by McKinley May
Sleeping has been a tough task since last Tuesday, and I'm freaking desperate for some strong caffeine. Their triple-shot mocha latte kinda sounds like heaven in a cup right now.
But just as I reach Café Cappuccino's entrance, a vivid memory of the last time I was here with Vaughn shoots through my mind—our little staring contest where I felt the first spark of something brewing between us. It was so sudden and strong, I had to quickly avert my gaze and laugh it off. My heart sinks in my chest as I recall the encounter.
The very real possibility of bumping into him here sends me dashing across the street, weaving through students on bicycles and campus patrol cars as I attempt to quell the memory.
I'm almost across when I accidentally run directly in front of a hipster on a longboard, barely evading disaster when he swerves to the left to avoid a collision.
A campus police car window rolls down and an officer pokes his head out. “Hey! No jay-walking!”
I raise a hand in apology, speed walking down the sidewalk to avoid anymore public humiliation brought on by my jumbled mind.
I come across a curved, stone walkway. It's marked by a small sign with an arrow pointing down the path that reads “Arts and Theatre”.
I've rarely ventured to that section of campus, but I know it's much quieter than the rest of the university. It's tucked away and secretive, housing a gorgeous garden area with multiple ornate statues and whimsical works of art scattered throughout—Windhaven's hidden gem.
Perfect.
I can clear my head there.
I lightly jog down the pathway, ponytail bouncing up and down as I make my way to the secluded area. Halfway to my destination, I realize being all alone with my thoughts is an awful mistake.
I've been avoiding thinking about Vaughn because it hurts too much, but the ripe memory of us at the coffee shop brings his beautiful face and contagious laughter to the forefront of my mind. Our last encounter plays through my head: the pain on his face when he showed me the email exchange, the crack in his voice as he broke up with me—
Goddammit.
Actual physical pain shoots through my chest, piercing every inch of my heart as I try to pull myself together. My lungs feel starved for oxygen as I approach a small courtyard situated between the garden and Fine Arts building. There are a few stragglers napping underneath a giant oak tree, but other than that, it's empty.
I open the black iron gate and throw my backpack carelessly to the side. I collapse onto the soft grass, staring up at the overcast sky as I let out a frustrated breath and allow my thoughts to wander to the place previously forbidden.
I've spent all this time moping over my future, but you want the God-honest truth?
Losing Vaughn hurt a million times more than losing the paper and everything that went along with it. The way he looked at me—the complete disappointment on his face when he ended things between us—absolutely destroyed me.
I could've fought him on it, forced him to let me explain that once I got to know him, I never planned on using his story. But those words right there are exactly what kept me from arguing my case, what made me realize a lot of this fuckup is on my shoulders and he deserves better.
Once I got to know him.
I had every intention of using his story when we first began meeting up.
Was the only thing that stopped me from manipulating him the fact that we started dating? What if I hadn't fallen head over heels in love with him? Would I have used it then?
I'd like to think the answer is no, but who the hell knows. If none of that had happened—if we hadn't happened—I’d still be the same person I was at the beginning of the semester: a woman with tunnel vision and the drive to do whatever necessary to accomplish my main goal, even if it meant hurting someone else in the process.
I squeeze my eyes shut, disgusted with myself. I wipe away the fresh tears on my cheeks and take a couple of deep, full-bodied breaths, emulating a technique my mom teaches in one of her De-Stress classes.
I stay there for a little while longer, sprawled out on the ground and staring up into the clouds. When the sun begins to set, I pull myself up and begin dragging myself home. I'm almost back to the familiar intersection when I spy Parker and Diego heading my direction.
I duck my head in an attempt to avoid eye contact, hoping by some miracle they won't notice me, but it's only a matter of seconds before they do.
“Yo, Rayne!” Diego's melodic voice rings out down the empty walkway. I raise my head and muster up a friendly wave as they approach. “What's up with you avoiding the Treehouse? Thought you fell off the face of the Earth. Where you been, girl?”
Parker's eyes widen under his black frames, and he elbows Diego in the ribs. “Dude. They broke up.”
“No shit?” Diego's brows pull together as he slants his head at me, silently asking for my confirmation at the surprising news. I give him the tiniest of nods. “Well, fuck. No one tells me anything around here. Sorry, chica. I didn't know.”
“It's all good,” I mumble out, keeping my tone and expression devoid of emotion. But when I feel the familiar stinging sensation behind my eyes, I know I better get the hell out of here before the waterworks start again. I grip the straps of my backpack and take a step forward, signaling the end of the conversation. “Good luck at your game tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Parker says before Diego chimes in.
“You're coming, right? Cheering us on at our last conference game? You're our number one fan.” Diego's face is hopeful as he awaits my answer.
“Um, I'll see if I can make it.”
Absolutely not.
“Cool. See ya around.”
