by Shen, L. J.
“West!” I hollered, slapping my thigh.
“Fine. I’m changing Dr. Seuss to Buddy Holly, but only because you’re twisting my arm here.”
When I shot him a sharp look that showed him I didn’t find any of this funny, he jerked his chin toward me.
“Why were you late today?”
“Grams,” I croaked, surprised with how naturally the truth jumped out of my mouth. It was liberating to talk to someone about her openly.
“She burned herself on the stove this morning. It was bad. I was with her in the ER until Marla, her caregiver, took over.”
“Has she been diagnosed?”
I shook my head. “Not the last time I took her to get checked, but that was a couple years ago. She refuses to get another CT, and things have been gettin’ pretty bad.”
“She should be medicated.”
“I know.”
Not only that, but she should get more exercise and sunshine and scheduled activities. Marla could only do so much for her, and by the time I got home every night after school and work, I was too exhausted to give Grams everything she deserved.
West got up and made both of us margarita slushies. He dropped extra gummy bears into each of them and handed me one. We saluted at the same time, oddly in sync, taking greedy slurps from our drinks as he sat back down.
“Back to the scar thing.” He motioned to his own face with his hand. “Is that why you don’t go onstage? Because you don’t like the way you look?”
He was referring to that time he saw me at rehearsal, mouthing all the words but staying far away from the limelight.
I felt the tips of my ears pinking. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“I’m a smart guy. Lay it on me.”
“I haven’t always been like this. I was kind of Miss Popular. I fought really hard to get where I was. My mom was a junkie who died when I was a toddler, and my father … Well, I don’t even know who he is. The one thing I always had goin’ for me was my looks, as shallow as it sounds.” I laughed nervously. “I was in cheer. I was in drama. I was that girl, you know. With the pretty Sunday church dress and dimpled smile, always camera-ready. I learned early on how to play the cards I’d been dealt. I thought I had the game figured out. But then …”
“Someone flipped the table upside down mid-round and all the rules changed.” West chewed on his straw, contemplating. “Same happened to me, so I know firsthand how bad it sucks.”
“Oh, yeah?” I grinned, feeling dangerously comfortable around him. It was stupid. Like a kitten thinking it could befriend a tiger because they were vaguely from the same family. “You discarded your lifelong dream to become an actor because you experienced a traumatic childhood tragedy that has caused you to look disfigured beyond repair?”
He used the tip of his boot to shove my crate back. He scratched his temple with his middle finger. I laughed.
“What I mean is, the rules changed on me, too, mid-game,” he clarified.
“I don’t see how. You’re still popular.”
“I was Easton Braun-popular. Linebacker. Homecoming king. The obnoxious, wholesome, perfect, Tom Brady-type guy people low-key suspect is secretly a serial killer.”
I ran my eyes over his injured frame. I never would have guessed West played ball. That he had a sweet, straitlaced side.
“What made you switch to the dark side?”
“I became the sole provider in my family. Well, my parents work now, but they’re mainly chasing bills.”
“Oh.”
Did I just say oh? Out of all the words in the English language, I chose this one? Really? Do better! “That’s … rough.”
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
He shook his head. “Just me, my parents, and a mountain of unpaid loans that keeps on getting higher. You?”
“Just me, Grams, and my in-the-gutter self-esteem.” I smiled tiredly. “Yay us.”
We clinked our drinks together.
Silence stretched between us like bubble gum, extending, on the verge of snapping. West was the first to put a needle in it. He slapped his rock-hard thigh.
“Now that we’re even, let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here. I’ve got shit to do.” He stood, dumping his slushie in the trash.
He turned off the grill, getting ready to scrub it. I glared up at him, dumbfounded.
“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
“You couldn’t look me in the eye since I saw your arm, and I needed to counter-embarrass myself for you to feel equal again. So I indulged you. Shared a secret with you no one but East knows. But East doesn’t count; we grew up in the same town and were born two days apart. He is practically my twin brother. My family is broke as hell, and I fight not because of the perks or the pussy. I need to keep a roof over my parents’ heads. My mom needs her antidepressant meds, and, as you must know, healthcare is goddamn expensive.”
I swallowed and looked down. I felt so pathetic in front of him, with the dementia-stricken grandmother and big-ass scar. But now that I knew his family was poor and his mother was battling depression, his life didn’t seem like something to envy anymore. He wasn’t untouchable, unreachable, or protected by an invisible glow.
“Your parents must be so proud of you,” I grumbled.
“Not even a little.” He let out a humorless laugh, dumping a rag into my hands, signaling for me to get off my butt and help. “But that’s another story, and you’ll have to show a lot more than scar tissue for me to trade that secret, Tex.”
By the time I got back home, Marla had put Grams to bed. She was drained from today’s trip to the emergency room. She wasn’t used to spending so much time out of the house anymore.
I took a quick shower while Marla tidied up. Then I hugged her at the door, clutching her extra hard. “Thanks, Marl. You’re a trooper.”
“Don’t mention it. Now tell me, whatcha gonna do, honey pie?”
