by Julie Cross
“You know …” Fahima leans forward and smacks Kelsey’s knee. “I think I do like my name after all. ‘Quick-witted’ … that’s like … huh … that’s like, yeah … totally.” She nods as if having stated something brilliant.
Kelsey snorts back a laugh. “Yep, quick-witted. That’s you.”
Not only has Yoshi made up the distance I put between us a minute ago, he’s now scooting even closer, our thighs touching. Kelsey smooths her skirt—she’s still in full cheer uniform—and silently communicates her question to me with a lift of one brow. She’s wondering what’s up with me and the boy next door. I shake my head ever so slightly and then stand, clutching my drink. “I’m gonna go mingle. Trying to do that meeting-new-people thing, so, yeah …”
Kelsey takes the hint and quickly occupies my abandoned space. She turns her attention to Yoshi. “So, tell me what you thought of the game.”
And I’m not blowing smoke about the meeting-new-people thing, either. I feel pretty satisfied about my progress with the other students on my floor, and I’m ready to try getting to know someone new. I head into the kitchen to swap my beer for a bottle of water. Jesse’s standing over the sink mixing up a cocktail.
“You want something else?” he asks after watching me pour the beer out. “I’m making this for those lovely ladies over there.” He nods across the counter at a group of women decked out in the latest Eddie Bauer collection along with NIU football accessories sprinkled on top of the non-rugged outdoor look. “It’s not very strong. They’re Ph.D. students, and they have really long papers to write on Sunday … or so they say.”
I watch him pour pinkish liquid into four martini glasses and shake my head. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Not willing to risk an open drink at a party, huh?” He grins at me and then yells into the living room, “Yo, Marsh!”
Marshall emerges from the hallway and pauses when he sees me. “Having fun?”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t really know what else to say. The blonde from anatomy class seems to have gone her own way after the game, and I’ve watched him chat up a bunch of girls tonight, but it’s just been chatting. I’m more flustered by the fact that I can’t stop following him around with my eyes than I am by whoever he’s talking to.
Marshall carefully takes two glasses and walks them to the girls across the room, then returns a minute later for the other two martinis.
“Whose house is this?” I ask Jesse when I see that Marshall has been trapped in conversation with the martini girls.
“Mine.” He turns to face me, leaning his side against the counter. “Well, technically Ed’s parents own it. I have two roommates—Ed and Leo. We share the rent. But they’re cool, they cut me a break. My share is the smallest by a lot.”
I glance around at the marble countertops and cherry cabinets. “It’s nice.”
Jesse’s gaze shifts to my floormates on the back deck. “The tall Asian kid is totally into you.”
Yoshi’s still being held captive by Kelsey, but I don’t imagine it will last for too much longer. Kelsey likes to have her own fun.
“How do you know?”
“He told me a little while ago when he came in for drinks. Said he was going to get you alone later on.” Jesse’s leaning on one arm, an amused expression on his face like he can’t wait for my reaction to that.
I roll my eyes. “Hooking up with a guy I have to see almost daily for the next eight months sounds like a brilliant idea. That won’t be awkward at all.”
“Sure you don’t want one of my special martinis?” he asks. “I promise they’re drug free.”
“I’m sure no guy has ever said that line before drugging a girl.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. I can’t fault you for being careful. I have three sisters, so I’ve given that warning many times myself.”
I scan the large open living room. “Who should I talk to tonight? I’m trying to make some valuable connections.”
“Hmm … I’d say that dude in the corner.” Jesse points to a guy who looks closer to his age than mine. “He’s a grad student, but he’s already got a huge bestselling novel and a movie in the works, so he’s rich as hell. Always good to make friends with people more financially endowed than you. Gets you many benefits—like a room in this fucking amazing house.”
I leave out the part about my dad being a very in-demand heart surgeon. “All right, then. I can do writers.”
Jesse laughs.
I glare at him. “Not do him.” My eyes travel back to the guy Jesse pointed out; he’s engrossed in his phone. I grin. “Well, maybe that. But a little talking first.”