I nod and make my way past the guys. When I'm a few steps beyond them, I feel a gentle tug at my shoulder. I turn around to see Parker, textbooks tucked under one arm and a worried look on his face.
“Are you doing okay?”
Even though I've only spoken to him a handful of times, I know better than to lie to him. He's perceptive as hell and one of the few Psych majors I've met who I truly believe can read people like a book.
It's like those glasses let him see right into your soul.
I gnaw on my lip. “Honestly?” I say with a sigh. “No. Not really.”
He gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze before responding, “Y’all will get through this.”
I smile and thank him as we head our separate ways, but his parting words ring out in my head all the way back to my apartment. He sounded so confident in them, as if it's a given things will work out. And as much as I want them to—damn, do I want them to—I’m not so sure.
39
The yellow-orange glow of the setting sun bounces off the white goalposts, illuminating the practice field late Thursday night. We've gone fairly easy this week, resting up for our first playoff game this Saturday, and we're ending the practice with a relaxed skins vs. shirts scrimmage.
Usually I tear it up at scrimmages, busting out the moves and practicing some trick plays with the midfielders to implement into our games, but tonight?
Tonight I'm out of it.
No...I'm beyond out of it.
I can't concentrate for shit, and my performance is severely lacking. I feel more disoriented than the time I took a cleat to the temple in high school and got my brain rattled. The resulting concussion didn't have jackshit on how fucked up my mind is tonight.
Parker takes the ball down the flank and I jog up into the box, preparing for his cross. He does a quick cut, juking out one of our freshman defenders before sending me a perfectly placed ball. A small, one-touch tap is all it'll take to send this baby to the back of the net. I've already shanked a few “gimme-goals”, but this should be a piece of cake. You couldn't ask for an easier setup.
But apparently my leg has other ideas, because when the ball and my foot connect, the black-and-white sphere goes sailing way left of the goal.
“Fucking hell,” I groan into the sky, throwing my head back in obvious frustration. This i
s getting fucking embarrassing.
I look over at Coach. He crosses his arms, concern painting his face as he shouts out to me.
“Get it together, Steel! That should be a goal every time.”
I start jogging back as Cam chases after the ball to set up a goal kick. Weston runs up besides me, hitting me with a piteous look.
“You okay, dude? You're off your game tonight.”
“What? I'm not allowed to have an off-day once in a while?” I snap at him, but the anger's more at myself than anything else.
“Didn't say you weren't. You've just been acting weird since, uh, you and—”
“Don't fucking say her name, man,” I growl out.
He places a hand on my shoulder. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No, I really don’t.” I roll my eyes and forcefully shrug him off. If he thinks I'm about to have a fucking heart-to-heart with him in the middle of practice, he's out of his goddamn mind.
Before he can interrogate me any longer, I motion for the other forward on my team, Jamal, to switch sides with me. He can deal with Weston's sudden interest in becoming a damn shrink.
The rest of the scrimmage goes by painfully slow. I make a point to touch the ball as little as possible, avoiding any more inevitable bad plays. I don't want anyone doubting my ability to perform my best this weekend.
As co-captain and the leading scorer on our team (and not to mention the entire freakin' country), the way I play is crucial. I set the tone for the guys, my attitude and body language subconsciously affecting the way we work together.
Thank God our last season game this past weekend was against the crappiest team in our conference, resulting in the majority of our starters being rested. Normally I hate when Coach sits me during games that don't matter to avoid injury, but this time I was relieved. I can't imagine the precedent it would've set if I'd given a shitshow performance like this to end our season.
I've really got to get it together. No matter what other shit I have going on, I need to fucking focus. The playoffs are two days away, and that's the only thing I should be thinking about.
After Coach finishes his pep talk in the huddle, the guys head towards the showers. I remain put on the ground, glancing up and taking note as all of my teammates' eyes dart away from mine, like they're afraid or something.
Guess I understand why. I've been a pissy little bitch the past two and a half weeks, anger coating each interaction I have with everyone. They know Rayne and I broke up, they know I'm not happy about it, and they know I don't want to hear a fucking word about the situation. People have been treading cautiously around me—well, everyone except Paine and Mendoza who can't take a damn hint.
Pretty soon I'm the last person out on the grass, sitting in the same spot at midfield, enjoying the silence and the absence of stares and glares.
I'm trying to visualize the game this weekend, get myself in the zone, but my mind keeps moving back to her.
I'm still furious about the emails and the article I told my teammates I don't want to hear a thing about when it's published. But as mad as I am at Rayne, there's an overriding feeling that drives me even crazier than the pent-up frustration.
I miss her.
Holy shit do I miss her.
I miss her so fucking much it tears me apart, claws at my soul, keeps me tossing and turning every night. I thought I knew how much I loved her when we were dating, but now that we're broken up it's even more evident how much she meant to me.
