by Lola West
Falling for the Opposition
Lola West
For Jenny -
Thank you for always being
stupid and smart with me.
You are beautiful in all the ways.
Drink liquid sunshine.
Xo
Contents
I. Summer
1. Drew
2. Lua
3. Drew
4. Lua
5. Drew
6. Lua
7. Drew
8. Lua
9. Drew
10. Lua
11. Drew
12. Lua
13. Drew
14. Lua
15. Drew
16. Lua
17. Drew
18. Lua
II. Fall
19. Drew
20. Lua
21. Drew
22. Lua
23. Drew
24. Lua
25. Drew
26. Lua
27. Drew
28. Lua
29. Drew
30. Lua
31. Drew
32. Lua
III. Spring
33. Drew
34. Lua
35. Drew
36. Lua
37. Drew
38. Lua
39. Drew
40. Lua
41. Drew
42. Lua
43. Drew
44. Lua
45. Drew
46. Lua
47. Drew
48. Lua
49. Drew
50. Lua
51. Drew
52. Lua
Also by Lola West
Did you love Falling for the Opposition?
About the Author
Part I
Summer
1
Drew
The first time I saw her she was dancing—no, not just dancing, something else. She was fucking flying, communing with the music like it was in her blood cells, rushing, pushing, flowing through her veins. I was at Bonnaroo, well, sort of. I wasn’t sleeping in the dirt, sweaty and camping like she probably was. I was staying in an air-conditioned tour bus and living like a rock star. I was there because it’s something you do when you’re in college. You drive eleven hours with your rich friends. You leave the pressure of being a senator’s son at home. You remind everyone not to take your picture if you’re holding a joint, and then you get high and drunk and you listen to the music and make the memories that last a lifetime.
When I saw her, it was the last day of the festival, really late in the afternoon, maybe even evening and the sun was dipping low, spilling out all hot and yellow over the horizon. I was in some VIP viewing area, drinking a beer out of a plastic cup, surrounded by guys in khaki shorts with straight-haired blonds swaying in front of them or pressed against their laps. I was drunk. Not ugly, sloppy drunk, but my guard was down. She was maybe sixty feet away, to my left and in front of me, not in VIP. It was stupid hot out. Sticky hot, the air heavy and warm when you it pulled into your lungs. It didn’t stop her though. She was dancing, full on.
She was the opposite of the girls I knew. The girls I knew were linear. They were straight up and down, thin and pretty. They were like porcelain dolls. Small, delicate, dainty girls who wanted to be charming accessories. Girls who made you feel like they didn’t sweat, let alone shit. Girls who played tennis and golf and talked about other girls and clothes and manicures and diamonds. Girls who had coming-out parties and wore headbands. Girls who looked like my parents and wanted my parents’ life.
This girl was not linear. She was round, soft, plush, so fleshy. I saw her from behind first. She was wearing jean shorts that were a little too tight, so her flesh puckered at the waist. Just tight enough that I could see the full cut of her ass as she rocked her hips. Her top was this lightweight sexy hippy girl top. The kind of top that ties behind your neck. Her shoulders were bare, tan, kissed with pink from being in the sun all day. Her dark hair was tied up in a bun, minus some sweaty strands that had escaped and were plastered to her neck. There was a small tattoo or birthmark behind her ear. I couldn’t tell which from where I was standing. Her arms stretched above her head, her shoulders rolling to the rhythm of the music. Languid fucking movements. Jesus. When she circled in place, turning so she was facing me, I finally saw her face. It was as though the music owned her, possessed her features and overwhelmed her. Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lower lip. She also wasn’t wearing a bra, and she had real tits, big enough that going braless bordered on obscene. A sliver of her round belly was visible at the hem of her shirt.
Watching her made my chest ache; it made my mouth wet and my dick hard. I didn’t even know who was playing anymore. I wanted to be closer to her. I wanted to be on her. To kneel in the dirt in front of her, cup her ass in my hands, and rest my cheek on her belly. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to do all kinds of things to her, with her, but I had this overwhelming feeling that pressing my face against her hot, sweaty body would make me feel calm. I never feel calm. And all of this, watching her, wanting her, it was completely inappropriate because I was standing with my arm around my date for the weekend, Candice Huffington.
When the song ended, I shifted my weight and quickly adjusted myself, hoping no one would notice that I had a raging hard-on. My movements jostled Candice, and she looked up at me, smiling, completely unaware. I attempted to smile back, but it didn’t quite happen. I was disgusting. I mean, sure, Candice was not my girlfriend. Not even close. She was a girl I met at my parents’ country club. She was nice, like all the other blonds in the VIP section. She giggled at my jokes, was concerned I was drinking too much, and wore a strand of white pearls to Bonnaroo. What was up with that? My parents liked her. I liked her, basically. I invited her, with my friends, but I hardly knew her. I’d fucked her though. Just once.
Fuck.
I was disgusting, an animal, no control.
