by Elle Kennedy
“I’m not begging,” she says firmly. “I’m asking. If you’re saying no, then fine, I’ll get up and leave.”
I snap myself out of my lust trance. “I’m not saying no.”
“Great. Then come with me on Friday.”
I chuckle. “Oh, I’m not saying yes, either.”
If looks could kill, I’d be on the floor surrounded by a chalk outline right about now. “Then what are you saying?” she demands.
“I’m saying—quid pro quo. I don’t know if you learned this in school, but nothing comes for free.” I wink. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
“I am not scratching any part of your body.”
“All I mean is, if I help you out, I want something in return.”
“Like what?” She starts fidgeting with the end of her braid, clearly unhappy.
I’d kind of like for her to undo the braid altogether. I want to see her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Actually, nah. I want to see it fanning over my bare chest as she crawls her way down my body and—
“Like what?” she repeats when I take too long to reply.
Once again, I force myself to concentrate. “So, you want a date on Friday night—”
“A fake date.”
“A fake date,” I amend. “Well, in return, I want a real one.”
“A real what?
“A real date. You get a fake date, I get a real one.”
“Are you joking?” Her mouth falls open. “You want to go out with me?”
I examine her incredulous expression. “I know, right? It caught me by surprise, too.” I offer a shrug. “But it happened and now here we are. I think you’re hot, and I know you think I’m hot—”
“I think you think you’re hot,” she interjects with a snort.
“I don’t think that. I know that. And I’ve seen the way you check me out, so…” I hold up my hands in a careless motion, before gesturing from me to her. “I think there’s something here—”
“There is nothing here. Nothing.”
“Okay. Cool. I’ll just be on my way.” I lift my ass off the chair.
“Connelly,” Brenna growls. “Sit back down.” She briefly closes her eyes. “You’re saying you’ll come to the dinner party with me, and all I have to do is go out with you for real.”
“Yeah, but don’t make it out like you’re meeting up with a serial killer. At least pretend to sound excited about going out with me.”
“Okay!” She claps her hands. “I get to go on a date with you! Hurray!”
“Much better,” I tell her, and I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling since I learned the reason she’d summoned me. “So. Is that a yes?”
She sighs. Loudly.
13
Brenna
Tuesday brings another storm. Even the meteorologist at the local cable station seems fed up with the weather. When I watched the morning news earlier, he was glaring at the camera the entire time he read the forecast, as if he holds his viewers accountable for the buckets upon buckets of rain that have been dumped over New England this past month.
Luckily, I’m spared the walk home from campus because Summer and I have class around the same time. Mine lets out an hour before hers, so I work on an assignment in the lobby of the Art and Design building. Comfy couches litter the big space, which is surprisingly empty. It’s just a girl with a laptop on a couch near the windows, and me with my laptop on another couch across the room, giving me some semblance of privacy while I wait for Summer.
My assignment is for my least favorite course: Broadcast News Writing. Since I can’t major in All Things Sports, my classes involve all areas of journalism. This particular class requires writing copy for television news as opposed to print news, and my prof decided it would be fun to assign me a political topic. Which means coming up with copy about our president’s latest shenanigans, while worrying whether my professor supports this current administration, or condemns it. He’s never revealed his political leanings, and I’m sure, if questioned, he’d give some spiel about how journalists always remain objective. But come on, let’s be real. At the end of the day, we all have our biases. Period.
I write about five hundred words before taking a break. I scroll through my phone, checking my messages, but there’s nothing new. Jake’s name taunts me from the list, because we exchanged numbers at the coffee shop yesterday so we wouldn’t have to communicate via Insta.
A groan gets stuck in my throat. What, oh what, compelled me to tell Ed Mulder that Jake was my boyfriend? Why did I do that? I regretted the lie about a nanosecond after it slipped out, but it was too late to take it back. Mulder was so overjoyed, you’d think I’d offered to blow him. Though, really, he’d probably be more excited to receive a BJ from Jake. God knows he has a massive hard-on for the guy.
And speaking of Jake, what, oh what, compelled him to ask me out? I’m still baffled, not to mention leery of his intentions. The night of the concert proved that the two of us have some chemistry, but that doesn’t mean we have to act on it. He plays for Harvard, for Pete’s sake. That’s inexcusable.
A message pops up as I’m scrolling, eliciting a rush of unhappiness. It’s from Eric. Again.
ERIC: Please, B. I don’t know why you’re ignoring me.
Technically, I’m not ignoring him. I responded to his previous message on Sunday night when I got home from Malone’s. I told him the next few weeks will be super busy thanks to final exams and life in general, and that I won’t be around at all. Clearly he didn’t like my answer.
Another text comes in: Call me
Crap. I know Eric. If I don’t call, he won’t stop texting. And when I don’t text, he’ll start calling. And calling. And calling.
Fighting a burst of aggravation, I dial his number.
“B, hey!” His relief is palpable, even over the line. “I’m glad you called.”
He’s on something. I can tell from the way he speaks, the breathy tone he uses when there’s toxic shit coursing through his blood. I’m glad I can’t see his eyes right now. That was always the worst part for me, seeing his eyes when he’s high. It was like looking at a completely different person. The Eric Royce I was madly in love with was replaced by a pathetic stranger. And being there for him was—is—exhausting.