Jesse’s gaze flits in Marshall’s direction, then back to me. “This should be interesting.” Jesse snatches a beer from the fridge and hands it to me. “Go give this to Carson. Tell him I sent you.”
Carson … is that a first name or a last name? I could see Jesse going by last names only.
I head over to the corner of the living room. Carson looks up from his phone the second I’m within a few feet of him. He glares at the drink. “That asswipe sent you, didn’t he?” He leans around me, eyes searching, and finally spies Jesse. “I don’t have a fucking beer belly, you fucking bastard! You’re the one with fucking light beer in your fucking fridge.”
“Amazing vocabulary for a writer,” I say.
He studies my face, then snatches the can from me and places it on the mantel above the fireplace. “Oh, I see now. Jesse has been talking shit about me all night, hasn’t he?” Carson rubs a hand over the front of his polo shirt, drawing my attention to the extra material bunched at his abdomen. “I got this at an outlet store. Obviously the shirt’s fucked up and it’s all big in one place and too small in another.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Jesse gathered with two other big football player types. All three of them are practically falling over laughing.
“Fine,” Carson snaps. “I’ll prove it. I’ll fucking prove it.” While I’m still standing right in front of him, he pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it on the ground. He spreads his arms out, revealing a very hairy chest, and then scans me quickly with his eyes. “Does this look like a beer belly? Does it?”
I hesitate for a second and then lean in to examine his midsection. He’s not ripped with muscle like Marshall, but he’s definitely free of any excess fatty tissue. I can even see the outline of his ribs. “No, it doesn’t.”
He nods gratefully. “Thank you … uh …”
“Izzy,” I fill in.
“Thank you, Izzy.” He stands up on a chair beside us. “See? I do not have a beer belly! This nice lady has confirmed it.”
Jesse is laughing so hard he has to sit down. “Dude, why is this still so easy? You’ve got to loosen up.”
The frustration and defensiveness drops from Carson’s face, and he hops down from the chair. He leans close to me and whispers, “He was kidding, right? The whole night he’s been yanking my chain?”
I take another look at Jesse and then back at the shirtless writer. “It seems that way.”
“Huh.” He shrugs and crosses his arms over his hairy chest. “Well, I’m not putting that fucked-up shirt back on. Feel free to drop yours in a pile beside mine. We could start a fad.”
I laugh but make no move to remove any clothing. “Yeah, probably not.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I snap around to find Yoshi grinning at me. “There you are, Izzy.” The grin fades when he spots shirtless Carson.
Kelsey is right on his heels, and when Carson spots her in the NIU cheer uniform, his face lights up. “All right, there’s player number two. You’re already missing half your top. Want to start a fad with me?”
She looks at me, her mouth falling open as if to ask if I’m about to hook up with this guy. All I can do is shrug because we really haven’t interacted much outside of unknowingly assisting Jesse with his punch line. I hesitate for a moment, then eventually turn around and walk back toward the kitchen. Yoshi is right b
eside me, and then I feel his fingers around my waist, and then the tug that comes before being pressed into his side. This is not something I’m willing to support, so I stare down at his hand, trying to decide on the best method of extraction with the least amount of impact on the progress I’ve made today. This morning before the game, Yoshi and Evan had been exchanging looks about me tagging along, and not the kind of look that said they thought it was a good thing. But now he likes me.
Before I even get to make a decision, a pair of hands are gripping the back of Yoshi’s shirt and yanking him several feet away. There’s a definite reduction of voices in the room as everyone takes in Marshall and his aggressive interference. My eyes are wide and my mouth is hanging open, but I have no idea what to say.
“He’s wasted,” Marshall says, as if that explains everything. But there’s shock on his face. He even surprised himself.
“Dude, what the hell?” Yoshi says.
Marshall ignores him and looks me over. “He’s gonna feel like an ass tomorrow. Trust me.”
