I keep telling myself that it's just a friendly dinner, that it doesn't mean anything, that he won't want anything to do with me once he finds out I'm a mostly ex-stripper with cerebral palsy. Still, I can't stop myself from smiling.
I smile at Kendall as she tells me to adjust my hairnet before a strand of my dark, coarse hair contaminates someone's food. I smile at the sorority girl who orders a half-caf-skinny sugar-free mocha latté. I smile as I wipe fingerprints off the metal napkin dispensers.
I especially smile when a familiar-looking bombshell blond with short curls and deep red lips approaches the counter.
"Amity? Is that you?"
"Oh my God, Maggie! What are you doing here?"
Maggie is wearing a long filmy dress under a classic black leather jacket. "Visiting you, silly!"
"Just a minute." I run into the back and tell Kendall I'm taking my break. She scowls, but lets me go. It's late afternoon, and the Adams Apple is quiet. Everyone is studying or lingering over their free refills.
I emerge from behind the bar and give Maggie a quick hug. I lead her to a corner table.
"Do you want anything to drink?" I curse myself for not asking earlier, but she shakes her head.
"I'm way too jacked up on caffeine already." She smiles softly at me, and my eyes sting. She reminds of me of high school and home and Mom. "You look great," she says with a chuckle. "The hairnet kind of agrees with you."
Maggie looks around and frowns slightly. "There are a lot of frat guys in here. I didn't realize Adams was a big Greek school."
I shrug. She's right. A lot of the tables are filled with large-armed frat guys. I wonder if one of the frats that doesn't have its own house is having a meeting, or something.
"Yeah, there are some Greeks here, but we have a little of everything," I say quietly. I count slowly to twenty, waiting to see if Maggie will tell me herself why she's really here, or if I'll have to ask. It's a ninety-minute train ride from the city to Adams, and I hardly know anyone here. If she just wanted to hang out, she would have invited me to the city, where she has a ton of friends and there's a lot more to do.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Maggie, it's great to see you. But why did you come here instead of inviting me to the city, or just texting?"
Maggie's face eyes scrunch up so they crinkle around the corners. It's her worried expression. I brace myself for something bad.
"It's Ethan," she says. "His fiancée dumped him a couple of weeks ago and threw him out of their house. She broke into his phone and found his text messages to you—all of them. He was crashing with my ex Damon—remember him?—but he disappeared the other day. Damon says he's been taking about coming after you. I came here to tell you in person to be careful. I know how you can shut your phone off for hours or even days at a time."
"Oh God," I gasp. "Ethan was here last night. He kept saying that I owe him big time. I had no idea what he was talking about. You were so right when you told me to stay away from him. I am such a pathetic loser."
Maggie smiles ruefully. "You were still in high school. You'd just lost your parents. It was human."
I'm thinking that it's going to be pretty hard for me to avoid Ethan now that knows where I work and probably where I live, when I see a tall, dark-haired man charging for our table, fists clenched and eyes flashing. His hair is as wild as his eyes, and his neck is freshly inked with a ring of angry-looking thorns.
Oh shit. It's Ethan.
/////////////////////////
Ethan is flat on his back, cursing and struggling against two beefy fraternity pledges from Kappa Alpha Delta. About fifteen other pledges are standing around looking awfully pleased with themselves.
Maggie and I are both gawking at the scene when one of the pledges stands before us with his head bowed. I remember the weird, ritualistic scene from the party and command the pledge—a reedy guy with acne and glasses, obviously a freshman—to speak.
"Thank you for recognizing this humble pledge, Mistress. His Greatness Laird Conroy, President of the Adams Chapter of Kappa Alpha Delta, may he reign forever, asked this year's pledge class to protect you from that creepy stalker dude." The pledge holds out his phone. On it is picture of Ethan standing outside the Adams Apple with an angry expression on his face. Laird must have taken it last night. "Is that him?" he asks. "Did we get the right guy?"
