by Mariah Dietz
“I’m going to take a shower, and I’ll be right down,” he says. “I got extra breadsticks for you, Rae.” He winks at me.
Once he’s upstairs, Mom leans closer. “He’s going to have a heart attack about being off work.”
“No, he won’t. I’m going to Pax’s. Make sure Dad doesn’t eat my dinner. I fully intend to eat that as my second nighttime snack.” I kiss her cheek and make my way outside where the sun is starting to lower, the shadows of the trees appearing like skyscrapers on the pavement as I head to my car. I pull open the back door, tossing my book bag in, then settle into the driver’s seat, cranking the engine and stopping when I notice some paper tucked into my windshield wipers.
I glance at the road, looking both ways for anyone walking or outside who might have left it before I get out of my car and reach for the notebook paper carefully folded into the shape of another crane, my thoughts traveling back to the party and the crane we’d discovered and haven’t spent a second thinking about.
I twist the paper in my hand, wondering if it was there earlier and I missed it? And questioning who put it on my car?
My phone rings, the sound making me jump before Maggie’s face appears on my screen, distracting all my thoughts as I answer the call I know will only last a few minutes due to her intermittent internet.
“Mags!”
“Hey!” she cries, her voice vibrant and warm.
“How are you?”
“I just finished an entire bottle of wine and don’t have to wake up until noon tomorrow. I’m fantastic. How are you, baby sis? How is college treating you?”
“It’s good. You know the drill.”
There’s a brief silence—one that has become more frequent as time continues passing, our days separated by a vastness neither of us seems capable of articulating. My tasks and problems are so mundane and simple compared to her daily experiences living in a third-world country where she works to educate young girls whose country doesn’t promote the simple and weighty right. She releases a chuckle several seconds too late, an attempt to cover the stretch of unease neither of us knows how to navigate. “It’s fun, though, right? Lots of new people and a new setup.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking about my classes and the few people I’ve made an effort to speak to. In all honesty, I’ve done a horrible job expanding outside of my small circle, focusing most of my time and energy on Poppy and getting over Lincoln.
“You’re an extrovert, Rae. Soak this up. Make friends and get out of your comfort zone.”
“Don’t extrovert and comfort zone seem like contradictions? I’m pretty sure I fall directly under introvert.”
“Not even close.” I hear the smile in her voice, and closing my eyes, I imagine my sister’s bright blue eyes playful as she leans forward to contest my words, an entire arsenal of logic and examples ready to fire at each of my points. “You like people, you just get stuck in your routine. Mom said you’re taking like twenty credit hours. You need to drop some of those, Rae. Enjoy being a freshman. Meet people, stay out too late, party, be dumb.”
I think of the last two parties I’ve attended and how neither has made me feel confident or even interested in going to more. Granted, both have led me to Lincoln, but those instances both seem to have brought out the worst in maybe both of us.
“Trust me. These are the years to do it. Break promises and hearts and just have fun.”
“Black widow style?” My tone is teasing, verging on mocking.
Maggie responds with another laugh that populates a hundred memories, watching her as she belts out the sound. “Promise me you will have fun this year and won’t just focus on school?”
Though her words evoke a chain reaction of oppositions, I know she’s right. I also know I’ve been failing at pushing outside of my norms, just like she accused.
I pull into Pax’s driveway, regret sitting on one shoulder, desire on the other. I should have asked him to come home or meet at Beam Me Up, the coffee house where I work—anywhere but the scene of the crime. My only relief is that no one is home—even my brother. I grab my biology textbook and sit on the front porch, hoping I can get enough studying in that I might see the back of my eyelids before the date changes again.
I’m reading the notes in my used textbook, working to decipher if I’m that clueless or if the person who previously owned this textbook was a genius, when an engine directs my attention to a black truck pulling up next to my car.
Lincoln.
“Hey,” he says, climbing out of his truck. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a collared shirt.
My stomach twists, instantly turning sour.
He’s dressed up.
For a date?
But he’s getting home early, and alone. I pull in a deep breath, hating myself for every second spent thinking entirely too much about him.
I sit straighter, closing my textbook, willing myself to stop analyzing the situation. “Hey.”
“Everything okay?”
I swallow, looking at the driveway, the yard, the house across the street—at everything but him. “Yeah, I’m just waiting for Pax. He said he needed some help with his computer.”
“I think he went to meet Candace.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that. But, he said he’d be here at eight.”
He glances at his watch. “You’ve been here an hour?”
I cringe, feeling the judgement of waiting outside on their front porch for an hour. I’m sure he assumes I was waiting for him. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the time.”
“Don’t you have a key?” He moves past me, unlocking the door.
“Why would I?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
I slowly stand, gripping my textbook like it’s a shield capable of disguising the emotions that are multiplying so fast I’m worried they’re written across my skin, exposing my vulnerability and exactly how undone I feel when he’s near.
