I’ll just say it.”

  That beginning puts me instantly on edge, and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach.

  But so what if Luke’s already gotten to Booker? It’s a big college campus we’re all attending, and I’m sure no one’s losing any sleep over who I do or don’t give my virginity to. What am I letting myself get so concerned about?

  I save Booker his time and breath.

  “I know Luke’s spreading shit about me. So you can run on in there and tell him from me that I’ve got more important shit going on in my life than concerning myself over patting his wounded ego.”

  Booker lifts an eyebrow, hands still clamped behind his head as he stares at me in mild surprise. “Did you also know he’s about to be a baby daddy? Like, any fucking day now. Got a wifey and everything.”

  What?

  No. I did not know that.

  “I only just found out,” Booker says. “And not from Luke, or I wouldn’t have let you go home with him and not warned you first.”

  There’s so much I want to say that a single word doesn’t move past my lips. I stand there mute, feeling sick to my stomach.

  On the upside, I’m not cold anymore.

  “You want me to whoop his ass, Torre? Because I’d be happy to.”

  I lift my eyes to Booker’s lopsided grin, and I break out into shaky laughter that threatens to turn to tears in the blink of an eye. “That’s a nice offer, but no.”

  “I would. For you.”

  I let Booker slip his arm around my shoulders, cloaking me with his burly heat.

  “I didn’t sleep with him, Booker. I was going to, and… well, we started to, but it was a mistake.”

  “So he’s lying?”

  “Out of his ass, but don’t tell him you know. It’s kinda personal to me.”

  “Anything, Torre. You’re my girl first.”

  Booker holds his fist low for me to bump, and I smile as our knuckles touch.

  “Stick with King, B. He’s all right.”

  My mom stays until finals are over, cooking nutritious meals for me and Maddie daily and leaving Tupperware lunches in our fridge so there’s no excuse for us not to feed ourselves when she isn’t there. Her presence would be suffocating if I didn’t know it came purely from a place of love, so I cut her some slack and allow her to shove food in my mouth at every opportunity.

  There’s really no excuse for me not to drive home with my mom, since Maddie’s catching a flight to Tampa, Florida to share a sun-soaked Christmas with her family at their holiday home on the lake.

  We drop Maddie off at the airport on the way, and I get a little choked up as we exchange gifts and I watch her walk away with her ginormous silver suitcase. I’ll see her in a few weeks, but I’ll miss her until then. Freshman year we drove home to Montpelier together, and we do so much together, it takes me a while to find my feet when we’re separated, and I lose my righthand woman.

  My phone illuminates with another text from Kimberly while me and my mom are at a gas station grabbing smoothies. I’ve been receiving them from her since the predawn hours but haven’t yet found the courage to broach leaving home a few days early to finish up the holidays with someone else’s family.

  I don’t respond to a single one of Kimberly’s texts until the three-hour drive is over and I’m back in my old bedroom surrounded by all my own comforts.

  I call her instead, though.

  “You’re not coming,” she answers in exchange for ‘hello’.

  I drop my face into my pillow, stifling the groan before I can make the sound. Dragging myself to sitting, I scoop my hair back from my face, slump and say, “I overestimated myself. You aren’t disappointed, are you?” I know she is. I’m just fishing to make myself feel less like the worst friend in the universe.

  “No, I’m not disappointed. I’m heartbroken—Inconsolable.”

  “You soun
d fine.”

  “I am not fine. You’ve ruined Christmas. Absolutely destroyed it.”

  Kimberly’s theatrics are part of who she is, and I don’t begrudge her letting her anger out on me.

  Her words stick with me, though, and I keep a lighthearted conversation going with her through Snapchat on Christmas Eve to make sure she isn’t hanging from the mistletoe and trying to blame me for it. Talking about leaving my parents during the holidays is a heck of a lot easier than putting that abandonment into motion, and I can’t bring myself to be that selfish.

  My phone lights up with another snap as I’m curled up on the sofa, my dad sitting in his recliner chair with his feet up and a can of beer watching morning television. My mom’s in the kitchen slaving over dinner, and she’s rejected my help each time I’ve offered it to her, shooing me out of her way.