"Yes," I reply.
The pledge smiles and whoops. "We got him, guys!" he yells and the other pledges begin chanting Kappa Alpha Delta over and over again. Maggie's eyes grow wide, and her subtly plucked eyebrows creep up her forehead in an unmistakable expression of surprise and wonder.
After a few moments, the chanting dies down and the pledges—except for the ones restraining Ethan—seem to stand at attention. The tall, skinny guy—I think he's their spokesperson—turns back to me.
"Mistress, what should we do with him?"
I look at Maggie, and she looks back at me, equally confused. "Leave him with campus security?" I half ask, half suggest just as five uniformed officers rush into the café.
Chapter 18: Laird
I'm on the train to New York City bound for Dad's townhouse of iniquity, because Caspar is driving my car—one of the Maseratis from Dad's garage in Manhattan. It's my way of saying thank you for making the pledges guard Amity. He has them doing shifts. They rotate between keeping an eye on Amity and scrubbing our sister sorority's toilets with their toothbrushes. I keep telling her to get a restraining order so she can have Poser thrown in jail the next time he shows up. I send her a Facebook message.
Have you gotten that restraining order yet? Other acceptable alternatives are: a fierce bodyguard (eunuch), a trained attack dog, a Super Soaker filled with mace.
She mails me back within seconds.
He's gone home to Florida, 1,100 miles away. He won't be back, trust me. He's back together with his fiancée. She's got him under some kind of house arrest. No need to involve (ew!) lawyers.
I sigh. Amity is so goddamned nice, even after losing both her parents and working at a strip club. I figure it must be genetic. I message her back, trying not to push too hard.
Be careful, anyway! See you at the Governor's Tavern, 7:30 pm, tonight.
The brothers laughed their asses off when they heard me make a reservation at the Governor's Tavern, and they laughed even harder when I told them Amity is just a friend. Caspar said he was going to make the pledges clean my room.
"C'mon," I protested. "You don't need to do that. She's not that kind of girl."
"You mean she doesn't have a pulse?" asked Teo. "Dude, you've never struck out. Not once. It's kind of sickening."
"It's a weird situation. One that I don't want to talk about," I said, which finally shut them up. It didn't, however, stop their knowing smirks.
I stare out the window as the train lurches through a 3D portrait of post-industrial despair. It makes me think of Triple Marsh, Amity's home town. It's right next door to Jasper Heights, but it might as well be on another planet. She's worked so hard to escape. Seeing her on campus weighed down with books, it's hard to believe she's the same girl who swung around the stripper pole with such bold, athletic grace. She doesn't even walk like a dancer. In fact, it seems like she has a bit of a limp.
My phone vibrates. It's Ember again. I read her message.
Hey, hero. I hear you're playing knight-in-shining-armor to that poor girl from the accident. You know how sick that is, right? She's going to find out who you are, and then what?
I immediately respond.
Who told you that?
She waits almost five full minutes to respond, teasing me. Goading me. I know better than to play. She finally writes again.
Your brothers, of course. Boys are easy.
I bet it was Hoover. Or one of the pledges. I didn't tell them that my friendship with Amity was some kind of big secret. None of this is their fault. I look down at my phone and take the bait, posing the question I know Ember really wants me to
ask:
How is Amity going to find out who I am?
This time Ember takes a full ten minutes to reply. Her response makes me simultaneously angry and afraid.
The Internet, silly. Or, just maybe, someone will tell her.
It's blackmail, pure and simple, but I don't know what, if anything, I can do about it. Instead, I take the coward's way out.
You don't have to make threats just so I'll see you. Belated birthday festivities with Daddy Dearest this weekend. Let's get together next week.
