by Katie Wismer
Ashley’s mouth tightens. She hoists herself up so one foot is in the car and her body hangs out the open door. “The sun sets in less than an hour, and I hear there are coyotes in these parts. You might want to hurry.”
And with that, she slams the door, flips the car around, and takes off down the road. Dirt and gravel spit up behind her tires, and I have to turn away to shield my face from their attack.
Whatever angry bravery had taken over me in those last few minutes quickly washes out of my system as I glance in the two directions she pointed. I have no idea where I am. And she could have been lying about where she threw my stuff, for all I know. My phone and keys could be anywhere. I take a deep breath and push my hair behind my ears, ordering myself to remain calm. I just have to remain calm, and I’ll find them. How far could she possibly have thrown them?
She wasn’t wrong about the setting sun, though. The air is already starting to get colder. I pull on one of the door handles to see if I left a jacket inside, but it’s locked. I throw my head back and take a very long, slow breath.
I’ve got to hand it to Ashley, she’s thorough.
So I do the only thing I can: I start looking.
18
Two hours. That’s how long it takes to find my things in the dirt. The cold coaxes out goosebumps along my arms as I crawl on my hands and knees, cutting my palms on the sharp rocks as I glide my hands across the ground, fingers spread wide, hoping to feel metal. I find the phone within the first hour, thankfully, so I can use the flashlight to find the keys since the sun has set completely by now.
Neither are anywhere near where Ashley said they would be.
When I get back in the car, I’m coated in a fine layer of dirt and coughing from the dust in my lungs. Both of my hands are bleeding and burning from the dirt shoved into my open wounds. My stomach growls. I dig in my backpack until I find my water bottle and chug most of it, then throw the car door open and pour the rest over my hands, wincing as they sting.
The drive—that’s a whole other story. I have no idea how to get back, and there isn’t enough cell service to give me directions. So I just blindly take off in the direction Ashley left earlier until I get within range so I can figure out how the hell to get home.
The longer I drive, the hotter the anger grows inside of me. My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. My jaw starts to ache from clenching it so tightly, and I can feel a headache thudding dully between my eyebrows.
This was too far. This has all been too far.
It’s past ten o’clock by the time I make it back. There are a few missed calls from Sam, Johanna, and my parents, but I ignore them all. My eyes linger on Sam’s name for a moment. Things were going so well with us. But the moment he hears about that pact…I’d be surprised if he ever spoke to me again.
When I pull up to the house, all of the lights are on. I groan internally as I shuffle to the door, exhaustion weighing down my every step. No doubt Maman and Papa are waiting up for me and have no intentions of letting me pass without an explanation. All I want is to collapse into my bed. Luckily, I’ve had several hours to come up with a story.
Sure enough, the moment I step into the house, Maman and Papa appear from the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” Papa asks at the same time Maman says, “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
“I’m sorry.” I try my best to sound convincing, but I’m so exhausted that it probably just comes out monotone. “I was with a study group at the library—we have this huge test on Monday—and we just lost track of time. And I forgot to charge my phone last night, so the battery died.”
Both of them narrow their eyes at me, as if deciding whether or not they’re going to believe me. I smooth my features into what I hope is an earnest expression.
“You were studying all night at the library on a long weekend?” Papa asks, eyebrows raised.
I just raise my eyebrows back at him. “Is that really so surprising for me?”
“Why are your clothes so dirty?” Maman asks.
I’d tried to brush off my clothes as best I could before coming inside, but apparently hadn’t been thorough enough.
“It was nice out this afternoon. We were sitting out on the hill behind the library before it got dark.” I wince at how easily the lie rolls of my tongue, at how easily this seems to placate them. Maman huffs and crosses her arms over her chest like she’s still upset, but it’s clearly just a show, and Papa braces a hand on her shoulder.
“You should call next time. From a friend’s phone, or the school or something. You can’t worry us like that,” Papa says.
His words trigger something deep in my chest, and I have to lock my jaw to hold it together. “You’re right,” I say, disguising my wobbling lower lip with a yawn. “I’ll do better next time. I’m sorry.” With that, I spin before they can see the tears rushing to my eyes, and hurry up the stairs.
It sounds like they call something after me, but the roaring in my ears blocks out everything else.
The moment I slip inside my room and close the door behind me, the tears come. Hard. And not just about Ashley and tonight. About everything. About the pact and Harper and my parents. About the people calling me a slut and the ugly things people have shoved in my locker. About the way my teachers can’t meet my eyes and I can’t even walk down the hall without stares or whispers. About the way Sam will look at me when he finds out. How my parents will look at me when they find out.
My clothes are absolutely covered in dirt and various leaves from crawling around on the ground all night, so I strip them off and toss them into my hamper. When I try to throw my backpack on my bed, it misses and crashes to the ground on its side, upending its contents all over my floor. Folders, notebooks, and pens scatter. A folded sheet of paper glides across the floor and hits my foot, landing face up, exposing part of the script on the inside: James Wofford.
I cock my head and pick up the paper.
