My Last Season With You
Copyright © 2014 by SVC Ricketts
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express consent of the copyright owner.
Cover Art by Ashbee Designs
Photos by Chaoss, Minerva Studio, and Coka
Formatting by Champagne Formats
First Edition: October 2014
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Acknowledgements
About the Author
FROM A DISTANCE TO A passerby, I suppose I look like I’m just loitering on the steps of the fountain in Washington Square Park, huddled against the sudden, bone-numbing arrival of a New York autumn. I admit, I do have a homeless, no-purpose sort of thing going on. Seeing as it is early September though, I was not prepared for this degree of chill before I left the apartment. Yet here I sit with my wool pea coat vised tightly around me, my jean-clad legs drawn to my chest, and my arms wrapped around them. It’s not a casual "I don't care" demeanor that most New Yorkers seem to be born with. That laissez-faire confidence is something I have never been able to successfully project. Today is no exception. Instead of mimicking them, I’m waiting in my jittery, neurotic, spastic normality. My knees bounce and my skin is clammy as I scan the surroundings for her. I don’t know how we’ve stayed friends since we were kids, and I really don’t care. I’m just glad we did.
A burning sensation has crept into my knees from being in this same position for so long, and a concrete, flat-ass pain makes me shift my weight between butt cheeks. A grunt of uneasiness dislodges from my throat as I stretch out. Now that I am no longer hunched over, an icy breeze fingers through my hair, causing it to fall into my eyes. She hates that. She thinks my almost black, muddy-brown eyes are beautiful and should be seen. She's always brushing my bangs away from my eyes. I do the same to her, but it's not for the same reason. I just like touching her. Tucking a shiny, espresso-colored curl behind her ear sends tiny bolts of electricity through me. Just thinking about it makes a shoulder-shaking shiver tingle down my spine. We used to have the same color hair when we were kids, but now hers changes on-demand for her modeling and acting gigs. In the early years of youth, my hippy parents would never cut my hair, so it was the same length as Desi’s all through our grammar and high school years. I hated looking like a girl.
With a gloved finger, I push the sleeve of my coat back slightly to uncover my watch. She said 4:30, right? I pull my phone out to make sure. It flashes to confirm 4:52. Sigh.
A chuckle rolls through me, though; Desi has never been known to be timely. She lives in a world all her own. One with supermodels, casting calls, agents, and photo shoots, with school balanced between it all. Her focus is astonishing.
Her time is so precious now. At the beginning of our first year at NYU, we were each other’s shadows. Since then, we’ve hardly seen each other for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Under normal circumstances that would be considered weird, because not only is she my best friend - my only, in fact - we’re roommates.
In her defense, it is common knowledge that the Performing Arts class has a tendency to run late. To be honest though, if she asked me, I’d witness the first snowfall, wait through the thaw, see it nourish the new buds of spring, and then suffer through the humidity of summer just to see her.
Directing my focus to slide up to the famous arch in front of me, I appreciate its enormity and strength. I was eight years old when my parents brought me here the first time and told me the history of how the arch came to be. Come on, I was eight! All I remember was thinking the underbelly looked like octopus suction cups. Two years ago, I brought Desi here the day we arrived from Wisconsin to start our first year at NYU. She laughed at my geekiness when I made the comparison. I carry the musicality of her laugh in my head. To me, it’s a symphony of pure joy. The thought makes me smile on my darkest days - days like today.
The corners of my lips draw down with the gravity of what I’m about to do. She’s not going to like what I have to say, but I have to tell her something. I can’t just leave school without some excuse. There is a sharp and jagged knot in my stomach that bears a resemblance to a peach pit. It pings painfully inside me. I hate lying to her. Out of habit, my fingers flick in trance to Ravel’s Concerto. It’s something I’ve done since I was seven. I can almost feel the ivory piano keys reverberating beneath the pads of my fingers.
