by Claire, Ava
“Impulsiveness is what ruined us before.” When I opened my mouth to add another descriptor, he added, “And stupidity. Impulsiveness and incredible stupidity. I’ve thought about this scenario, losing my job because of our relationship, and I’m ready to face it head on.”
“You’re drunk at 1pm, Chance. You’re not remotely ready to face anything.”
“I was blindsided,” he corrected. “Whoever decided to do a public service and prevent me from ravaging maiden co-eds has the power. They reported it and forced my hand. But I can get back in front of this and take the control from them.”
Maybe I would have been swayed if I was a captain and he a general, emboldening me before going into battle, but he was a professor and I was a student and I didn’t see this ending in any sort of happily ever after scenario. The dean would fire him and he would teach Shakespeare to high school students until I noticed little pieces of him wither. I’d concede and he’d take some job hundreds of miles away. We’d see each other on the weekends and then slowly drift apart.
And then I saw the solution staring me right in the face.
“What if we just hid it until graduation?” I said, thoughts zipping from my brain faster than I could get them out. “It’ll fly by with exams and we don’t even have to count December and then there’s all the breaks and then we could come out at graduation and then if you found a job out of state--”
“Hold on a second, he interrupted. “Take a breath.”
“This is a great idea!” I said, not listening. “We can pretend in class--”
“Right,” he said sarcastically. “Because we were so covert and unassuming that someone pieced the whole thing together.”
“Do you think you could move your meeting with the Dean to Monday?” I said, ignoring him.
“What will be different on Monday?”
I put down my mug and strutted over to him, channeling my inner sex kitten. “A weekend full of convincing you.”
He considered it and I had him sold until my cell rattled to life in my pocket. I ignored it, but he used the interruption as an out, sliding off the stool and moving around me. “I’ll let you grab that.”
I threw daggers at his turned back. “It’s probably my mother.”
“Tell her I said hello,” he joked with a tight grin.
I gave him a wary look as I pulled it out. “I should, just to teach you a lesson.” But when my eyes scanned the illuminated screen, it wasn’t my mother’s number bold and flashing.
It was Blaine Connolly, the guy I’d dated briefly before we mutually agreed it wasn’t going anywhere. Blaine, the chill, relaxed business major who just texted me, in all caps.
NEED 2 TALK!
****
The street was lined with students either hustling to catch the bus with frantic, harried strides, or the relaxed and relieved stroll of those walking toward the student apartments that lined Jones Street. It was like a living snapshot from an admissions pamphlet. A group of females in polos and pearls, frat boy types throwing around a football on a patch of green, the studious with their noses stuck in a book. Here, you’ll find your niche. Here, you’ll find where you belong.
My eyes glazed over the scene as I searched for the turn for Wolf Creek Apartments and paused when I saw a girl jogging, weaving in and out of pedestrians. Her hair was pulled in a crimson bun, but fiery strands escaped, whipping around her face like a veil. The look on her face brought a wave of nostalgia and took me back to when I used to run on the exact same street, wind in my hair, heart pumping in my ears. Even in the afternoon with the sidewalk filled with people I felt at peace—until a bulky, All- American looking guy started infringing on my turf.
The stranger and I exchanged nothing more than the customary nod of acknowledgment, then ‘how’s it going?’ and eventually, a smile. Finally, when he started running at the exact same time as me several days in a row, I stopped in between pants and asked if he was stalking me. He answered, “Funny—I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Blaine Connolly was commanding, standing at 6’2 and made of solid, hard earned muscle. He played football for Thomas and it showed in both physique and his running form; plowing right through pedestrians like he was on the field. He wore his cockiness like a badge of pride and there was something viscerally off-putting about him yet when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. I tried to tell myself that it was a lack of oxygen to the brain or just so he would leave me alone during my runs. I tried to tell myself that he wouldn’t actually call me. But he did.
When our first date was at the Museum of Art instead of something cliché like dinner and a movie, I couldn’t deny that he had my attention. I’d seen him through new eyes that night as he stood, seemingly a fish out of water, staring at the paintings with a softness that made me swoon.
But there was no real chemistry with him, or any other guy I met after Chance and we ran our course and went our separate ways. Still, having him as a friend had its perks. He was fiercely loyal and ready to grind any guys’ bones to dust if they did me wrong. He was a rock, always cool and collected, which was why the sight of his text, caps and all, sent sirens off in my head. He’d come to my rescue after train wreck first dated and never judged me. I owed him.
I tugged my car into one of the visitor spaces and moved to the stairwell that led to his apartment. I snickered as I made my way to the second floor, the herby aroma of weed saying hello. I guess his neighbors were still tokers. I barely knocked before Blaine pulled the door open.
“Cassie!”
I smiled, even though the pet name sounded weird on anyone’s tongue other than my dad’s. There was just something about someone that was pure testosterone saying a name so tooth rotting cute that was endearing.
He stepped to the side, letting me in. “You look great.”