Evan, Kelsey, and the rest of the gang from my floor appear out of nowhere. Evan tugs Yoshi by the sleeve of his shirt. “Time to go, man.”
Jesse steps between me and Marshall. “You look like shit, little brother. Go crash in my room, okay? I’m not in the mood to back you in some lame-ass brawl inside my own house.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Marshall shakes his head, and without another word he turns around and heads up the staircase.
“Is he really drunk or what?” Kelsey asks Jesse before I get the chance to ask that same question.
Jesse glances at his brother’s retreating form and then back at us. “Um … yeah, something like that.”
Oh. The marijuana. Maybe he’s high?
I hate being judgmental (okay, I am often very judgmental but I’m trying not to be), but I can’t help the disappointment that I feel thinking about Marshall—someone who lives for bodily torture via physical fitness—smoking marijuana. Did his eyes look red just now? I must be slipping in my observational skills, because I can’t recall any difference in his eyes.
Everybody from my crew except Kelsey stumbles out the door. I tell her I’ll be right back and then we can walk home together. I head after Marshall, wanting to make sure he’s okay. When I get to the top of the stairs, I can hear the distinct sounds of vomiting. I lean against the wall outside what I assume is a bathroom and wait a good five minutes for him to exit. When he does, his face is white, beads of sweat cover his forehead, and his eyes are unfocused. But he jumps when he sees me.
“Jesus Christ, Izzy!”
“Are you all right? You should probably have some water and something to eat—”
He holds up a hand to stop me, closing his eyes and leaning into the wall like the word eat has made him more nauseous. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask.
His eyes are still closed but he shakes his head. “You’re right. I don’t know what we’re doing, either. It’s all fucked up in my head. I don’t want to do the relationship thing right now—stuff is going great, why screw that up? But then I don’t want Yoshi’s hands on you. I get it. I can’t have it all my way. And you’re trying and I’m screwing that up. That’s what you came up here to say, isn’t it?”
I feel like I need to go back to my room, write down everything he just said, and then analyze it properly before I can even think about answering. “Well …”
He pushes off the wall and nods to himself. “You should date other people. That makes sense. You’re doing the right thing, Izzy. I promise to stay out of your way from now on.”
My genius brain finally solves the equation. “You like me.”
Marshall takes a step in my direction, and I notice he doesn’t smell like alcohol, marijuana, or vomit. The only scent I catch is toothpaste and pineapple. He lays a hand on my cheek, sending my heart sprinting. “Yes. I like you.” My breath catches in my throat when he leans down and touches his lips to my forehead. “But it might not be for the right reasons. I’m not sure I’m helping you with anything. I think I’m making things worse.”
“It’s probably a physical thing. If we had sex, then it’d be over. Problem solved,” I blurt out. What the hell am I saying? I don’t mean that, do I? But maybe the theory does have some merit.
“Jesus,” Marshall says under his breath. “Forget it, Izzy. You’re probably the last person in the world who’d get what I’m trying to say.”
He turns around and heads into the first bedroom on the left, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.
The sting of hurt hits me first, and then my fingernails dig into my palms. What did he say to me not even forty-eight hours ago? If you were really as cold as you try to be, I wouldn’t want anything to do with you.
I also remember him telling me, You’re not an oddity, Izzy. But that’s exactly what I am to him: the only person who couldn’t possibly understand his complex level of confusion about me. Does he want to take me up against the wall, woo me with flowers and dates, or make friendship bracelets?
In the poetic style of shirtless Carson: Fuck you, Marshall Collins. Make up your fucking mind.
My feet are a little too loud when I pound down the steps again, and both Kelsey and Jesse stop talking immediately. “Didn’t you once tell me Marshall was the life of the party?” I snap at Kelsey.
“Seriously,” Jesse says, “he’s not himself right now. Let him sleep it off.”
I glare at him. “I liked you better when you were hitting on me.” I grab Kelsey’s arm and pull her toward the door. “I might actually be in the mood to psychoanalyze something.”