/////////////////////////
Amity is sitting alone at a corner table, sipping a glass of water and gnawing on a breadstick. I'd like to simply watch her for a while, but I don't have that luxury. I'm already late. Lunch with Dad, Darla, and several of Darla's film school friends took forever. Dad and Darla were fighting—I think Darla's making a play to be my stepmother—while her friends watched old movies and got smashed on wine from Dad's seemingly bottomless cellar. I blew out the candles on an exquisite cake and fended off sloppy passes from a pair of Japanese twins.
Once I drop into the seat across from Amity, the wait staff comes to life. The waitress, who belongs to our sister sorority Theta double Delta, immediately brings me a bottle of champagne, even though Amity isn't quite twenty-one yet. The basket of plain, stale breadsticks are whisked away and replaced with freshly baked bread.
"I guess they know you here, huh?" asks Amity.
"A little bit," I say, and we both laugh. I hold up my glass of champagne. "To a fun night!"
She repeats my toast and clinks my glass with hers. I let the fizzy liquid send warmth throughout my body and remind myself that this is not a date. I'm just trying to learn enough about Amity so that I can help her achieve her life goals—and then get out of her life before she figures out who I am. Or Ember tells her.
/////////////////////////
Amity has drunk more than half the bottle at my insistence. She's pulling apart a lobster like a cavewoman and telling me about her grandmother.
"She is a strong, tough woman. Totally hard core. She worked as a truck driver to help put my mother through nursing school. She hasn't been feeling well for the past couple of years—heart stuff, I think, that she never wants to talk about—but she's still smart and stubborn. She keeps sending me checks for school expenses, and I keep tearing them up. She has no money except for Social Security and a little money left over from when she sold her house in Michigan."
Amity dabs at her eyes with a napkin and adds, "I miss her. I really should call her more often. We text every day, but it's not the same."
A grin slowly creeps across my face. I think I have an idea. "What do you think your grandmother would do if she won the lottery?"
"Pay my off my student loans to Adams and then pay for me to go to medical school. Then maybe move out of that crappy senior apartment she's living in. I'd have to lean on her pretty hard to make sure she did enough for herself."
"Doesn't she have other family members she'd want to help?" I ask.
"Not really," she says, draining her glass. "She was an only child who had an only child. Her husband died years ago. It's just us now."
/////////////////////////
Amity is holding my arm as we take a leisurely tour of the campus. I enjoy the gentle pressure of her touch and try not to think about how she'd probably hate me if she had all the facts. We come to an uneven stone staircase that leads to the Row—a narrow street that includes the Kappa Alpha Delta frat house as well as a collection of co-ops, cafés, and clubhouses. Amity stumbles, and I catch her before she can fall. She feels so good in my arms.
"Are you OK?" I ask, still holding her.
"I'm fine," she says with a surprisingly bitter edge to her voice. "I just hate my limp."
"Did you sprain your ankle?"
"No, I was just strangled by my umbilical cord for about a minute or so when I was born."
When I look at her blankly, she adds, "I have a touch of cerebral palsy. Nothing very noticeable unless you're a sadistic child—just a limp and a stammer. People used to call me the Amityville Horror, though."
I pull her closer to me, and she rests her head against my chest. "You know what's weird, though?" she whispers.
"What?"
"I don't limp at all when I dance."
Then she pulls me in for a kiss. I'm so surprised that, by the time I realize that I'm doing something terribly wrong, it's too late. I'm hers.
/////////////////////////
We're sitting on a stone bench in the darkest part of the Row, holding, touching, and tasting each other. I remove the clip from her hair and feel its silky softness and heft. She kisses me with a fierceness I did not expect.
I hear a cacophony of voices getting louder and closer. It sounds like a rowdy group of freshmen boys looking for someplace to settle in and get properly fucked up. Amity seems oblivious. The frat is practically across the street. We could sneak in the back and go up to my room. It would much more private—and much more comfortable. The Theta double Deltas—the only sorority with a house on campus—are holding a midnight mixer. The frat house will be deserted.