James.
If you come anywhere near James again.
This is why she was so angry? This is the reason I just spent the last six hours of my life shoved into the truck on my own car, crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt, shivering from the cold, blind to my surroundings and wondering if some wild animal was going to come rip me into pieces? All because of this scrap of paper that I’d never even given a second thought?
I smash it into a ball and throw it across the room, kicking the remaining pile of books on the floor. They make a satisfying thud as they hit my bedside table.
I haven’t even done anything wrong, and they all treat me like this. I haven’t done anything at all except write my name on some stupid piece of paper when I was drunk, but they’re witch-hunting me all the same, just because it’s fun.
How much worse could things possibly get if I actually did do something?
If I’m going to be treated like this regardless of what I do, then honestly, why shouldn’t I have some fun? Why shouldn’t I do what I set out to do? Things with Sam are done as soon as he hears about all of this. And honestly, it was only a matter of time before he figured out that I wasn’t good enough for him anyway.
All this time, I’ve been looking at these guys offering to sleep with me as a bad thing, but honestly, maybe I had it wrong. Maybe a one-night stand is the way to go. No attachments. No drama. Just one-and-done, and then I can move on with my life.
I march over to the ball of paper and smooth it out on my bed. My hands shake around my phone as I type out the text. I keep it simple. Nonchalant. I don’t want to sound desperate. The message in its entirety says: Tonight? –Mare
I have to close my eyes to muster up enough courage to hit send, and then I fling the phone onto the bed, my entire body vibrating with the spike of adrenaline.
My phone buzzes.
I lunge forward and inspect the illuminated screen. His reply is just as simple: an address.
✦✦✦
My parents go to bed shortly after I get home, and they both sleep like the dead, so after showering and putting on the sexiest underwear I can find under my jeans and T-shirt (and by sexy, I mean black cotton), sneaking out of the house proves much easier than TV shows and movies would lead you to believe.
As it turns out, James Wofford only lives a few neighborhoods away. Practically walking distance. After a quick internet-and-social-media search to see what he looks like, I get in my car and go. When I’m parked outside his house, which is dark except for one window on the second floor, I take a swig of the vodka I’d stashed in my purse, and then another after I text him to let him know I’m outside.
Sweet. My parents are out. I’ll let you in through the front.
The house is nice—clearly upper-middle class—with various family portraits and chic décor strewn about. I glance at a photo of three boys hanging by the stairs. They’re practically triplets—same dark hair, same slight freckles, same dimples, all clad in matching varsity jackets.
“My brothers,” James explains when he sees me staring at it. He points to the tallest one in the middle. “That one’s me, in case you couldn’t tell. People get us mixed up a lot.”
“And they are—”
“Also out tonight,” he finishes for me and nods toward the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
I nod, almost too eagerly.
Thankfully, James’ ensemble is similar to my own, so I don’t feel underdressed—dark jeans and a gray T-shirt. Admittedly, it looks better on him. His shoulders are broad, muscles defined, and I can’t help but notice how well he fills out that shirt as I watch him pull two beers from the fridge. Our interactions before now have been minimal, but I’ve definitely seen him around school before. Usually with his arm thrown around Ashley’s shoulder in the cafeteria, or his tongue down her throat in the halls.
My stomach twists.
“Cheers.” He clinks his beer to mine and knocks it back. I take a small sip and try not to make a face. Damn, I hate beer. But I chug it. I tip the can back and swallow as much as I can while his back is turned, fishing for something else in the fridge. He comes back out with two more beers, and hands one to me.
And then somehow we end up venturing upstairs to his room, and the door is closed, and the lights are off—except a small lamp in the corner—and terrible metal music is playing in the background. By the time we make it to his room, I’ve already finished the first beer.
“Just make yourself comfortable,” he says, clearly indicating the bed, and heads over by the lamp. “Let me just change this music.” It shifts to something much slower—almost jazzy. Mon Dieu, he has a sex playlist.
I perch myself on the edge of his bed, clutching the second beer with both hands for dear life. The room is small, and there’s not much in it besides the bed, a desk, and a side table. There are a few posters on the walls of bands I’ve never heard of, and a TV set in the corner with some kind of video game console and controllers strewn about.
It’s almost too dark to see, but I can definitely make out a picture of him and Ashley on the desk. I feel like she’s staring at me.
He takes another large swig of his drink and slides onto the bed beside me. I take another sip of my beer.
“I was surprised when you texted,” he admits. Neither of us are looking at the other.
“I was, too,” I say.
We sit there for a bit just listening to the music and drinking our drinks. And I wonder if he does this often. As angry as I am with Ashley, it still leaves a sour taste in the back of my mouth. Why keep a picture of her out where he’d see it every day, but then turn around and cheat on her in the very same room? It just doesn’t seem to make any sense.
Maybe this was a stupid idea—
And then his face is coming for mine, and I don’t have any more time to think. It’s too fast of an attack to retreat, so I just let it happen. The kiss is sloppy and tastes like beer. He pulls away just long enough to take the beer from my hands, set both cans on his desk, then come back in, his hands gripping the sides of my face as he pulls me in. He shoves his entire tongue in my mouth without warning, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with it, though he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands slide down to my lower back, pull me closer.
