by Ney, Sara
There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don’t know where to begin.
Ariel’s cheeks get pink, which looks terrible against her hair.
“Mates, it’s probably not a good idea.”
Allie nudges her friend knowingly. “See, Ariel—I told you he has a sexy voice.”
I can hardly believe they’re having this conversation in front of me, as if I weren’t standing here, my eyes roaming the room, searching for any semblance of an escape, finding it in the form of an approaching Georgia.
She’s closing the gap, on her way over, oblivious to my distress, not that I’m giving off any signals.
I’m cool and collected as usual. Only the pit in my stomach betrays me.
“We could go wine tasting this weekend and then go to the vineyard,” Allie hurries to add.
Wine tasting and a vineyard?
The fuck kind of combination is that?
It sounds ghastly, just friggin’ ghastly.
“I already have plans this weekend,” I blurt out.
“Doing what?” Stewart wants to know. “We have a game and then what are you gonna do? Jerk off the rest of the afternoon?”
Georgia comes to a halt just as the blubbering nodcock is asking about masturbating, eyes widening as only eyes can when a person hears something shocking. Not what she was expecting when she walked up, but there you have it.
My friends are twats.
Nothing I can do about it.
“Hi,” Allie greets her, giving her a classic once-over, looking her over from top to bottom then back up again.
“Hi,” Georgia says sheepishly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“You’re not,” I push out, stepping closer. “I’ve been waiting on you.” Without thinking, my arm goes around her. “Babe.”
Stewart, Allie, and Ariel gape.
“Did you just call her babe?” Allie laughs in an attempt to make light of this new development.
“This is Georgia,” I explain. “I can’t do the double date with you because I’ve got a date with her.” I kiss the top of her head as if it were the most natural thing to do, and if she’s stunned, she isn’t showing it.
She hasn’t even bristled beside me.
What a poker face this bird’s got!
I’m impressed.
“I owe him” is all she says, voice good-natured.
I owe him.
She’s referring to the bet, the dare, whatever you want to call the night she asked me on a date as part of her track and field initiation hazing bullshite.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Allie suddenly announces. “Ariel, come on.” Loyally, Allie takes her friend by the arm and hauls her off, glaring at Stewart; I imagine they’re headed to re-strategize in the bathroom.
“I don’t understand—why didn’t you say something about having a girlfriend?” Stewart wants to know, his dander in a bit of a huff.
Because she’s not my girlfriend!
“I did. I told you numerous times I wasn’t interested in a double date.”
“Numerous times,” he repeats, scoffing. “Could you not sound so goddamn stuffy for two seconds?”
Sorry?
“And besides, I wouldn’t have kept bringing it up if you’d said you have a girlfriend.”
Is he going to keep saying it?
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Georgia blurts out at the same time I say, “She’s not my girlfriend.”
She elbows me.
I scowl.
“What? It’s okay for you to say but not okay for me to say it?”
Georgie rolls her eyes.
“Well…” Stewart’s voice drifts off as he thinks out loud. He scratches behind his ear. “We can still double date—Allie might be pissed for a while about Ariel getting the shaft, but she’ll get over it. She really wants to go to that apple orchard.”
He’s never going to let this go.
Never.
“Apple orchard?” Georgie asks, perking up. “The one in Lake Country?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Stew warms to the conversation to sell her on the idea. “They have a vineyard and Allie’s been wanting to go and look cute and drink wine and shit, but I ain’t going to be dragged along by myself.”
Georgia glances up at me, still a good six inches shorter, tucked away under my arm, no effort to peel away. “I could do that. It sounds fun.” She lowers her voice. “Plus…I owe you.”
Well, technically I guess she does, not that I would ever hold her to it or lord it over her—not when I’ve been purposely trying to avoid her.
Look at the mess I just made: she’s beaming up at me as if she’s just won some kind of victory—or won me over.
That is not the case. All is not forgiven because I need a favor for three seconds.
“Okay you two, get a room.” Stewart feigns a gag, although I bet he’s been wanting to tell someone to get a room for a long time and has been waiting for the perfect opening. “Tone it down. I’m not used to seeing this blockhead with a chick, and now I want to vomit.”
“Sod off, Stewart.”
“Okay, but it’s cool if I tell Allie you’re going apple picking with us, right?”
I don’t know shite about American women, but I know this: that Allie girl wants Georgia and me to eat poisoned apples, not pick them with her.
“Can I speak to you in private for a second?” I glance down at Georgia, at her jeans, her sweater, her hair. Give my head a jerk and point toward the front door.
“Outside?”
I lead, she follows to the covered porch, screen door slamming behind us.
It’s cold out tonight and I feel guilty for dragging her outside, but we can’t talk inside; it’s too loud and full of people. Anyone could overhear what I’m about to say.
“You don’t actually have to go to the apple orchard. The whole thing is ludicrous.”
“Oh.”
I study her. “Do not tell me you’re disappointed.”