  I open the snap, and it’s a picture of Roman, the camera pointing up at him on a weird angle. He’s sitting down, and Kimberly’s obviously taken the picture without him knowing. The love hearts filter floats from the bottom to the top of my screen, and I save the snap without thinking about it first.

  She sends one more of her puckering up in a short red strapless Santa dress. Her Aunt Steph’s living room is crowded with family behind her, a big contrast to my quiet Christmas with just my mom and dad, my mom easing me wary, inquisitive looks when she thinks I’m distracted.

  I turn my phone’s camera to face view and say to my screen, “Oh yeah, I see what you mean. You look positively heartbroken, Mariah Carey.”

  My dad side-eyes me, a frown slanting his bushy brows. There’s no need to explain I’m not talking to myself because he loses perplexed interest no sooner than he showed it.

  “Are you having a slice of blueberry breakfast casserole?” my mom peeks in from the kitchen to ask. “It’s fresh out of the oven.”

  “Maybe later,” I say, stalling for time. There’s been so much rich food put in front of me in the weeks leading up to now, my limited appetite’s scurried away, potentially for good.

  “Cut me a slice,” My dad calls idly, his eyes stuck to the television and the supercar show he’s glued to. “And I’ll have the piece Brooke doesn’t want.”

  “You’ll ruin your appetite!” Mom calls back. “You can have one piece.”

  My dad cuts me a look and gives me a sharp nod.

  Rolling my eyes, I call out to my mom, “I’ll have a piece.”

  My dad’s brows furrow.

  “Fine,” I whisper-hiss at him. “Make it a big piece! I just remembered I am hungry!”

  My mom quickly responds with, “Nice try, Ian, but do you think I was born yesterday?”

  Miraculously, I survive the extravagance of Christmas Day. I ate more than enough turkey and stuffing to appease my mom, and still found ways to sneak off to the bathroom and promptly empty my protruding belly without arousing suspicions.

  Being back home is triggering, though, and I’m back where it all started, with the same dark feelings and emotions from when I made up my mind I wasn’t good enough and took it into my own hands to make the appropriate improvements.

  I love coming home, but I don’t love a lot of the memories that wait for me here. Every time I think I’m doing better, taking huge leaps forward, each trip to the bathroom prods me in the back, taunting me that I’m still right where I put myself. If there’s a way out for me, a new cycle to lure me out of the dangerous one I’m stuck in, I haven’t discovered it yet. I’m trapped and ashamed at the same time, and oddly addicted to something I know isn’t good for me.

  The same night I found out Luke was spreading lies about me, I inhaled an entire pizza and then had a hysterical meltdown over the toilet when it wouldn’t budge from my bloated stomach, throat and eyes sore from trying so hard and for so long, temples pounding, and I had no choice but to digest the cheesy dough. That was a bad night for me, and I don’t mean Luke’s defamation of my name, I’m talking about the pizza.

  I’ve just got out of the shower when my phone chirps twice from my bed. I lean over the end of my mattress and pick it up.

  But it’s not the person I’m expecting it to be, and instead of Kimberly’s name attached to the text message, it’s her brother’s.

  Roman: Any way I can coax you out to New Hampshire? Kimberly isn’t the only one who wants to see you

  I smother my smile with the palm of my hand, heat racing through my blood and warming my scalp. Without giving myself time to chicken out and choose a safer response, I type back: I want to see you too

  Three dots dance below my text as soon as I’ve sent it.

  Roman: Send me your address and I’ll tell you how quickly I can be there to pick you up. I’ve got a game in three days, so I’ll be driving back to Maine tomorrow. I can bring you home first. Plenty of options there for you to say yes ;)

  After spontaneously giving Roman my address, and I’ve finished drying off, I pull on skinny jeans and a plain white tank top and leave my hair to dry on its own, too eager to talk to my parents to sit with the hairdryer.

  Turns out I’ve been worrying over nothing.