Chapter 14
@IsabelJenkinsMD: Surprising part of ER rotations? The number of objects lodged up ppl’s as*es. More surprising—90% of cases are NOT accidental.
I only get until Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. to avoid Marshall. And then I’m outside in the chilly air facing both him and the obstacle course. My stomach flutters with a dozen different emotions the second I spot him, but I keep my mouth shut.
He gives me a nod and then makes his way to my side and says, “Hey.”
I look him over—his crinkly track pants, the oversized hoodie, and the way his hands are smashed into the front kangaroo pocket, his face still pale like it was on Saturday night. He must have done more partying with Jesse yesterday.
“Hey,” I say back.
The blaring whistle saves me from more confrontation with Marshall, and before I can really contemplate what’s going to happen between us, I’m on the track running a mile again. I do take notice of the fact that Marshall busies himself with Sergeant Holloway’s clipboard, filling in times rather than choosing to participate like he did during every other class.
Been hitting the beer and pot a little too hard to keep up, Marsh?
Sergeant Holloway’s motivational messages—that is, his yelling—keep me focused on getting that time under nine minutes instead of on Marshall. When I cross the finish line in 8:14, Holloway spits out his whistle and stares at me openmouthed, then snatches the clipboard from Marshall’s hands. “Not bad, Jenkins! And I thought you were a hopeless cause.”
Hopeless cause? Yep, that’s right, this is the exact moment a successful future became a possibility for me. Before this one-mile run, apparently I had nothing to show for my life.
Holloway leans in and studies the roster on the clipboard more carefully like he might actually have to read something that isn’t numbers or names. His eyes lift again. “It’s your birthday today,” he says.
He’s right, of course. As of 10:00 this morning, I will no longer be here to learn about being a normal eighteen-year-old. Instead, I’ll be studying up on the science of being normal and nineteen. Regardless of whether or not I’ve mastered eighteen, moving on is inevitable.
I’m waiting for him to say something else, but he hands the roster back to Marshall and pulls the whistle between his lips again, giving it a hard blow. “Let’s go, you lazy b
unch of girls!”
And yes, there are boys still on the track running.
“Happy birthday,” Marshall mumbles to me, so quietly I barely hear him, and then his focus returns to entering times.
After class, I’m aware of the fact that he’s walking not too far behind me as we head back to the dorms, but he chooses not to acknowledge this. Kelsey exits our dorm before I can get inside and insists that I go to the cafeteria with her for breakfast.
“You coming, Marsh?” she says.
Marshall’s gaze bounces between the two of us, then he shakes his head. “I’ve got some homework to finish up.”
Yep, he was partying yesterday for sure.
When we’ve parted ways, Kelsey glances sideways at me. “Did you guys talk at all this morning?”
I chew on my thumbnail even though I’m fully aware of how unsanitary it is. “He said hey, and then later he wished me a happy birthday.”
Kelsey smacks me hard on the arm. “What is up with that? Why didn’t you tell me that it’s your birthday? You’ve got two flower deliveries and a big bunch of balloons covering your desk already.”
“Really?” I say, surprised to hear this. “Who are they from?”
She opens the door to the dining hall and both of us enter, swipe our IDs, and grab trays. “One is from your parents, another from Dr. Rhinehold or something—”
“Rinehart,” I correct.
“Yeah, that’s right. And Dr. O’Reilly,” she finishes. “What’s up with doctors sending you birthday gifts?”
I grab a plate and make a really big job out of selecting the best scoop of scrambled eggs possible. “Um, just people my dad works with.”
True. Totally true. And who knows, maybe his boss and co-worker would have sent his daughter birthday flowers even if I’d been a normal girl off at college. It’s possible, I suppose.
“Oh, right. I keep forgetting your dad’s a doctor.” Kelsey’s breakfast choices are very similar to mine, only her portions are much smaller. She claims it’s because she’s shorter than me and has to be tossed up in the air constantly, and fat girls get dropped. “What kind of doctor is he, anyway?”