My knees jackhammer as I jerk my head around, looking anxiously for her dark hair, visualizing the ghost of her and the conversation we need to have. Vigorously shaking my hands free of tension, I braid my arms around my midsection and blow out a huff of air. This time, it’s not because I’m cold.
I can do this. I can do this. My blood is hurtling through my veins as if I just finished the toughest equestrian jumping course on the circuit; which is ridiculous in my condition. Besides the fact, Mom hasn't let me on my horse, PB, since…well, for a while now. I tilt my head back to look at the arch again and release another loud, exasperated sigh. How do I tell her I'm leaving her?
“WE CAN TELL EACH OTHER anything, right?” Desi asked in her little voice one night when we were twelve years old.
The memory floods through the dizziness and the dull, persistent pain that has set up permanent camp in my head. Back then, she was at our house all the time, and eventually regular sleepovers became the norm. Her parents were, let’s just say to be kind, absent. My mom and dad loved Desi, so when she stayed over, sometimes we’d all put our sleeping bags in the living room near the fireplace and pretend we were camping out. I often lay awake watching her sleep. Her lashes fluttered and her face would flinch with dreams, giving evidence of the calamity in her life.
I didn’t know whether it was the early winter snowstorm rattling the windows or the hope of a snow day being called, but that night she tossed and turned before asking me the odd question. She wouldn’t let me close the curtains—something about being able to see the night sky, even though we couldn’t with the windows frosted and caked with snow. The fire danced behind her, giving her a mesmerizing glow, and her clear, fern-green eyes sparkled in the dim shadows of the living room. She was beautiful even at twelve.
Desi scooted her obnoxiously hot pink sleeping bag closer to mine so we were almost nose to nose. My heart raced, and my nerves sensed every charged ion between us. She had me breathless and panting, anxious to fill my senses with her scent. I counted the tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks. Staring at them was the only thing keeping me somewhat sane.
“Richie kissed me yesterday,” she whispered timidly.
In that instant, my eyes went wide, everything in me going as cold as a barefoot walk in the snow. A heavy knot tightened around my heart and settled in my belly. I could feel myself dying with every second of silence that followed. Boys taking notice of her was an inevitable, but I detested thinking of it, and I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to watch happen.
Her lashes blinked to the same rhythm as my heartbeat. The honey-colored flecks in Desi’s eyes disappeared as her pupils enlarged and her irises thinned. Her eyes grew saucer-wide, probing mine. “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked, flinching.
My gut twisted, and
I could barely organize my thoughts into words. A flood of angry blood rushed through my veins, scorching me from the inside. Desi could always read my eyes, so I dipped my head, pretending to snuggle deeper in my sleeping bag.
“Did you like it?” I muffled out, trying to squeeze the bitterness from my tone. With my hands balled up into fists under my chin, my body curled in tighter until my fingers began to tingle with the loss of circulation.
“EW! I can’t believe you asked me that. I mean, Richie’s nice and all. He smart and funny and I guess cute, but ew!” I couldn’t see her, but I knew her pert little nose was crinkled and her face wrinkled up like an old, weathered apple.
Burring myself deeper in my sleeping bag, the tautness dissipated from my body, leaving me pliable. I blew out a big sigh, smiled, and did a little happy dance in my head. The triumphant party in my mind ceased when Desi whipped open my sleeping bag.
“What are you doing?” she asked with a silly smirk on her face.
“Nothing.” I blushed and nervously darted my eyes everywhere possible to avoid hers.
She rolled onto her back and clasped her hands casually behind her head. “At least I can say I’ve been kissed now.” Desi lolled her head over to stare at me intently. “So, your turn?”
Ugh. The thought made me want to hurl. I was so close to saying something then, but I bit my tongue. My parents would understand, but our backward Midwestern town wouldn't. I wasn't sure if Desi would, either. Plus, her friends were my friends by association, even though I really didn’t hold them in the esteem of the title “friends.” I knew they would have shunned me without a second thought. Desi, on the other hand, had pretty much been on her own most of her young life and judged no one. She never made fun of my lack of fashion sense, that I played sports, or that I’d rather stay home with my cello than go shopping. Desi was really my only true friend. For that reason alone, I couldn’t risk the loss of her friendship. My crush had shaped into something that stirred deeper into my core long ago, but I masked it well. I held it in secret under my tongue so I could be what she needed me to be: her best friend.