  “He’s a lovely young man.” A smile creeps out from behind my mom’s wineglass. It’s only four in the afternoon, but she’s still on vacation time, and who am I to judge? “He hung around that hospital until me and your father made it there, and even then, it took two nurses to reassure him it was fine for him to go home.”

  My eyebrows gather into a frown. “He didn’t come in and see me.”

  “I think you gave him a fright, honey, collapsing on him like that. He didn’t want to get in the way of your recovery, and I might have kindly asked him to give you a tiny speck of space for a week or so,” she says guiltily, like she never planned on sharing that if she could get away with it.

  Roman had sent me texts to see how I was doing every day, and now I find out he was with me until probably the next morning and had also been put on keep-away duty by my mom? It’s mortifying. Worse than that time I collapsed in front of him.

  “You’re only telling me this now?”

  “Brooke.” My mom says my name like she’s scolding me. “Your health was all any of us were concerned about.”

  “Are you sure about driving on your own? I can take you and then bring you back here for your car.” My dad pauses between the dining room and the living room, his hands pushed into the pockets of his loose, faded blue jeans. “You shouldn’t do too much too soon.”

  “I’m not driving, Roman’s picking me up. And there’s nothing wrong with me, remember? I’ve been resting all week. I’m bored now.”

  My mom slides me an indignant look, and I smile sheepishly. Christmas Day isn’t over yet, and already I’m mapping out an escape route.

  “I never meant that in a negative way. It’s just… there’s not really a lot to do here without Maddie.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” My mom waves away my failed save and takes a sip of her wine. “Go and see him. You deserve to have some fun before the new semester starts. Not too much, though. You’re coming back here, aren’t you?”

  “I’m coming back. My car’s here, so we’ll still have a few days.”

  My mom seems satisfied with that.

  “No alcohol.” My dad gives me a pointed look. “Or kissing boys.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Uh-huh.” He scratches the dark scruff on his jaw. “Take your grandmother’s Bible and read it cover to cover. There’ll be a test on it when you get back.”

  The sky’s packed with snow when I come downstairs with dry hair and a packed overnight bag. Weightless flakes flutter on the other side of the living room window, disappearing onto the white ledge. It’s snowed every day since I came home, deepening the sidewalks and blocking cars in driveways.

  Roman’s black pickup truck pulls up at the snow-crusted curb at the bottom of the yard right on time. I’m snappish with my goodbyes, but my dad tails me out to the porch, ignoring my need to get away quietly an
d quickly.

  Before I can relay to Roman not to get out of the truck and just drive, he’s opening his door and climbing out.

  I cover my eyes and groan to myself, waiting by the passenger door for him.

  All they do it is talk for a minute, though, and my dad looks more at ease as Roman strolls back down my yard to his truck.

  My dad calls out, “Drive safe in this snow. It’s set to get worse.”

  I nod and wave. “Bye, dad.”

  “You got that Bible?” he asks, his voice noticeably louder. He cracks a grin when I glare at him.

  Roman cranks the heater in the car, and I take off my coat and drape it across my thighs.

  “Do you mind if we stop off somewhere first?” Roman asks. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel and one on the gear shift, his gaze coasting from the road to me. His lips slant into an uneven smile, and my chest squeezes like a clenched fist.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Colebrook. My pops doesn’t visit the fam, and he’d rather everyone didn’t crowd him at his house, either. I usually drive out to see him alone, or sometimes with Kimberly when she’s feeling brave enough.”

  “I would love to meet him.” What I don’t say is that I don’t care where we go or who we see as long as I’m with him. I’m like a girl with her first crush, walking on air every time we’re together. “But won’t he mind that you brought me? Have you asked him first?”

  “I don’t need permission to bring someone.”

  Oh. He’s done this before. Maybe his grandpa’s met lots of girls, because lots of girls like Roman, and I’m definitely not the first.

  “So, you’re okay now?” Roman turns the dial on the dashboard and lowers the music volume. We’ve been driving for around an hour and ten minutes, the snowy scenery barely changing. If anything, it’s worsening. There’s something in Roman’s expression telling me he doesn’t want to discuss that night any more than I do, but he’s put off mentioning it for as long as he can.