This is me we’re talking about, the guy she came on to out of necessity and desperation. The guy she’s stuck in class with twice a week, who she can’t escape from.
Her shoulder rises and falls. “I wouldn’t hate going. If you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to,” I blurt out. “It’s an apple picking farm.” I can’t say it enough; the entire idea is bollocks. I’d rather get trollied and left naked in the middle of campus than go to an orchard. Not that I’ve ever been to one—an actual vineyard? Yes.
In the South of France? Yes.
Tuscany, Italy? Yes.
Midwestern America?
Why is this even a question?
Not to make myself sound like a snob, but come on, let’s be real.
“Right. Of course you don’t want to go.” Georgia is looking down at her shoes, downcast. “I was a jerk and…I don’t blame you.”
The truth is, she did nothing thousands of men before her haven’t done. Hazing rituals are common—and not just here in the States. Try being a young bloke at boarding school in England and you’ll see how snotty bastards actually behave when no one is watching.
When they’re in no danger of being caught.
Snitches get stitches…
“Okay. So no date.” She looks oddly disappointed.
I’m confused—is she trying to win her way back into heaven by doing a good deed: a pity date with me?
“No date.”
Her shoulders sag, or maybe it’s the dim glow of the lights on the porch that need new bulbs. They flicker.
Georgia bites down on her lower lip, white teeth playing peekaboo. “Okay.”
I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my jeans and slouch. “Thank you for being cool back there.”
“Um. You’re welcome. It’s fine, really.” She gazes back inside the house through the screen door with a frown. “What was that all about, though? Should I be worried?”
“No, you shouldn’t be worried.” I shou
ld, though; once Stewart finds out I lied about Georgia being my date, he’ll insist I double date with Ariel.
“I don’t need more girls pissed at me—that Allie looked like she wanted to murder me.”
Probably because she does. “She’ll get over it.”
“Will she though?”
“No.” I laugh. “I play rugby with Stewart, Allie is his girlfriend, Ariel is her best friend—they have grand plans for the four of us.”
“Ariel. With the red hair.”
“Uncanny likeness, yeah?”
“Do you think that’s her real name? I mean, what are the odds?”
“Maybe her parents are Disney freaks.” I sound so American right now; Mum would be having fits if she heard me. “With red hair.”
“Maybe.” She’s nibbling her bottom lip again. “You know your friend is going to hound you about this.”
Oh, she’s reading my mind now? Ugh.
“What are you getting at?”
“I just think…you should let me make it up to you. I’ll be the best fake date you’ve ever had.”
The only fake date I’ve ever had. Never have I bloody ever had to blackmail a woman to spend time with me.
“I…don’t know.” I hesitate. “I don’t want to send mixed signals.”
“Mixed signals?” She laughs. “Trust me, I know darn well you can’t stand me and want nothing to do with me. I know this would only be a favor. I promise I won’t go falling in love with you.” Her eyes get wide when she realizes her gaffe. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—because you don’t want me to like you.” She pauses. “I mean, you don’t like me. I know that. I won’t—”
I hold a hand up. “It’s fine. I get it. You won’t fall in love with me.”
“So long as you don’t go falling in love with me,” Georgia teases unnecessarily. “Not that you will. I’m only kidding.”
She gulps.
“Alright.” I glance at the house, through the crowd and toward Stewart. “Want me to walk you home? I don’t feel like going back in.”
“Um. I have friends inside…” Pause. “Nalla and Priya, but I can see if they’re ready to go? Hold on.”
I nod as she darts through the door, back within minutes, seemingly out of breath, brushing the hair back from her face.
“I’m good to go—they want to stay.”
Of course they do—this party is hoppin’. It’s bouncing, or whatever they say, and I haven’t known the two other girls long, but they definitely seem like they’re ready for a good time.
Wordlessly, Georgia and I set off down the steps toward the sidewalk, awkwardly walking in silence the first block—I’m assuming we’re heading in her direction because she hasn’t told me to go the other way.
We stroll along quietly until Georgia asks, “What part of England are you from? I can’t remember.”
“Surrey.”
“How far is that from London?”
“’Bout fifty kilometers.”
“Um…I don’t have the conversion rate down.” She laughs.
I think for a few seconds, doing the math. “Roughly thirty or so miles, I wager? My parents have a flat in London but don’t spend much time there.”
“Why do they have a place there if they don’t go there?”
Because that’s what aristocrats in England do. The townhouse in the heart of the city has been in our family for generations—you don’t give that up unless you’re desperate for cash or want to trade up.
The family seat in the country, too.
Gets passed down from generation to generation, and someday, it will all be mine, along with the taxes and other debts.
But I digress…
“They don’t go often, but sometimes my brother and I will use it if we want to visit friends from school. Or whatever.”
Fundraisers, charity balls.
“Or whatever, he says,” Georgia scoffs, trudging along, not asking any more questions.
It goes from awkward to more awkward.
It occurs to me that she might not feel safe. She’s agreed to walk home with me, but it’s dark, I’m huge, and we’re alone.