“No, thanks.” Propping my head up with my hand, I narrowed an eye. “Des, if you didn’t want to be kissed, I’m going to take my new Easton Alloy to his head. Knock that one out of the park.” I couldn’t help the malicious smile that slunk across my lips at the thought of Richie Henderson’s head flying over the outfield fence. I made a flying motion with my hand, coupled with a cascading whistle.
Desi giggled. “You’re so wicked. I love you.”
A heated burn flourished intensely and spread throughout my body. It was not due to the dancing flames of the fire. After a few quick breaths, I risked looking at her anyway. “I love you too,” I murmured, trying to not let my straining heart pour out into my words.
She reached out, and we were palm-to-palm with our fingers interlaced. “Best friends for life,” she said through a yawn.
I let out a repressed breath through a timid smile. “Yeah, best friends for life.”
THE SOFT BUZZING FROM MY pocket is faint, but it’s enough to make me fall out of my thoughts and back to freezing my ass off in New York.
My caller ID alerts a text from Desi. Be right there. D.
“That’s going to take another fifteen minutes,” says a voice from behind me.
Keith plops his bag next to me, followed by his stupid self. Fishing through his messenger bag, he is oblivious to my glare at his intrusion. Jerk. He makes himself comfortable, pulling out his phone, opening multiple social networking apps, checking people's statuses, and so on. I sigh and roll my eyes at his deficit of attention. Without looking up, he asks, “So you guys going to the party on Friday?”
Last year’s First Semester Fridays were a lot of fun. It gave us all—well, Desi’s friends—a chance to catch up and introduce new students to each other. This year, I had avoided them. I had other things diverting my attention and didn’t have the energy for anything else.
As for Desi, she has been on location in Los Angeles for the last few weeks. It’s amazing how much NYU wants a working model/actress on their roster. They give her all kinds of liberties, provided she keeps up with her classes. She has the Dean wrapped around her pinkie, really. The girl could sweet talk a scared kitten from a tree and slice you with a look at the same time. Eskimos and ice, heaters in hell…yeah, she could sell them.
“I’m not going, I have plans,” I retort with a slight sneer, trying to seem disinterested in what a blast that party is going to be. Part of me sours at the thought of not having much fun anymore, but I can’t get caught up in college life when I plan to leave it soon. I was never into it anyway. Or so I keep telling myself.
Keith still doesn’t poke his nose up from his phone, yet continues to yammer. “Aw, come on! If you don’t go, Desi won’t go. I was going to ask her out. She isn’t dating anyone, right?”
It irks me that this idiot can carry on a conversation while reading a text, updating his status, and chewing his gum like a cow chews cud, but can’t make it to class on time or take any kind of decent notes to save his collegiate life.
When I don't answer (I'm busy mentally burying his body under one of the trees behind me), his eyes pop up, glimmering in anticipation of a favorable answer.
I unbutton my coat the heat flushing my face rises. My chest feels like it’s tightly coiling and the increasing swelter stifles my air. I want to ram my Chucks into his face, even if they are my brand new kicks. Instead, my words are stolen by an onslaught of coughing when I open my mouth to unleash some verbal fury. The cold air is like ice shards ripping through every crevice of my lungs. Doubled over in a fit of hacks, I fumble with a tissue pulled from my pocket.
Keith shifts away as if he could catch what I have. Through my coughing bout, I smile. I wish you could catch what I have, asshole. Chastising myself for such a horrible thought, I look away. I truly wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.