“Probably watch Netflix and chill.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, sweets. I mean about the old bat. In the long run. This is not sustainable, sweetie. You must know that. You can no longer take care of her. I appreciate you did it through high school, but your grandmomma needs constant care. She is a danger to herself. And to others,” Marla said pointedly, raising one eyebrow as her gaze drifted to the left side of my face.
I ducked my head down, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I’ll think about it,” I lied.
I wasn’t going to think about it. There was nothing to think about. Grandma Savvy had raised me. She’d tucked me into bed every night, and kissed my boo-boos better. Sewn a replica of the prom dress I wanted because the original cost too much. She’d dedicated her entire life to me, and I wasn’t going to bail on her when things got tough.
I just had to step up my game. Spend more time with her, shower her with more attention.
I was closing the door after Marla when a foot was shoved between the gap. The person on the other side let out a pained grunt but didn’t remove their foot from between the door and the frame. My heart leaped in my chest.
The first thing I worried about was not having makeup on.
As opposed to, you know, having an axe murderer barge into my house un-freaking-announced.
“Who is it?” I demanded. The gap was too narrow for me to see them.
“Karlie. Secret code: Ryan Phillippe. Open up.”
We didn’t have a secret code, but this sounded like what we’d have if we chose one. My nineties-themed heart stuttered. I snorted, swinging the door open. My best friend wiggled her eyebrows with a sultry smile, a dripping bag full of takeout in her raised hand. Since our town only offered a diner, the food truck, and a pizza parlor, my guess was we were in for Italian.
Karlie knew I’d had a rough morning from our text exchange when I’d asked for West’s number, so she’d shown up.
I yanked her inside, smothering her with a hug. She
patted my back awkwardly.
“Anyone ever told you you’re an amazing friend?” I ruffled her thick, dark curls with my breath.
“Everyone, and frequently. I come bearing offerings. Pasta, cheap wine, and gossip. We’ll start with the food. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
An hour later, we were lying on my living room couch in an advanced state of food coma, the TV flickering in the background.
I patted my stomach, staring at its hard roundness. I was svelte and small, and sometimes when I had a case of food baby, and my stomach would get all curved, I’d cradle it in front of the mirror and imagine myself as Demi Moore on Vanity Fair’s cover (another favorite nineties nugget). Normally, it made me laugh. But tonight, a little buzzed from the wine, and a lot worried about my grandmomma, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever be pregnant. If I’d meet someone and make a life with him.
Typically, I shoved this kind of stuff to the back drawer in my mind. But ever since West stormed into my life with his battered body and broken soul, he’d jimmied that drawer open and flung out all its contents.
Lust.
Romance.
Longing.
And most dangerous of all—hope.
I wasn’t sure if what he stirred in me was good and hopeful, or disastrous and shattering. Either way, putting my faith in someone who absolutely didn’t want any type of relationship, and didn’t exhibit much interest in staying alive, was both stupid and risky.
“What was that piece of gossip you wanted to tell me?” I nudged Karlie’s shoulder with my foot, suddenly remembering.
Karlie shook her head from the other side of the sofa, her dark hair bouncing around her heart-shaped face. “Okay, so you know Melanie Bush? Small? Blonde? Blue eyes?”
“You’ve literally described sixty percent of Sheridan’s student body.” I laughed. “What about her?”
“So, my friend Michelle ditched our study group this Friday to go to West’s fight against Kade Appleton. Apparently, it was brutal. The mats were so soaked with blood, they had to burn them in the junkyard afterwards. Anyway, so a fight almost broke out after the fight. Some of Appleton’s people came at West, and he basically walked out on them, not giving two craps. But guess what he did on his way out?”
“What?” I tried to keep my tone light, but my spine stiffened, and I felt the food I’d just consumed making its way up my throat. It didn’t take a genius to know what direction this story was taking.
“He basically dragged Mel up the stairs, blood dribbling down his chin, slammed her against the empty elevator bank, and screwed her senseless. He was so out of it, Michelle said Mel wasn’t even sure he was, like, conscious. Mel told her it was insane and carnal and hot as Hades. But that he didn’t even look at her face as he gave her two orgasms.”
“Wow.”
I had to say something, so I went for a word that meant absolutely everything and nothing at all. Wow could be either bad or good. Shocked or sarcastic. Wow was also how I felt when my heart was crushed into miniscule dusty flakes.
“Get this—apparently, he’s a weird lay. Mel said he kept touching her hair while pounding into her, and that he kept talking about Texas.” Karlie screwed her nose. “What do you think our boy has against the Lone Star State? We invented Dr. Pepper, corn dogs, and silicone breast implants. That makes us undoubtedly the best state in the country.”
“Right. So weird,” I mumbled.
That was all I was capable of. Anything else, and my voice would have broken.
Texas.
He’d talked about Texas.
But it wasn’t the state he was referring to, I knew, and a nauseating mixture of white-hot jealousy and euphoria washed over my body.
“Hey, you don’t happen to have ice cream, do you?”
“Let me check,” I offered, relieved to have an excuse to go to the kitchen and regulate my heartbeat.
I knew I was jealous, but I also knew I had no business being jealous.