I stick my hands in my pockets, shoulders slouched.
Shoot her a sidelong glance, tempted to lecture her on what a dumb decision it was to walk alone with a strange guy who outweighs her by probably a good hundred pounds.
For an aristocratic Brit, I’m stockier than most. The bulk of lads I went to school with haven’t seen an honest day’s work in their puny lives, weight rooms not a priority, and the blokes I played rugby with were never as large as I am.
Smaller by half.
Shorter.
Leaner.
More suited to the sleek gentleman’s club of their fathers than a rugby field.
My mates from home play cricket, a posh sport, or ride polo ponies on the weekends—something I’ve never been partial to myself.
Few of them have ever had a tooth knocked out from an elbow jab or a knee to the face.
I’ve had both.
It’s a bloody miracle my mum never banned me from playing, and Dad enjoys having a son who’s more masculine physically than his peers’ offspring.
He may be stuffy and proper, but he’s proud to have raised a strong son.
His heir.
Georgia and I trudge along, cars passing every few minutes, slowing to gawk at the pair of us on the sidewalk.
It’s still considered early—just eleven o’clock—students getting dressed to go out and party.
We approach campus, coming to a crossroads at the next stoplight.
“Uh…now which way?” I ask, glancing left then right.
“Straight. I’m up another five blocks.”
“Five blocks? Did you walk all this way?” I look down at her feet. “In those shoes?”
She looks down too. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
Nothing is wrong with them. They’re just…high. Who the hell wants to walk all that way in blasted heels?
Women.
I’ll never understand them.
It would have helped if Mum had had a girl and I hadn’t just been stuck with Jack and Dad—little more estrogen in the house would have served us all well.
Georgia sighs, probably out of boredom because we’ve barely spoken and now I’m ridiculing her choice in footwear, one city block behind us and four more to go.
My lips part, and I let slip a somewhat personal question. “How do you like it here so far?”
“It’s fine—not what I was expecting.”
“How so?”
“Well…” She pauses. “For starters, I didn’t think the girls on the track team would haze an upperclassman. I’m not a rookie, and it was uncalled for.”
I laugh at how ridiculous she sounds. How disgruntled.
“Didn’t you ever haze anyone?”
Her sharp look answers the question before she does. “No, Ashley, I didn’t. It’s against the honor code.”
Ha.
The honor code is a joke and everyone knows it. Everyone breaks it at some point, especially the second they step into an off-campus house party.
Duh.
“Where did you come from, the land of make-believe? This isn’t a fairy tale—you don’t think athletes at your old uni were initiating teammates? C’mon now.” My snort punctuates the sentence.
“I’m not an idiot—I know they were, but as far as the track and field team went…no. Not that I saw, thank god. It makes me sick.”
Pfft.
“Not sick enough,” I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for her to catch.
She halts in the middle of the sidewalk to face me, hands on her hips.
“Good. I’m glad you’re bringing this up, because it’s the only thing I can think about. I’m sorry, okay? I was just trying to…get it over with that night so they’d leave me alone. It had nothing to do with you—it wasn’t personal.”
Nothing to do with me? Is she delusional?
When a pretty girl walks up to you at a party and asks you on a date as a dare because she’s been told to find the ugliest bloke at a party—it’s personal.
“But that’s where you’re wrong.” I continue walking, hands still jammed into my jeans. “Think a bloke isn’t going to take offense to your little prank? I’ve seen it done before, and it’s not fucking funny.”
She hurries to catch up to me, hand pulling at my arm, latched onto my bicep. “You were the first guy I saw standing in that room! You’re like, three feet taller than every last one of those guys, okay?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
But I’d be lying if I said her observation isn’t oddly satisfying and doesn’t stroke my ego, even just a little bit.
“Ashley, stop.”
I stop.
Face her.
Hands out, beseeching, she’s in the middle of the sidewalk again, staring at me, defeated look on her face.
“I don’t know what else to say—I don’t know how to apologize. I don’t think you’re ugly, and I don’t think you’re stupid.”
Stupid.
Wait, what?
“Who the hell said anything about stupid? Was that part of the bet, too? Am I missing something?”
She facepalms herself.
“No one said anything about you being—” She inhales a deep breath. “It was a figure of speech. I’m nervous. I’m frustrated I put you in this situation, and I wish I could go back and do it all over again.”
Do it all over again.
Now there’s an idea.
I look back down the road toward where we came from, eyeing the path we just walked. Past the administration building on campus, up toward the ramshackle rugby house.
What would she do differently if we could go back—if it hadn’t played out this way? What would she have said to me, if anything at all?
“Alright.” I nod.
Georgia looks confused. “Alright what?”
“Let’s do it over again.” I have to know what would change if we had a redo, because the truth is…
I like Georgia.
“Like—go back right now?”
I pull my left hand from my pocket and check the gold watch—a family heirloom—encircling my wrist for the time.
“It’s still early.”
Her brows shoot up. “You want to go back and…role-play?”
I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”