I know I’m not being fair anyway. He isn’t a bad guy, as far as guys go I guess. I’ve heard conversations from Desi’s friends on some of the shit that can go wrong in a relationship when you have a dirtbag for a partner. We met Keith in Econ 101 our first year and could never shake him. He ended up in two more of our other required classes and in my Classical Jazz class. We were kind of forced to get to know him. Based on other female reactions, I suppose he’s good-looking. I mean, he isn’t the model kind of handsome that I’m used to seeing Desi with, but by no means is he bufugly (butt-fuckin’-ugly). Giving him a closer inspection, I explore the ridiculous idea that he is worthy of Desi’s attention. His messy, just-got-out-of-bed, blond-brownish hair curls at the ends and surrounds his stone-grey eyes. But his nose is as sharp as a ski jump that God cut off at the end. In addition to that, his cheeks look permanently sucked in under sharp cheekbones, and he has a weird dimple-divot thing in his chin. I guess that's hot, if you like that sort of thing. I haven’t inspected his body (I mean, why would I?), but I've heard girls gush over his "granite chest and tight ass." Again, whatever.
Still unable to catch my breath, I pull the tissue away from my mouth when my coughing subsides. Familiar red speckles spot against its whiteness. My eyes shoot to Keith, but he’s engrossed in phone again, so I quickly shove the tissue back in my pocket. I’d be mortified if he saw it. No one knows I’m sick, and I’m not fielding questions from this moron before I get a chance to talk to Desi. My nerves are so brittle; I may just come undone before I open my mouth.
With an indignant eye roll, I muster a calm tone. “Look, I haven’t seen her in weeks. I have no idea if she is or isn’t.” I pause as words formulate in my mind.
Chewing my lip, a slightly devilish smile grows. Confrontation is really not my thing, but fuck it, I’m leaving New York and I’ll probably never see this guy again. Fortified with a bit of my mom’s moxie, I lick my lips. “What I do know is if you keep stalking her like you are, she’s going to say no regardless. It’s kind of creepy.” Yes, it’
s a little mean, but I think I made my point. That should throw him off her scent for a while.
I resent him. I resent his cavalier attitude, his healthy freedom, even his future of bedding down the entire female population of NYU. I hate that I hate him. It’s unjustified, but my mouth waters at the thought of digging my nails into his face, clawing, and screaming my rage. Closing my eyes, I draw a breath and shove my gloved hands into my coat pockets again.
“Whatever,” he scoffs in false protest, then makes some unintelligible sounds that could have been words or animal noises of some sort. Finally, he picks up his bag and turns his back on me. “Hope I see you guys at the party.”
Of course a million better responses come to mind after he’s out of earshot, not that I have the guts to have said them. Still, a feeling of triumph washes over me watching him walk away with his shoulders hunched forward. I smirk. “That’s right, mutha fucka. Keep on walking,” I say mimicking firing a gun with my fingers. I cough a bit more as he disappears into the late afternoon throng of New Yorkers becoming yet another ant in life.
“Who you talking to?”
Normally, Desi’s voice is a melody, but when she sneaks up on me, it's like a train whistle next to my ear.
“Geezum crow, Dez! Don't do that! Put a bell on or something," I say dramatically, clutching my heart.
She musses up my short hair, which she’s grown accustomed to. I cut it as soon as we arrived in New York. Strange how it was initially an act of rebellion and independence back then, and now it’s just easier during the procedures and the days after. Desi has been away for a little over a month, the longest stint since our arrival, so she hasn’t had time to notice it thinning.
A part of me curses the modeling agent who stopped us at the hot dog stand just before the end of our freshman second quarter. Maracella was the one who broke her into a modeling career at the speed of sound. By mid-sophomore year, she began booking Desi for a few commercials and as an extra on a couple television shows. At the beginning of this summer, Desi left Wisconsin to audition for a movie. She got the part and will be very busy for a while. This is the worse time for her to be away, I thought selfishly when she told me her good news a few weeks ago. In hindsight, based on how the first two treatments tore through my body, it was for the best that she missed its devastation.
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