Maybe it makes me a terrible person to think that, but I don’t care anymore. He’s not my responsibility. I didn’t sign up to be his mom. That’s a job for his mom.
But Mrs. Royce is, and has always been, an absentee parent. She’s a corporate lawyer, and Eric’s father was a stay-at-home dad before he died. And after he died, Mrs. Royce didn’t cut back on her work hours to spend time with her son. She just kept chugging along without paying a lick of attention to him.
The only effort she made after it became apparent he had a substance-abuse problem was to try to ship him off to Vermont. But Eric refused to go. According to him, he’s not an addict. He simply likes to party “here and there.”
“You don’t sound good,” I tell him. “You’re wheezing.”
“Ah. I have a bit of a cold.”
Is that what we’re calling it these days? “You should try to get some rest, then.” I hear what sounds like a gust of wind. “Are you outside right now?”
“I’m leaving a Dunkin’ Donuts. This rain…it’s crazy, right?”
I stifle a curse. “You didn’t ask me to call you to talk about the rain. What do you need, Eric? What’s going on?”
“I just…” An agonized note enters his voice. “I’m, ah, strapped for cash right now, B. My rent’s due next week and everything in my account is gonna go to cover that, and, you know, that doesn’t leave me much for groceries and, ah, basic shit…”
By “basic shit” I assume he means meth, and anger brews in the pit of my stomach. “You live with your mother,” I remind him. “I’m sure she’ll let you off the hook for this month’s rent.”
“She doesn’t give a fuck,” he mutters. “She said she’ll kick me
out if I don’t pay rent.”
“Well, luckily you have enough money to cover the rent,” I remind him. “As for groceries, I’m sure your mom isn’t going to let you starve.”
“Please, I just need like fifty bucks, a hundred tops. Come on, B.”
He isn’t asking for an obscene amount, but I don’t care. He’s not getting a dime from me ever again, especially when I know it’s all going to drugs. Besides, it’s not like I’m rolling in money. I don’t pay tuition, but I still have expenses. Rent, food, “basic shit” that isn’t crystal meth. I have some saved up from waitressing jobs, but I’m not using it to fund Eric’s self-destruction.
“I’m sorry, you know I’d help if I could, but I’m broke,” I lie.
“No, you’re not,” he argues. “I know you have some cash lying around, B. Please. After everything we’ve been through, you can’t just forget about me. We’re in this together, remember?”
“No, we’re not,” I say sharply. “We broke up years ago, Eric. We’re not together anymore.”
Voices echo from a nearby corridor, floating into the lobby. I pray that Summer’s class has finished.
“I’m sorry.” I soften my tone. “I can’t help you. You need to talk to your mom.”
“Fuck my mom,” he snaps.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I have to go now. I’m about to walk into class,” I lie. “But…we’ll talk soon, okay? I’ll call you once things settle down on my end.”
I disconnect before he can argue.
When Summer appears, I paste on a smile and hope she doesn’t notice I’m quieter than usual on the ride home. She doesn’t. Summer can carry a conversation all by herself, and today I’m grateful for that. I think I need to cut Eric out of my life for good. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, but I’m hoping this time it’ll be the last. I can’t keep doing this anymore.
The rain has eased up by the time Summer drops me off at home. “Thanks for the ride, crazy girl.” I smack a grateful kiss on her cheek.
“I love you,” she calls as I dart out of the car.
Friends who say “I love you” every time you part ways are important. Those are the ones you need in your life.
Summer peels out of the driveway, and I round the side of the house toward my private entrance. A short flight of stairs takes me down to my little entryway, and—
Plop.
My boots sink into an ocean.
Okay, not an ocean. But there’s at least a foot and a half of water lapping at the base of the steps.
Sickness swirls in my stomach. Holy shit. The basement flooded. My fucking apartment flooded.
A surge of panic spurs me forward. I slosh through the ocean in my leather boots and assess the damage, horrified by what I find.
The basement has wall-to-wall carpeting—ruined. The legs of the coffee table are underwater—ruined. The bottom half of the couch I bought at a secondhand store is soaked—ruined. My futon—ruined.
I bite my lip in dismay. Luckily my laptop was with me today. And the majority of my clothes are untouched. Most of them are hanging in the closet, well above the ocean, and my shoe rack is one of those tall ones, so only the soles of the shoes on the last shelf are wet. My bottom dresser drawer is full of water, but I only keep PJs and loungewear down there, so it’s not the end of the world. All the important stuff is in the top drawers.
But the carpets…
The furniture…
This is not good.
I wade back to the entry where I hung my purse. I find my phone and call my landlord, Wendy, who I’m praying is at home. Neither her nor Mark’s cars were in the driveway, but Wendy usually parks in the garage, so there’s a chance she’s upstairs.
“Brenna, hey. I just heard you come in. It’s really raining out there, huh?”
She’s home. Thank God. “It’s really raining in here, too,” I answer bleakly. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but there’s been a flood.”