“You want something to drink?” he asks, flipping on lights as he continues into the kitchen, leaving me to trail slowly behind him.
“That’s okay. I should probably get going.”
“Don’t leave on my account.” He pulls open the fridge and grabs a beer.
“I have a class at seven.”
Half the contents of his beer vanish in one drink. It’s then I finally look at him and actually see him for the first time in two weeks. His jaw is hardened, his eyes distant and angry. Each visible muscle is contracted—even his free hand is balled into a fist at his side.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes swing to mine, his intensity rising. Lincoln has always invaded every space he’s occupied, like he’s too much of everything to be contained. Too good of an athlete, too much masculinity, too much him. “What does everyone expect from you?”
I blink back my surprise, hearing his question on a loop as I work to process the direction of the conversation. “People don’t know I exist,” I tell him. “The expectations I have are mostly theoretical.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Someone thinks that if Paxton has a brother or sister, they shouldn’t get doors opened for them. I’m an if in a hypothetical situation most of the time, and the other times…” I hate trailed off sentences, but going down this path feels too raw and unexplored, especially to travel it with Lincoln.
“Why do you constantly censor yourself?” His words are a bite. An accusation.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.” He finishes his beer and shakes his head as he turns away.
I pull in a deep breath and hold it while my thoughts pass by on an internal freeway. “If I tell you that by just being a female has a large majority believing I’ll fail, you’re going to roll your eyes at me and assume I’m a crazy feminist with an idealistic agenda. If I say my mom wants me to consider taking some courses as a backup option and tries to disguise the suggestion with comments like I might enjoy or it might be fun, you’re going to think I’m c
razy for assuming it’s anything more than support. If I say my dad didn’t allow me to do anything or watch anything until I memorized the periodic table when I turned thirteen and randomly quizzes me in attempt to stump me, you’ll assume he’s trying to motivate me.” I press my lips into a thin line. “My sister wants me to date around but doesn’t believe I can, and Paxton doesn’t want me within fifty feet of a dude. And my best friend took a mallet to the heart this summer, and I don’t know how to help her.” I shake my head. “But, even to my own ears, these ‘expectations’ sounds so ridiculous and petty when I’ve been given opportunities many could only dream of. I mean, Maggie’s in a country where girls aren’t even able to get an education, and I’m complaining about…” I shake my head slowly. “…things that really don’t matter.”
“So, you think because others have it harder than you, you can’t feel badly about the way others treat you?”
“That’s the thing. No one’s treating me badly.”
He stares at me, his own thoughts passing on a silent freeway, one he doesn’t pause or make any attempt to express. I don’t have the balls to call him out. His eyes aren’t windows, they’re walls.
I think about their game schedule, attempting to ascertain if that could be a contributor. The team was out of town for a game this past weekend, and I missed their last home game and the dinner my parents hosted because I had to work, but I watched the highlights, and both games were blowouts in our favor.
I rub my lips together, the strawberry balm I applied an hour ago still fragrant. I have no idea how to help sort through whatever demons or expectations he’s struggling with, and based on his empty stare, he knows that.
“Are you worried about the scouts? School?”
He laughs, but it’s mirthless, and his gaze somehow becomes more distant before he opens the fridge and pulls out another beer. “How was your date?” He stresses the T sound.
I pull my chin back, wondering how we managed to get to this side road and why. “My date?”
Lincoln tips his head back, the beer pouring down his throat, revealing what I fear might be another bad habit that would likely fall under self-sabotage. “Derek.”
Apprehension has my thoughts speeding up.
Is he mad about Derek?
Jealous?
“What did you guys do?”
“We didn’t.”
He lowers his beer, surprise cocking his chin as he looks at me. “You told him no?”
“Why does it matter?”
“He’s a dick.”
“I’m pretty sure the same question applies.”
He takes another drink, closing his eyes like he’s searching for joy within the act. “Because he’s a dick. If you want to sleep with the rugby team, do it, but don’t fuck things up for Pax by sleeping with Derek. You’ll make things worse.”
Blood whooshes in my ears. Anger building with regret. Something twinges in my chest, something far too similar to embarrassment, which feels more unfair than the regret.
His eyes narrow. “Stop censoring your fucking words.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You knew that, yet you were still willing to hump my leg.”
Disgust sets in, making my voice louder and my tone accusing as blood pumps ferociously, making my muscles limber and warm while my mind ushers the fastest escape routes and excuses. Pride keeps me glued in place for a moment, waiting for his own reasons to catch up—for some semblance of kindness or remorse to grace his features.
Neither appear.
“I didn’t hump your leg. For the record, that was you. That was all you.”
“I was just giving you what you wanted.” He finishes his beer.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Disgusting, but honest.”