“You too.” He was like Alicia in the style department, always in a polo or name brand t-shirt and jeans that flattered his stocky frame. He kept his blond hair short, appropriately spiked and when he moved in to hug me, I got a whiff of citrus body spray. He wore enough that you knew he was serious about appearances, but not so much that he reeked of it.
He held me at arm’s length, all the angles of his classically handsome features narrowing on me. I let out a nervous chuckle and took a step back when his eyes lingered on my chest.
He didn’t even take notice of my discomfort, instead, cocking his head toward the couch a few feet away. “Have a seat. Want something to drink?”
“Water would be great.”
He disappeared into the small kitchen area and my eyes skittered over the rest of his place. I hadn’t been over in months but everything was exactly as I remembered it. The walls were still lined with sports memorabilia, the focal piece a shot of the football team in a huddle with the stadium lights above them twinkling like stars. The TV sat on a chipped throne with DVDs stacked precariously around it. The coffee table wasn’t used for its intended purposes populated instead with textbooks, a North Face pullover, and a couple of dirty plates. He did clear a spot for me on the couch, though. It was like some weird crop circle, a person sized imprint among guy debris.
“So what have you been up to?” He walked back over, offering me a glass that had a film of something unknown still glommed on the side.
I held the cup gingerly, glad that I wasn’t parched. “Thanks. Um, not too much.” I lowered myself onto the couch, sitting on the edge, waiting to hear why he’d asked me over. Instead of spilling, he just stared at me strangely, like he was waiting for me to say something. And even stranger, his green eyes were up to no good, back on my chest.
I cleared my throat. “So about the text-”
He snapped his fingers like a light bulb had flickered on. “Your dad.” His cheeks turned rosy when he realized the solemn turn our conversation had taken. Definitely not a place where snapping your fingers with a “Eureka!” was appropriate.
He relaxed his broad shoulders as much as possible for s
omeone as imposing as he was. “I’m sorry you lost him. I tried to call a couple of times.”
He had, but the only calls I’d really accepted after the accident were Alicia’s and even she had to blow up my cell to get through. “I know. I really appreciate the calls.”
He let out a rumbling sigh and shook out his limbs like he was about to dash around the block. Blaine was never good at talking about feelings or showing emotions other than smugness and lust. It had been one of the reasons I’d listed when we decided to end things. Back then I believed it did play a role, but that was before I was ready to face the truth. I’d never given Blaine and I a fair shake because I measured him against Chance which pretty much set him up for failure. Even if he quoted Sylvia Plath and sent me saccharine sweet texts, it wouldn’t have staved off our dissolution.
But this Blaine, blushing and wringing his hands nervously, was kinda adorable. Show of emotion aside, I doubted he sent a text just to say the thing he’d already expressed via voicemail.
“Was there something else?” I pried, trying to get to the real reason I was there. “Your text sounded kind of serious.”
“Yeah that.” His eyebrows arched at the last word, like whatever was on his mind was something meaty. He walked to the sofa where I sat and gathered the jacket and odds and ends and lowered himself down in their place. Again, he was silent, just watching me closely like he was waiting for me to share something.
“What?” I said, eyes tilting my head to the side and trying to gauge why he was being so shifty.
“How are your classes going?”
“They’re going fine,” I said, sounding out every word and looking at him strangely. “Taking a full course load, but it’s not too bad. How about you?”
“The same,” he answered, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back into the cushion. “My economics class is probably finger painting compared to the stuff you’re taking.”
“I’ve taken economics and it isn’t as easy as it looks,” I said, cracking a grin despite the weird small talk.
“I passed ENG 200 by the skin of my teeth,” he said sheepishly. “And I tried reading that Tolstoy book you recommended--”
“Hey!” I laughed, remembering the look of horror on his face when I handed over War and Peace. “You said you wanted to read the hardest book I’ve ever read.”
“And I didn’t get past page ten,” he said, hanging his head in faux shame. “But I have to do the stereotypes justice, right?”
I shoved him playfully. “That dumb jock stuff doesn’t work on me, remember? I know you.”
His smile expanded a few more inches and he scooted a little closer. “That you do.”
I frowned for a second, considering putting some distance between us to make sure he wasn’t taking what I said as some sort of declaration. But that was silly—he understood that we were just friends…and there was only a few inches left for me to go before I ran out of couch.
“So,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “What’s up?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
I turned to look up at him and my eyes widened when I saw his arm was draped against the back of the couch like he was casually marking his territory
I slid over as far as I could, wariness edging my voice. “I came over because I was worried. If you have something to say, something you wanted to talk about…” I made an ellipsis with my eyes, all but saying ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’. When I opened my mouth to whip out a lie and get out of there before things got even stranger, he lurched forward, nearly smacking our foreheads together. A head-butt would have been preferable to the thick fingers that locked in my hair, holding me captive as he forced his mouth onto mine. Shock kept me still, frozen for a few seconds as his mouth assaulted me until I let out a muffled ‘no’. It was answered with his tongue invading, probing and trying to force my tongue to awaken and play with his. I was struggling, trying to disengage myself and when he paused, his hold slackening, I fell backward in a heap on the floor.