I glanced back to the dancing girl. She had a bag on her shoulder, and she was talking to a girl standing next to her. She told her something, and then she moved to leave. I leaned over to get closer to Candice’s ear. “I gotta go,” I grumbled. Smooth, as usual. Candice looked at me quizzically, her pale eyebrows pinched. I shook my head and leaned in again. “To the bathroom.” She started to gather her things like she was going to come with me. I shook my head no. “I’ll be right back.”
She smiled. She always smiled. I was a dick.
I strolled toward the back of the VIP section in the direction of the bathrooms. I could still see the girl making her way through the crowd. She moved quickly and strategically with no fear, owning her trajectory through the hoard as if the seas parted for her. I knew I was going to follow her; that was my intention. The only question was if she would head toward her camp, the restrooms, or the food venues. Obviously, the restrooms would have allowed me to utterly avoid suspicion, but honestly, I didn’t care that much either way. When she headed for the food and drink, I barely glanced behind me to see if anyone was watching. Once I got close to her, ten to fifteen feet behind her, I let her set the pace, and watched her hips sway as she walked.
It had rained the night before and there was mud everywhere. She didn’t swerve to avoid the puddles. She just tromped right through, letting little speckles of dirt stick to her shins and calves. I was glad she wasn’t prissy. She didn’t look prissy. I followed her lead, my steps sinking each time they hit the muddy ground. She kept her bag close to her hip, holding it with her hand, and I couldn’t help but think that it matte
red, that whatever was in that bag, money or whatever, she needed it. I didn’t know that feeling. Money came easily to me. I was born with it, and I would most likely die with it. Everything I had was replaceable.
She got in line at a stand that sold Philly cheesesteaks, and I felt a tinge of joy that she wasn’t a vegan or a vegetarian. It’s not that there is anything wrong with people who fight for animal’s rights or choose vegetables as their mainstay because they think it’s healthy. But I didn’t want her to be that. I wanted her to be untethered, wild, and vast, like her dancing. I didn’t want her to be clean or fearful. I wanted her to be greasy and rich. I wanted her dangerous. I wanted her to skydive. I wanted her to be the girl who sits on the railing of the balcony on the hundredth floor, the girl who jumps with you, not before or after you. I wanted her to be gluttonous, to be messy.
I lingered back a bit, glancing around to make it look like I was undecided about what to eat. I was really wondering if I should get in line behind her. I didn’t feel all that hungry, but the smell of the sizzling meat wasn’t unappealing. Normally, with any other girl, I would have engaged sooner, but with this girl, I kept wondering how she would feel about the guy that hit on her when she was in line for a cheesesteak. Would she think that guy was a turd? What if his breath smelled of beer and other sundries? Would she be repulsed by him?
Frozen by anxiety, I let myself watch her again. From where I was standing, I could see that the marking behind her ear were a tattoo. Small and unobtrusive, a constellation of asterisks. She looked around, scanning the crowd as if she was searching for someone. Who? An icy tightness constricted my chest. I considered she might be waiting for a guy. Her boyfriend? Sheer jealousy propelled me forward. I crossed from where I was standing to get in line behind her. From this close, I could smell her. Three days baking in the hot sun wasn’t good for anyone, but her odor wasn’t rank. She was musky, earthy like the woods, a simple, soft human scent that made me want her more.
There were three people ahead of us, but for me they weren’t people. They were increments of time. Each person represented a couple, maybe a few minutes, which meant, best-case scenario, I had nine minutes to make an impact. Nine minutes to get her to notice me. Nine minutes to strike up a conversation so valuable that she would want me. Or at the very least, nine minutes to earn myself a tenth minute. She continued scanning the crowd. She looked over her shoulder in my direction. It was my opening. No gimmicks, just conversation. Deep breath.
I looked right at her, the words about to drip from my tongue, and then I saw recognition in her eyes. She pressed up on her tiptoes, bouncing and waving her hand in the air, bouncing. Oh God, tits. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by having her first exchange with me be my eyes molesting her, so I looked at my feet.
“Joe-joe! Joe-joe!” she hollered, still waving frantically. A very tall, gangly guy with a neatly trimmed beard and mirrored aviator sunglasses brushed past me. He was good-looking in a grungy, fashion-y way, not great-looking, but man enough. His arms wrapped around her, and he lifted her from the ground. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, squeezing her whole body against him.
“God, I missed you,” she cooed, and I tasted vomit at the back of my throat. She was supposed to be mine, but apparently, I didn’t have nine minutes. I didn’t have any minutes. She already belonged to some dude with shaggy chestnut hair and leather bracelets. I lingered for a moment, gnawing the inside of my cheek. He released her, returning her to the ground but continuing to hold her hand. Once they turned their attention to what they were going to order and share, I fucked off.