I grip my bag and turn toward the door, swinging it open so hard the edge of it cuts painfully against my wrist. I slam it behind me and make a beeline for my car. Anger has tears forming in my eyes, blurring the street and my ability to speed away as I’d like. They fall down my face, fat, hot pools that coast down each of my cheeks, leaving chilled paths in their wake. If anger hadn’t always made me cry tears of frustration, I might be worried about the brittle feeling in my chest, but years of trying to stop this reaction assures me it’s my pride and patience that’s fracturing.
16
I spend the fifteen minutes it takes to get home taking deep breaths and counting out of order, a trick Poppy’s mom constantly suggests to her patients. The strange order and lack of sequence distract you enough to break whatever evil loop has taken center stage in the mind. My lips and cheeks both feel swollen, but my vision and nose are clear. I climb the five porch stairs in two steps and enter the key code into the door.
The living room and kitchen are vacant, allowing me to pocket my prepared excuse. A note on the fridge reads:
I put your food in the fridge. I’m having an early night because I have to get up early. Dad ran to the campus to get some extra work in. Call us if you need anything.
Love you, Mom
The beginning of each semester is a constant zoo for each of them. I crumple the note and toss it into the trash, my appetite gone.
I turn to head for my room when a sound roots me in place. My thoughts cease as I listen closely, then the door from Dad’s office bursts open, and he appears. His wide smile freezes and his eyes grow as he notices me. “You startled me, kiddo.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” I tell him. “Mom left a note saying you were at Brighton?”
“I brought my work home. They were cleaning the carpets tonight.” He stops at the fridge. “Were you able to get Paxton’s computer fixed?”
I shrug. “He never showed up.”
Dad’s brow lowers as he clears his throat, turning away from me. “That’s weird. Did you call him?”
“No, I took advantage of the extra hour and did some biology homework.”
“You know, I spoke with Professor Bachman, and she said she’d allow you to transfer into her Business Management class if you’re interested.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know how I’d make time for it.”
“Well, think about it. It’s a great opportunity.” He plucks a green bottle of wine with a yellow label from the fridge. “What are your plans for the evening?”
“I’m going to go call Poppy.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
He nods. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work.” He reaches for a wine glass. “Think about the offer, though, okay?”
I nod, watching him retreat several paces before flipping on each switch to guide my way to my room where I listen to Poppy’s phone ring three times before she answers.
“Are your ears burning?” she asks.
“Should they be?”
“I was literally just about to call you. What do you know about definite integral rules?”
My throat grows tight. Hearing her voice makes me want to deposit the contents of my heart into her lap and see if she can make sense of the pieces. “If you come over and bring Oreos, I’ll teach you everything about definite integral rules.”
“Rae? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you crying?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
Her compassion makes my bottom lip tremble.
“What happened?” Her voice is rushed—urgent.
“Nothing that Oreo’s can’t fix.”
“Who do I have to cut?”
I chuckle, leaning back against my white paneled headboard. “We’ll discuss it when you get here.”
“You want me to stay on the line with you?”
“No, I’m fine. I just need my bestie.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Drive safe.” I hang up before she can ask more questions. I need a couple of minutes to compose myself.
A stray tear trickles out the corner of my eye. Frustrated, I swipe it away and stand so I can change into sweats and the warmest pair of fuzzy socks I can find to warm my feet. Fashion had me sacrificing socks all day, and the thin canvas of my shoes did little to shield the cold.
Fifteen minutes later, a muffled knock on the front door has me shuffling down the stairs. Poppy’s on the other side of the glass panes, her head cocked, attempting to read my expression before I can even get the door open. Her hands are full with two packages of Oreos in one and a drink tray with iced coffees in the other.
“You didn’t have to get coffee, too.”
Her head tips further. “I think the last time you asked me to come over because something was wrong was sophomore year when stupid Aaron Grandy told everyone he had sex with you.”
“He was a vile human being,” I say, taking the drink tray from her and closing the door.
“The worst.”
“Lincoln Beckett is trying to be a contender as well.”
Poppy is silent, only her eyes revealing her surprise for several seconds. Then, she points to the staircase, ushering me forward.
I shuffle back to my room with Poppy on my heels. “What happened?” she whisper-yells.
I close the door before I turn to face her, taking the drink with whipped cream and removing the lid. “You know that party we went to two weekends ago?”
“Yes…”
“Remember how we went to Paxton’s afterward?”
“Do you think I’ve come down with amnesia? Yes. Of course, I remember.”
“Well, do you remember when I went out to grab my phone charger?”
She’s silent, tracking the correct memory. “Yeah…”
“Well, Lincoln went outside, too.” I suck in a deep breath, then release an even longer one. “At the party, when Lincoln and I went to find pants for Paxton, we kind of had this strange moment—”
“If you guys had sex and you didn’t tell me, I need to prepare myself so I’m not upset.” She pulls in a deep breath and closes her eyes, both hands extended, signaling for me to wait. “Okay, did you sleep with him?” She peeks at me through her long lashes.