“What the HELL Blaine?!” My shoulder rang out in pain where it collided with the table but I ignored the throb, instead, creeping backward. I kept him in my sights while looking for something to defend myself if the word ‘no’ didn’t work a second time. Luckily, his face wasn’t filled with anger but a shock of his own.
“Cassandra…”
He rose to his feet and I scrambled back another few feet, grabbing a broom that still had the tags on it and holding it out like a weapon.
“You just stay right there!” My voice cracked and I knew if this guy that I thought was my friend came any further and crossed that line again, I’d fracture irreparably.
He held up both hands, stopping in his tracks. “I would never have tried to kiss you if I didn’t think you were into it.”
“Into it?” I repeated, still holding the broom tight. “What the hell about us talking about my dead father and Tolstoy made you think I was saying kiss me?”
He dropped back onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. “I just thought...” His voice filled with anger. “Fucking Sophia.”
“Sophia? What does Sophia have to do with this?”
He didn’t answer at first, dropping his head in his hands and slouching over like he wanted to disappear. When he finally looked up at me, his cheeks were drawn, his eyes filled with apology. “You don’t really think I’d force myself on you, right?”
I slowly lowered the broom, feeling a little guilty, but leaving the question unanswered. He still hadn’t answered my own.
Blaine raised his chin, his green eyes still washed with embarrassment. “Sophia and I dated for awhile. Back in high school…and part of freshman year.”
Back when we were dating, his phone used to light up like Xmas every thirty minutes. When I made a joke about groupies, he’d sheepishly told me that it wasn’t like that. His psycho ex never had a name, but Sophia’s truth or dare question at Alicia’s party was hella convincing that she’d been the one who couldn’t let Blaine go.
“She’s crazy,” Something in his voice told me that was the understatement of the century. “I mean, you remember the calls and shit. She doesn’t accept that we don’t make sense anymore.”
“But you still talk to her,” I said pointedly, like maybe he was a little crazy too.
“She has moments when she’s the girl I fell for. Moments of lucidness or whatever. So we talk every now and then.”
I propped the broom against the entertainment center, but remained at a safe distance. “I still don’t get what Sophia has to do with you making a move on me.”
“Well, I didn’t think it was unsolicited,” he growled, face reddening. “From what Sophia said, you got all weird when she said my name at some party.”
“I still don’t get how--” I stopped talking, remembering the awkward game and her bizarrely specific truth question.
Is it true that you and Blaine Connolly ended things last semester because he’s still hung up on his ex?
I’d been taken aback, partly because I was remembering stories Blaine told me about his ex and how the slightly crazed sheen in Sophia’s dark eyes was unsettling. But it was thinking back to our breakup and every breakup since Chance that made me hesitate, not some deep, rooted desire to reconcile with Blaine.
I met his hopeful gaze, feeling guilty all over again because I was about to hurt him—and put any and all chance that there would be anything more than friendship between us to bed.
“You know you mean a lot to me--” I began.
“Why do I feel like you’re breaking up with me again?” he interjected bitterly. The hope had dissipated, but there were still sparks of it in his voice. “We were good together, you know. You said we were incompatible, but there was something about our differences that made it work.”
I chewed on my lip, feeling dread knotting in my stomach. The tick below my eye went wild. I didn’t regret our time together and it was true—ther
e were moments that he and I were beautiful and passionate and he would smile at me and I’d feel that tingle in my chest. But our story was done. I thought we both agreed that it was best that we moved on, otherwise, I would have never agreed to a friendship. I knew all too well how the very sight or sound of someone you still cared about could cut. I didn’t want to hurt him, or pour salt into the wound, but I had to be direct so nothing could be misconstrued.
“We’re over, Blaine.” I said firmly, knowing I might need to hurt him now to prevent any more pain. “I don’t see you as anything other than a friend. I’m seeing someone and--”
“A teacher, right?”
I faltered, recovering too late but still trying to hold up the ruse. “A teacher? Where did you hear that?”
“You should leave the acting to theatre majors,” he said coarsely, standing up and moving to the door. “And you should probably go.”
I knew he was right. Things had gone from kinda awkward to painfully intolerable. As embarrassing as I found his advances, he had to find his miscalculation infinitely more so. But he knew about Chance. I had a feeling that the same person that told him I was still carrying a torch maybe told him about my affair with a professor. I had to know for sure.
“Who told you?”
He opened his door. “I’ll see you around, Cass.”
“Blaine--”
His face darkened and I could tell he was close to not-so-nicely saying ‘Get the fuck out’. I pushed aside the residual fear from the forced kiss and instead, focused on the teddy bear I got to know beneath the hard ass image he put out for the world. I walked up to him, my fingertips brushing the downy hair of his forearm, not stopping until the hurt evaporated from his eyes.
“We’re friends, right?” I said gently. “Please.”
His jaw trembled, the harsh line of it wavering. “Sophia told me.”
I thought confirmation would be a relief, but it just brought up another question. Why would she tell Blaine that? What did she have to gain?
He crossed his arms, giving me a knowing chuckle that made my stomach clench. “Why?”