I strolled through the crowd toward the campgrounds. There were people everywhere, and it was an eclectic group. Lots of regulars, everything from preppy frat boy types like me, to hippie types like her, but there were also crazy motherfuckers. People covered in neon paint. People in full-feathered Native American headdresses. People on stilts. People in tutus and sailor costumes. I hated them all. I wanted to snarl, to growl. I wanted to be rabid. My brow furrowed, and I clenched my fists. I needed to break something. Fuck someone up, get fucked up, get fucked; something. What I really wanted was to punch my fist into his neatly trimmed jaw and watch the impact in slow motion, like you do in the movies. I wanted to see his whole face crumple, as if it was going to permanently lose its shape. I wanted to see the blood on his lips, the shock and awe in his eyes. I wanted him to be afraid of me. I wanted him to piss himself when people said my name. But that shit was way the fuck out of proportion, considering I’d never even spoken to her.
So, I tried to breathe. I leaned my back against a tree, and then I let myself slide down until my ass hit the ground. I rested my elbows on my knees and held my head in my hands. The ache that claws at your face right before you cry crept into my cheeks. I closed my eyes and pressed my palms against them. I swallowed and sucked the emotion down. There was no way I would go all weak over some hippy chick that I’d never even spoken to. No way. I thought about going back to VIP. Candice was probably wandering around looking for me. I could go back to her. She’d let me fuck her again. I knew she would, but I didn’t want to. Fucking Candice was cold. She spread her legs and welcomed me, and she made enough noise to seem like she wanted me, but her eyes were empty. Fucking Candice was a lie. A dirty lie. Candice wanted to be the girl dating the senator’s son. Going back to Candice wasn’t an option. So, I just sat there and sat there till it was really dark out.
After a while, a group of geeky-looking assholes congregated around one of those one-piece benches and a picnic table off to my left. I could see them because they had a lantern, but I was pretty sure they couldn’t see me. There were five of them, but one stood out as their leader. He was a bony dude with hard, thin features. He looked crooked, gnarly, like a kid who wore a trench coat to high school, a kid no one liked. Or maybe a kid whose life mission was to hack into the CIA. He didn’t look like a good kid, but not bad either, just unwanted. The others were also variations on this theme; they looked like dudes that loved girls who played video games.
They were smoking cigarettes. I didn’t smoke, but it seemed like something to do, so I got to my feet. These kinds of guys weren’t usually down with the likes of me. I was too clean cut for their tastes. I reminded them of the footballer who gave it to their girlfriends’ in high school. I reminded them of the money their parents didn’t have. I was that bullshit jock, that asshole frat boy who had it easy, who didn’t know what it meant to survive on the outside. They didn’t know shit. For most of us, there was no inside, no in crowd. We were always alone. Always unsure and unsupported, following all the rules because we didn’t have a choice. But it didn't matter. Not to punks like this, and honestly, I deserved their hate. I had done it all, pissed in their water bottles, thrown them in dumpsters, taken their little sister’s virginity. All to be cool.
Still, I approached them, cocky, smirking. I wanted to feel the rush of control. I wanted to eat their discomfort. Their conversation halted as I hoisted myself onto the table and rested my feet on the bench. They smelled homeless, but after three days in the mud, the dancing girl was the only one who didn’t.
“What’s up, dudes?” I tossed the words at them. My voice was steady and deep, overtly confident.
A small guy with acne and spikey hair at the end of the table rolled his eyes, and the leader who was sitting with his hands on the table by my hip shook his head, raised his eyebrows in sarcasm, and said, “Not much, man. Can we help you?” It wasn’t a warm and fuzzy welcome, but I didn’t want it to be.
“Oh, ya know.” I jostled his shoulder and felt him tense up. “I was just sitting over there enjoying the fanfare, when suddenly I had an undeniable craving for a smoke, and well, wouldn’t you know? Here you are, smoking.” I smiled a tight-lipped smile.
He glanced at his friends. I noticed his hair was greasy and felt the rumble of something secret. Something they knew, and I didn't, but I didn’t care that much. He looked back at me, crossed his arms over
his chest, and smiled. The smile of a trickster, curled lips, all teeth. “Sure, dude. Twenty bucks.” He said it casually. No fear. I had no power over him.
“Twenty bucks?”
“Yeah, man. Cigarettes are precious cargo in this joint. And honestly, I’d rather give them to hot chicks than to you.” He pulled the pack out of his pocket and tapped it against his palm. He had a long angular nose that was crooked like the rest of him. “So, if you really want one, you’re gonna have to pay for it.”
“Fuck you, man. That’s sexist.” The geek chuckled, and for a split second we were friends. I sighed and shook my head as I pulled my wallet out and handed the guy a twenty. “More where that came from. Right?” I smirk, our friendship ended.
He scowled at me and tugged a cigarette from the pack. I took it. “You want a light?” he asked. Instead of answering, I bent toward him, cupping my hands to protect the lighter from the wind, which had picked up a touch since the sun went down. It took a couple of tries for the lighter to catch. It didn’t bother me. I liked the zippering sound of the flint wheel. Eventually, the flame glowed hot, and I sucked in air, igniting the cherry tip of the cigarette.