I rest my head between my knees as the field lights buzz and flicker off. I don't even flinch as the sprinklers begin to drench me from head to toe. I'm numb to the world around me when she's on my mind.
As much as I want to talk to her, try and work things out between us, I just fucking can't.
Because when I think about everything and realize the shitstorm the media’s sure to have when her piece comes out, my privacy completely shattered and my ability to trust thrown out the window, the only thing I can think about is my dad. How Rayne’s betrayal feels just as bad…just as devastating. And I don’t know when I’m gonna get over that.
Honestly?
I don’t know if I ever will.
40
“Lawyer...engineer...doctor...Doctor? Ick. No way,” I mutter to myself as I scrunch my nose. “I’ll leave the blood and guts to Lexie.” I shudder and continue scrolling down my computer screen.
It's Friday night and I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, hell-bent on figuring out what I want to do with my life. I spent the majority of the afternoon taking every career-aptitude test I could find, but each one gave me the same unwanted results: reporter, journalist, and broadcaster—all the things that are no longer an option.
I decided I needed to go about this the old-fashioned way: scrounge through a random list of job titles and eliminate accordingly.
“Teacher...nurse...accountant.” I tilt my head and tap my chin with my index finger.
Accounting doesn't sound too horrible.
Yeah, I think I could make that work.
Sure, it's a decent amount of math and stats, but that's exactly what I need. Just numbers. No words.
No words that can harm people that I love.
Plus, I'm not so terrible at math anymore. It used to stump me, but I sorta understand it now. Heck, I got a 90% on my Calculus test this week—accounting's gotta be a breeze compared to that.
I frown as I remember the giddiness I felt yesterday when I got the test score back. My initial reaction was to grab my phone and share the good news with Vaughn. I came thisclose to texting him. I typed out the message, barely registering what I was doing until right before I hit send when I realized my mistake.
It's been incredibly difficult to cut off communication with Vaughn when all I want to do is tell him about my day, laugh at his cheesy puns, continue our never-ending debate on football vs. soccer. It's like a natural reaction to want to tell him about everything, but I've refrained from doing so.
I spent last weekend texting and calling him, apologizing and asking if we could talk things through. If his lack of response is any indication, he doesn't want anything to do with me anymore.
Not really that surprising considering the circumstances.
I let out an agonized sigh and shake my head.
I'm diving back into my career exploration when a series of loud, abrupt knocks on my bedroom door stir me from my search.
“Rayne!” Lexie's voice isn't in her usual bubbly tone, and it's obvious she's had it with me ignoring her for the past few weeks. “Open this door!”
“Yeah!” I hear Jessica's familiar timbre and realize Lexie brought in back-up.
Great. Two against one.
I hold my breath, hoping they'll assume I'm not here and give up, but no such luck. More knocking starts, harsher than before.
“I know you're in there, R. And because I love you like you're my own sister, I’m not moving until you let me in. I'm dead serious, too. I cancelled all my plans this weekend, and I'm prepared and ready to set up camp right here, right now.”
Anybody else and I'd think that was straight up hyperbole, but I know Lexie well enough to realize she's not joking around. I can already picture her laying out a sleeping bag in front of my door and cooking s'mores on the stovetop, waiting until I finally grant her entry.
Jessica speaks again, her tone friendlier and less demanding than my roommate's. “We just want to talk with you, girl. We're your best friends and we're worried about you.”
I sigh and tuck my knees into my chest.
I'm really not the type to burden others with my personal problems, preferring to deal with everything on my own unless outside help is absolutely necessary. It's hard for Lexie to understand because she wears her heart on her sleeve, allowing everyone to know exactly what she's feeling and asking for advice and guidance like it's no big deal. I'm much more closed off when it comes to those type of things.
“Oh, and just a fair warning,” Jess continue
s. “Lex has a whole list of ways she's going to get you to open this door. Like, she literally wrote out a list.”
“Hell yeah I did,” Lexie butts in. “Let's see what the first item on that list is, shall we?” I hear the crinkling sound of paper being unfolded followed by a sinister laugh. “Oooh, nice. You'll love this. Number One: Serenade Rayne with her favorite 80's hits.”
Oh, Good Lord. Please no.
Anything but that.
“I have my old karaoke machine in my closet, and I'm not afraid of breaking that baby out. I know how much you love my singing voice.”
I cringe, flashbacks of her shower singing flying through my mind. If there's one thing Lexie lacks, that's any ounce of musical ability. Seriously, there is not a shred of musicality in that girl's body.
Freshman year, I woke up to a god-awful wailing sound coming from our en-suite. I legitimately thought one of our suite mates was dying in the tub, but when I busted inside, the only thing I found was Lexie holding a shampoo bottle like a microphone and completely butchering a Selena Gomez song. I kindly asked her to refrain from singing in my presence for the rest of her life, and she's obliged up until now.