I try to get into it. I really try. He’s not a bad kisser—there’s just a fair amount of slobber, and his touch is kind of aggressive. Not scary-aggressive, but rough. And the closer I pull myself to him, and mold my mouth around his, and let him feel under my shirt, the more and more distanced I feel from the whole situation. Like I’m watching a movie.
He kisses my neck, but I barely feel it. My shirt hits the floor, but I barely notice. And all I can think about is how this is nothing like what it’s supposed to be like.
It’s nothing like the way it was with Sam.
No matter how hard I try to silence it, a voice in the back of my head keeps screaming, wrong, wrong, wrong.
Sam made me feel safe, excited, and bold all at the same time. James makes me feel…dirty. And not in a good way.
I close my eyes and try not to think about it. He rolls me onto my back and climbs on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. Although he may not be Sam, at least right now, in this moment, no one’s looking at me over their nose. No one’s looking at me like something to scrape off their shoe. No one’s calling me a whore. James is looking at me like something beautiful, like something he wants. And even if for just one night, that might be enough.
His touch is not gentle like Sam’s as it trails down my body. His lips don’t leave sparks where they touch my skin. And there is no affection in his eyes when he looks at me. No emotion at all, really. Just lust.
“Wait.” I stop him before his pants come off.
“What’s the matter?” He pulls back, just a little. His words slur slightly. I guess he had a bit more to drink than I’d realized, but I should have guessed from the way he smells.
I shift uncomfortably beneath him. His arms are braced on either side of me like a cage.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say.
His expression softens. He pushes a lock of hair behind my ear in a gesture that should feel sweet, but for some reason, it doesn’t. “Everyone’s nervous their first time.”
“What about Ashley?” I blurt.
That causes him to pause. He leans back and lets out a long, slow breath. “You really want to talk about Ashley right now?” he finally says.
No, I suppose I don’t. This is not my business, and honestly, I don’t want to know any more than I already do.
But yet.
I can’t stop myself from asking, “Are you two not together?”
He leans all the way back on his heels, kneeling over me, and runs a hand through his hair. “Ashley and I…we’re together. But not like this, together.” He points to what we’re doing.
My intoxicated brain is a little slow on the uptake, so I just stare at him.
He waves his hand around as if this clarifies everything, then leans back over me, and the sudden weight of his body on mine sends a twist of nausea to the pit of my stomach. “She says she’s not ready and wants to wait, but I told her I wanted these experiences before college. She didn’t want to break up, though, so we have a sort of don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy, okay?”
“Okay.” It comes out as a squeak. As his lips find my neck again, his words spiral violently in my head.
Ashley wants to wait.
Ashley won’t have sex with him.
Ashley won’t have sex with him, so he’s looking for girls who will, and she’s so desperate to keep him that she’s willing to turn a blind eye.
Ashley, of all people, is a…virgin?
The nausea surges up again.
“Wait!” I say a little too loudly. “Stop. Stop.”
He pulls back, his hair falling into his eyes.
“I can’t do thi
s,” I say.
“Is this about the Ashley thing? I shouldn’t have said anything—”
“No.” Yes. “I just.” My words come out a little shaky. “I can’t do this. Not right now.”
He sighs and falls onto his back beside me. For a second, we both lay there, staring at the ceiling, our breath uneven and too loud in the quiet room. I push myself up into a sitting position, hyperaware of the fact that I’m sitting here in just a bra in front of a boy I don’t know, who has a girlfriend, and scan the ground for my shirt.
“I thought this is what you wanted,” he says.
I suddenly feel so stupid. My entire body is hot, and I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from crying. The only thing that could possibly make this moment more embarrassing is if I started to cry right now.
“I thought it was,” I mumble and shake my head. “I should probably just go.” I move to jump off the bed, but he catches my forearm.
My gaze shoots to his hand in alarm. Is he not taking no for an answer? What if he doesn’t let me leave?
“I can’t let you drive home,” he says. “You’ve been drinking. I’d drive you myself, but I’ve also been drinking.” He releases me and gets up from the bed, re-buckling his belt. “You can stay here until you sober up.” He heads over to the corner of the room to turn off the sexy-time music, still shirtless.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He nods, not really looking at me. “You can sleep here. I don’t mind.”
After I redress and situate myself on the bed, I’m grateful he didn’t let me drive. With all the adrenaline, I hadn’t noticed that I have a mild case of the spins. I probably shouldn’t have downed that vodka before coming inside. “Hey, James?” I say quietly.
“Yeah?” He plops down on the bed.
“Thank you.”
“For…?”
I shrug even though he isn’t looking at me. “For being a decent guy, I guess.”
He snorts a little. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
✦✦✦
James falls asleep, but I never do. He passes out on top of the covers, jeans on, shirt off, a single arm thrown over his eyes. He snores a little.