West wasn’t my boyfriend. Nothing in his behavior, banter, or personality made me believe he’d ever ask me out. If anything, he’d told me flat-out he’d never as much as flirt with me, even if he had found me attractive.
The only thing this story had proven was that he wanted in my pants—not heart—and I’d be wise to remember which part of me he was interested in.
Lord, I needed to get over this stupid crush. Fast.
I took a bucket of ice cream out of the freezer, plucking two spoons from the utensil cabinet. I stabbed the ice cream with one spoon, feeling a scream clogging up my throat.
My own foolishness infuriated me. So what if West wasn’t an asshole to me? It didn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole period. He was to Melanie. I just needed to remind myself to stay away from him and take a step back.
Texas.
The man had some nerve saying my nickname while he was inside someone else.
I wanted to kill him. To throttle him. To …
“Shaw! Whaddup? Did you go make the ice cream from scratch?” Karlie hollered from the living room. I looked down and realized the ice cream wasn’t so white anymore. It was flecked with scarlet drops of blood. My blood.
It was turning pink, sliding down the slopes of snowy vanilla mountains. I glanced at my hand. My mouth slacked. I hadn’t used a spoon. I’d taken a dang knife from the drawer.
Quickly, I scooped all the tainted ice cream, threw it in the trash, and took out clean spoons.
“Comin’ right up.”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I strode back to the couch with a Band-Aid Karlie didn’t notice. She shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, closing her eyes and moaning.
“You know what we should do?”
Make a voodoo doll of West and stab it to death?
“Another this or that nineties quiz?” I asked in fake eagerness. She popped her eyes open, shooting me a skeptical look. I wasn’t known for my enthusiasm.
“Duh, but we always do that. We should go to one of West’s fights. Next Friday. It’s Mom and Victor’s shift, anyway. It would be nice to hang out. We never do that anymore.”
We didn’t. Karlie was wrapped up in her schoolwork and internships, and I was either working or spending time with Grams. But going to see West in action was the worst possible thing we could do together.
“Hard pass.” I shoved ice cream into my mouth without tasting it. The whole night was tarnished by images of West screwing Melanie Bush against an elevator bank, and I didn’t even know what she looked like. “Fight clubs aren’t really my scene.”
“Hot shirtless men thrashing each other is, though, right? Unless you’re asexual. Or a lesbian.”
“Guess I’m asexual.”
Women really didn’t do it for me.
“Come on. I knew you prior to you-know-what, and you were boy crazy just like the rest of us. Tucker, anyone?”
Eh, yes. Tucker. One of the very reasons I’d sworn off men in the first place. The way he’d discarded me the minute I’d lost my beauty still burned long after the fire wounds had healed.
Karlie and I established I would use a hammer as a Q-tip to clean my earwax before attending an underground fight. My friend went back home, which was right across the street from me.
I slipped under the covers, shoving the house keys beneath the mattress—like stupid West had suggested the night at the diner—so Grams couldn’t wander off while I slept. So far, it had worked.
The last thing I thought about when my head hit the pillow was a fighter who had given up on himself.
West
On Sunday, I cashed in on one of the million favors Texas owed me and came in late to my shift. There had been a party on frat row the previous night. Parties were my idea of hell, but every now and again I tagged along when East rode my ass for being antisocial. He had the incorrect notion I would spiral into depression like my mother had. Sometimes I thought he also knew I was toying with the idea of gunning my bike straight
into a tree or flinging myself off the water tower. I kept to myself throughout the night, cradling a bottle of moonshine and offering my I’d-rather-drink-straight-from-the-toilet face whenever people tried to strike up a conversation. The lowest point of the evening was being called out by some chick for asking her who she was when she approached me in one of the frat houses.
Apparently, we’d had sex on Friday.
And apparently, she found it fitting to tell everyone, short of the president, that we’d hooked up.
“Melanie!” she’d screamed. “My name is Melanie. You’d remember if you let me introduce myself properly in the first place.”
Melanie whined about how she didn’t think she was that forgettable. It surprised me, since I made a point of not asking girls for their names.
“And another thing, I’m not even from Texas, like you said. I’m from Oklahoma!”
What could I say? Chicks were an endless river of mystery I didn’t want to dip my fucking toe into.
I ignored her, hitting the pool table with a few guys, talking NFL over her whining. At some point, Tess marched toward us and pulled Melanie (or was it Melody?) to the side, consoling her for the premature death of what was obviously a once-in-a-lifetime love story between us.
On Sunday, Texas was surprisingly silent and curt, considering Saturday had been spent spilling our guts out on the food truck’s floor. I was way too hungover to find out what got her jeans in a jerk this time. She seemed to always find a reason to hate me. We hadn’t exchanged more than five sentences, and that was fine by me. Her hot and cold games were getting on my last nerve.
By Monday, however, my patience with the universe wore off, and the urge to punch anyone within sight was overwhelming.
Not only did East wake up in the morning to find the seventeen unanswered letters my mother had sent me jammed in the bottom of our trashcan (“What in the name, dude? Answer your mother!”), but everyone still seemed to ride the weekend alcohol wave and showed up on campus hammered. The frat parties bled into Sunday and Monday, which meant half the students were in togas and J-Lo sandals.