Page 26 of Best Man on Campus

“I’m not a priest to confess your sins to. I’m not a sex therapist and I’m sure as hell not an expert on the art of sexual pleasure. I’m sure my ex wishes I was. Hell, we might still be together then. So telling me about the details ain’t gonna do either of us any good. You know you need to talk to Dr. Delray about that.”

I’m staring at her with my mouth hanging open in disbelief about the fact that she’s uttered more than two sentences at once. That she’s mentioned her ex, that she’s shared such an intimate, humiliating fact about herself. Shame burns me from the inside at putting her in this position, of forcing her to share when I know it’s the last thing in the world she wants to do, knowing she does it for my benefit, sensing my need. My shitty broken selfish neediness.

“I… you’re right. I should call Dr. Dani.” No fucking way I’m calling her. “The thing is, I don’t know if I can trust it. The orgasms seem like a breakthrough, but… I don’t trust him. Not yet.” Possibly not ever. Likely not ever. In this moment, I can’t envision ever trusting anyone with my body ever again.

She gives me that same soft, kind look and I know I’ve pushed her. Again, letting my neediness overpower any thoughtfulness or consideration for this woman, knowing she would do anything for me, even talk to me about things that clearly make her more than uncomfortable, possibly things that cause her pain, for all I know. And I care, but not enough to shut my fucking mouth, to go away and leave her alone. Is it any wonder I hate myself? Well more than anyone else possibly could.

With her eyes connected to mine and unflinching, but not covering the level of difficulty she’s overcoming to speak, she says, “It’s not about trusting Ben, it’s about trusting yourself. Allowing your demons to run wild until they run away because they can’t hurt you anymore.”

Her words are the last thing I want to hear because it’s the truth I don’t want to face, the truth that the only way to heal is to go through the pain, to run the gauntlet and hope to hell I survive and come out the other side whole. But the thing is, what do I have to lose? I’m not exactly whole now. But I’m surviving, scraping by. I have my music.

She reaches out and puts her large, meaty hand over mine. So I know she’s seeing the horror on my face.

She whispers, “He’s gone, Jasmine. He can’t hurt you. He can’t touch you.”

I know who she’s talking about. Killian. We both know he’s my demon.

“He can’t love me either,” I say. That’s the problem, why I can’t let go. My demon was the only one who ever loved me.

Majiski leans forward now and does something she never does, wrapping her strong arms around me in a motherly hug—if my mother were an NFL lineman with giant boobs. I soak in the solidness of her, the strength and courage and the love, choking back a desperate sob, wishing it was all enough.

But it’s not. Majiski doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know how much I need to get justice for Killian, or revenge, to find that murdering bitch and … do what to her? Kill her? There was a time when that would have been my answer. And now? I only want to rip her hair out or punch her teeth in or otherwise maim her. Something to permanently mark her for what she did, for the way she permanently marked my soul.

When Majiski releases me from her arms, she hands me a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. “Call him.”

The him she’s referring to this time is Ben. Her fucking unicorn. She stands and goes back to her stove, returns to pouring cupcake batter into the paper-lined tin and it’s like I’m no longer in the room, the way she concentrates on what she’s doing.

My first instinct is to crush the paper and toss it. But I go with my second instinct, or my desire, some sick addiction I have to the possibility of more sex with him. He holds the key and so far, he’s the only one. The urge is strong with me. I’m a risk taker deep down, always the one to climb to the tallest unsteady branch in any given tree as a kid and laughing at the chickenshits who called me crazy. If I dare myself to do it, I will call him.

The only question is whether my daring can stand up to my fears. And whether I can survive the aftermath of whatever happens. There’s no good or bad outcome, but trauma of some kind is guaranteed. I take a deep breath and stand up. I’m honored and sad that she’s willing to offer up Ben her unicorn as a sacrifice for my healing. The wrenching tumble in my gut forces the thought to the dredges of my conscience. I let myself out the back door.

“Later,” I call over my shoulder and Majiski grunts her response. It’s our usual thing and it makes me smile. Good to have some kind of steady thing to count on, something that tells me I’m in reality. This is my life, my world, my recognizable universe, still intact.

* * *

By the time I walk into Harrison Hall for song lyrics & composition class, the one I drooled over getting into for two and a half years, I’m focused on music and the here and now. I take my usual seat at the back of the room near the door with a ring of empty seats around me in spite of the fact that there’s about fifty other students in the class. I’m almost late, but another student walks in after me, closing the door behind him. Dooley.

He looks straight at me and, of all things, he smiles. He’s the only student tough-skinned enough or bat-shit crazy enough to bother with me so far this year.

“Hey Jazzy, what’s with you and Ben Weaver, hockey star extraordinaire?” He hovers over me, anticipating some kind of juicy answer as if I’m some other twit. When I stare at him like he’s part of the wall, he goes on.

“I heard all about your bet. It was all over Instagram how he broke up your fight and then took care of your bloody cut.” He stares at my bandaged hand, dried blood on the edges and a dark spot of blood at the center of my palm. I know I need to get the bandaged changed, but somehow can’t bring myself to take it off. Like I’ll be removing Ben from my life symbolically and it feels wrong even though it’s right.

I shrug and smirk at him. “Sounds like you already know the answer, smart boy.”

He sits next to me in an unprecedented move, even for him. Usually no one bothers with me, leaving my moat of empty chairs intact. A couple of girls say hello to him and eye me, giving me tentative smiles as if my proximity to Dooley has given me half-human status, bringing me back from monster-hood.

“Are you two an item?” he asks.

“What does that even mean?” This is why I don’t usually bother engaging in conversations. I don’t get these people. Not really. And they sure as fuck don’t get me.

“You going to the game tomorrow night? Did he give you a ticket? They’re sold out. Tickets to the Wildbeast hockey playoffs are so hot, girl, if you got a player’s ticket I could get a hundred smacks for you—”

“No. I’m not going to his fucking hockey game. Guess we’re not an item.” I feel hot and bothered about the fact when I have no business feeling that way. I told him to get out, didn’t I? But he never offered me a ticket to his game and that sucks. He only wanted to see me again for a booty call because that’s all I am. All I’ve ever been.

The sudden fire of anger wells and I fight to hold back from lashing out at Dooley. He’s a fountain of information and unabashed fearlessness. I admire him for it, really. He cares nothing for what anyone thinks of him and at the same time he’s a gold-medal social climber at SPU, getting himself invited everywhere by everyone.

He’s been dubbed the most likely to become Oprah when he graduates.