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No need to ask how Gray knows; this fucking campus spews gossip with the power and efficiency of a fire hose.
“They’ve been sitting in my fridge,” he continues. “Because if we’re going to drink what looks like toxic waste, it ought to be cold.”
The lump in my throat grows to epic proportions. The controller hangs heavy in my hand as I blink down at it.
Gray is silent for a moment then hands me a pop and pulls a hot dog from the other bag. “Now, I realize these aren’t as good as a Chicago dog, but we’ll have to make do. Because none of those bitches deliver.”
I hold the ice-cold drink in my hand. “Thanks.” Shit, if I say any more, I’ll be bawling and embarrassing us both.
Thankfully, he doesn’t say any more. We sit together, drinking lime soda, eating subpar hot dogs, and playing video games until it’s dark out.
twenty-six
Anna
The next few weeks are an exercise in perpetual misery. My state of comfortable numbness thaws. In its place an aching chasm opens. It is so big that I’m surprised when I look down at myself and don’t find a gaping hole. All my effort goes into not curling over into myself, to remain upright each time I enter our shared class and see him. Not that my false front of calm matters. Drew won’t even look at me.
Worse? He’s changed seats. He selects a desk as far from me as possible, all the way at the opposite end of the room where I’d have to crane my neck to see him. Everyone notices, of course. He’s their sun. Anytime he shifts position, their worlds go out of orbit. Mine most of all. I feel off-center, as if I might topple over in between the desks.
Every time he speaks up in class, my skin twitches and my heart does a little leap like it’s trying to return to its owner.
I might have tried to apologize, but he leaves me no opening. He’s out the door as soon as the professor gives the okay. Short of chasing him down, I’m not getting near him with any ease. I could do it, but my feet won’t propel me forward. I just want it all to end.
What could I say to him, anyway?
I’m sorry, Drew, but I can’t let go of my stupid old insecurity. You remember high school? And that chubby, awkward girl? There is one in every school. The one that everyone knows, but no one really sees? My school? Well, she had frizzy red hair and braces. She was too pale, too quiet. She never got asked to a dance. Never went to prom or made out in some guy’s car. She never even experienced a kiss until she got to college.
And no matter what she tells herself now, that insidious fucking shame, those icy cold years of isolation, don’t seem to leave her. It doesn’t matter that she knows she attracts guys now. It doesn’t matter that she knows she’s smart, or that she has friends. Deep down, she’s still that girl. Even when she fights to cut the line.
And she can’t fucking breathe with the spotlight turned on her. Because they’ll see. They’ll all see that she’s still that chubby girl who didn’t fit in. And you’re a spotlight, Drew. You dazzle her.
Yeah. Pathetic. Because I ought to be over it. I hate that I’m not. I hate my weakness. And I’d rather Drew hate me for the wrong reasons than feel sorry for me for the right ones.
Which only makes me hate myself more.
And so the pain continues as I follow him out of class the next week, only to stop dead when he meets up with another girl. She has cheerleader-sorority girl written all over her, from her size-four jeans to her bone-straight hair, falling like a shining sheet to her tiny ass. And maybe she carries a wealth of insecurities deep within her skin, but I hate her on sight anyway.
He gives her his bright smile, the one that used to make my knees give way, and she tucks her arm in his. And they look so good together that I stop. Maybe it’s for the best. He deserves to be happy. Deserves someone who isn’t a mess.
On the heels of that charitable thought comes a stronger one: Fuck. That.
I’m about to go tell him the truth. That I do care. I care too much. Then he turns his head, as if he feels me watching. Our eyes meet, and he cocks a brow as if to say, what the fuck are you looking at? As if to say, your chance is gone.
I turn around and leave without another glance.
Drew
The locker room reeks of mud, sweat, and defeat. I sit alone on the bench in front of my locker and stare down at my hands. Hands that managed to perform the three fumbles, four incompletions, and the interception that lost the game. Worst fucking game of my life.
Each breath I take sends shards of agony along my bruised back and hips. My head pounds so hard I fear my eyes will pop out. Low murmurs bump about on the air, but no one talks to me. I don’t blame them. I am their leader, and I’ve let them down.
It’s worse when Rolondo gives me a quick pat on the shoulder. “Happens, man,” he says low and just to me. “It’s in the past now.”
I want to shrink down inside myself then. I’m the one who threw him the shitty passes, making him look bad on that field. That he knows why I’ve fucked up and isn’t killing me over it has my throat closing.
Sweat trickles along my temples and burns in my eyes. But I don’t move to wipe it away. I wait, quiet until the guys shower and change. Until they leave me.
I shower alone, standing under the hot water as a lump fills my throat, and then I turn off the taps. I’m dressed and zipping up my bag when Gray comes back in.