I gently disengage from Amity. Her lips are swollen, and her eyes are bright. I stroke her cheek and whisper what I hope is temptation in her ear. "I know where we can go." I take her hand, and she follows. Wordlessly. Eagerly.
We sneak up the rear staircase and duck into a supply closet when we hear footsteps. We giggle like naughty children. I let my hand graze her small, delicate breast. She sighs and leans into my touch.
We hurry, heedless, to my room. While Amity puts her coat in the closet, I tie a sock around my doorknob so we won't be disturbed.
/////////////////////////
I know what I am doing is bad. Wrong. Immoral. Hurtful. Terrible. Horrible. Morally reprehensible. I'm going to hate myself in the morning when I wake up to her innocent pale blue eyes.
But I can't stop. I don't want to stop.
And I don't think she wants me to stop, either.
/////////////////////////
When I wake up, Amity is gone. I check my phone. There are no texts or Facebook messages. I also check the tiny bathroom attached to my room. Nothing. She really is gone. My first reaction is irrational disappointment. Even though I know nothing real can come of this, I realize that I'd wanted her to be here, smiling at me, when I woke up.
I sink back into bed. What happened between us already has the sweet unreality of a dream. All that's left are sore muscles and the faintly fruity scent of Amity's perfume. Well, that and the condom wrappers sitting on my night stand. I pick up my phone and think about texting her. I stare at the screen for a few long moments and then shut it off. Anything I say under these circumstances will be leading her on. Better to wait for her to contact me. Then I can set an appropriately friendly—but not too friendly—tone.
I tell myself that her leaving without a word makes things a whole lot easier for me. For both of us. Clearly, she doesn't expect anything after last night. She probably assumed it was a typically fleeting college hook up. I turn my phone back on—there are no text messages—and then off again. I decide that last night fundamentally changes nothing. I'm going to follow through with my plan. I may fade from her life more slowly and reluctantly than I'd originally anticipated, but the basic idea is still sound.
I'm going back to the city. I know exactly what I have to do.
Chapter 19: Amity
I hope to sneak into my room unnoticed, but luck is not with me. Darcy is awake and on her computer, hacking away.
"I guess I don't have to ask you how last night went," she chirps, all early morning smiles. A giant, steaming cup of Red Delicious Coffee sits on her desk, indicating she's already had time to run to the Adams Apple and back. Just looking at her bright, chipper expression is making me tired.
I roll my eyes, groan like a granny, and flop down on my bed. I don't want to talk about it, because I can't bear to hear myself explain out lou
d why I'm the world's biggest idiot. I can't believe I lost my virginity in what is almost certainly going to be a one-night stand. My phone is as silent as a tomb, but I fish it out of my bag anyway. No new texts or Facebook notifications. I tell myself I shouldn't be surprised. He snuck me into the frat house through the back door and never introduced me to any of his brothers. He obviously didn't want anyone to see me.
I suppose I shouldn't have run away, but I felt like I had no choice. When I opened my eyes and found myself in Laird's bedroom, tangled in Laird's sheets, naked and lying next to Laird himself, I panicked. I was afraid of how he would react when he woke up. I worried that I'd see shame and regret on his gorgeous face, that he'd sneak me back out of the frat house and pretend nothing had happened.
Insanely, I also worried that he would show me off to his brothers like some kind of strange conquest. Either way, I decided, I was out of there. I gathered my clothes, dressed in the pale morning light, and speed-walked home to my roommate who, apparently, never sleeps.
I stare at my phone, which remains disconcertingly mute. I shut it off and stick it under my pillow. If Laird wants to know where I went or why I left, he'll text me or even write something on my Wall. But I'm betting he won't. He probably doesn't want his rich, pretty friends to know he was with the Amityville Horror, even for a single night.
"Hey, are you alright?" asks Darcy leaning over me, her face a mask of concern.
I'm about to say something along the lines of I'm fine, when I burst into tears.
/////////////////////////
Amends: A Love Story Page 12