“What?” she exclaims.
“Yup. I think you’d better put on some rain boots, preferably ones that go up to your knees, and come downstairs.”
Two hours later, we’re facing a nightmare scenario. The basement is fucked.
At Wendy’s SOS, her husband Mark rushed home from work early, and, after turning off the electricity to avoid, well, dying, the three of us conducted a thorough assessment with flashlights from upstairs. Mark assured me that insurance would cover the furniture I lost. Lost being the operative word, because none of it can be salvaged. There was too much water damage, so everything needs to be thrown out. All I could do was pack up the items that survived the Great Flood.
According to Mark, the house doesn’t have a sump pump installed because Hastings isn’t an area where flooding is at all common. My landlords will need to bring in a professional to pump the water; there’s far too much of it to be removed by a wet vac or mop. Mark estimated they would need at least a week to pump and thoroughly clean the basement, maybe even two weeks. Apparently without the proper cleanup, there’s danger of mold growth.
Which means I need to make alternate arrangements until the process is complete.
AKA, I’m moving back in with my father.
It’s not ideal, but it’s the best option I’ve got. Despite Summer’s insistence that I stay at her place, I refuse to live in the same house as Mike Hollis. No way can I deal with Hollis’s personality and him constantly hitting on me for an extended period of time. A home is supposed to be a safe, sacred place.
The dorms are out, too. My friend Audrey isn’t allowed to have anyone stay with her for more than a night or two—her resident advisor is a stickler about that kind of stuff. And while Elisa’s RA is more lenient, she lives in a cramped single, and I’d have to crash in a sleeping bag on her floor. Possibly for two weeks.
Screw that. At Dad’s house, I have my own bedroom, a lock on the door, and a private bath. I can suffer through Dad’s bullshit as long as that trifecta is met.
He picks me up from Mark and Wendy’s, and ten minutes later we trudge through the front door of his old Victorian. Dad carts my suitcase and duffel into the house, while I shoulder my backpack and laptop case.
“I’ll take these upstairs,” he says brusquely, disappearing up the narrow staircase. A moment later, I hear his footsteps creaking on the floor above my head.
As I unzip my boots and hang up my coat, I silently curse the weather. It’s been the bane of my existence for more than a month now, but it’s officially crossed the line. I’m declaring war on the climate.
I go upstairs and approach my room as my father is exiting it. It jars me how close his head comes to the top of the doorframe. Dad is tall and broad-shouldered, and I heard that the hockey groupies at Briar salivate over him as much as his players. And to that I say ew. Just because Dad’s handsome doesn’t mean I want to think about him in a sexual context.
“You okay?” he asks gruffly.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just irritated.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I swear, the last few days have been a nightmare. Starting from the interview on Friday and ending with tonight’s flood.”
“What about the follow-up interview yesterday? How did that go?”
Abysmally. At least until I pretended Jake Connelly was my boyfriend. But I keep that part to myself and say, “It was all right, but I’m not holding my breath. The interviewer was a total misogynist.”
Dad arches one dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Trust me, if I get hired, it’d be a miracle.” I shove a strand of hair off my forehead. “Anyway, I’m wet and my feet are frozen from wading around in the basement all afternoon. Do you mind if I take a hot shower?”
“Go ahead. I’ll leave you to it.”
I crank the shower in the hall bathroom, strip out of my damp clothes, and step into the glass stall. The warm water seeps into my bones and brings a shiver of pleasure. I make it even hotter, and it almost triggers
an orgasm. I’m so tired of being cold and wet.
As I soap up, I think back to my arrangement with Jake. Was it a mistake? Probably. It’s a lot of effort to go to for an unpaid internship, but if I want to gain experience by working at a major sports network and be able to do it during the school year, I only have two options: ESPN and HockeyNet. And the former is even more competitive.
I dunk my head under the spray and stand there for as long as I can justify. When I can imagine my father lecturing me about running up his hot water bill, I turn off the shower.
I cocoon myself in my terrycloth robe, wrap my hair in a turban, and cross the hall to my room.
Because Dad bought this house after I’d already moved out, this bedroom doesn’t really feel like home to me. The furniture is plain, and there’s a noticeable lack of personal items and decorations. Even my bedspread is impersonal—solid white, with white pillows and white sheets. Like a hospital. Or a mental institution. At our old house in Westlynn, I had one of those four-post beds and a colorful quilt, and on the wall over the headboard there’d been a glitter-painted wooden sign that said PEACHES. My dad had it custom made for my tenth birthday.
I wonder what ever happened to that sign. A bittersweet taste fills my mouth. I don’t remember the exact moment that Dad stopped calling me “Peaches.” Probably around the time I got together with Eric. And it wasn’t just mine and Dad’s relationship that suffered. What started out as admiration for a talented hockey player turned into a deep hatred that exists to this day. Dad never forgave Eric for what happened between us, and he doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy that Eric has been spiraling ever since. A real man admits when he has a problem, Dad always says.
I unzip my suitcase and pull out some warm socks, panties, leggings, and an oversized sweater. I’ve just finished dressing when Dad knocks on the door.
“You decent?”