Cherry

by Lindsey Rosin

  “You need a ride?”

  “I’m okay,” Alex said, trying to give him a nice but firm brush-off.

  “Are you though? Really?” Oliver pressed. “Are we?”

  “We?”

  “Obviously you’re mad at me—”

  “Why would I be mad at you? It’s not like you said you wanted to hang out on Valentine’s Day and then spent the whole night before making out with some other girl—”

  “It was mostly adrenaline.”

  “That’s a lame excuse.”

  “I wished it was you the whole time,” Oliver insisted, sounding even lamer. Alex rolled her eyes. “I don’t care if you think that sounds like a line. It’s the truth.”

  “Yeah, well, the problem with you is that it’s too hard to tell the difference.”

  Oliver nodded, absorbing that. It didn’t seem like he was going to try to argue. “You sure you don’t need a ride home?” he asked finally.

  “I’m sure,” Alex said as convincingly as she possibly could.

  The good news was that her words and her feelings were actually one and the same. She didn’t need a ride home—and she honestly didn’t need Oliver, either. Right now she didn’t need much of anything, and that was a phenomenal feeling. As she watched him drive away, she couldn’t help but think that maybe this would be the first day of the rest of the year. Maybe now she was ready to wholeheartedly believe in herself and get over her fears and have enough faith and finally break the track record and all of that.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe Alex should just get used to feeling more wrong than right.

  Her phone buzzed. Oliver had sent her a new text message.

  Two text messages, actually.

  The first said: it is bigger, I swear

  The second was a picture of his penis.

  Alex understood dick pics even less than she understood hickeys. She didn’t see the point. It seemed to turn boys on way more to send them than it did for her—or any girls she knew—to actually get them . . . Ugh. Now Alex couldn’t help but wonder how many other girls had already gotten this very same picture from Oliver.

  She deleted it without even really looking at it.

  Well.

  No.

  That was a lie.

  She looked at it for about ten seconds first.

  Maybe twenty.

  But the whole time she was looking, a jumble of thoughts raced through her head. She wondered why he had sent it to her exactly and what he was thinking about when he took it and what he thought she would be thinking about when she saw it . . . and then also what she was actually thinking, which was a two part answer mixed together as one: the first part was that his penis was larger than she had expected—not that she was expecting it in the first place, but still, it was—and the second was that she didn’t think penises were particularly sexy looking. At least not in pictures. As far as pictures were concerned, she was far more impressed by abs or lips or maybe even just a piercing set of eyes. Alex could imagine that some other girls might like getting this kind of picture. Maybe some other girls would even be turned on by it, and that was all fine or good or whatever, but Alex knew she wasn’t one of those girls.

  After what could not have possibly been more then thirty seconds—tops—she finally deleted Oliver’s picture. And she definitely did not text him back.

  Of course, that didn’t stop him from texting her again.

  And again and again.

  He wanted a picture of her in return.

  Of course he did.

  117 days until graduation . . .

  LAYLA never got anything important in the mail.

  Her parents got bills and junk and the occasional party invitation, but no one ever sent Layla anything important.

  Until today.

  The University of Southern California wasn’t just Layla’s first choice school, it was basically her only choice. Layla’s parents had gone to school there. It’s where they met and fell in love, and it was the only school Layla had ever wanted to go to. Now Layla sat on her bed looking at the envelope. It was big and thick and proudly stamped with an emblem from USC. Layla knew it was good news. You didn’t get a thick envelope unless it was an acceptance. She knew her parents would be thrilled. And her siblings, too. And all her teachers. And The Crew, of course. The only person she wasn’t entirely sure about was Logan. Things had been decidedly different between them since Valentine’s Day.

  “Obviously, I’m ready—whenever you are,” Logan had said the next time they sat off campus after one of their usual off campus make-out sessions. Layla knew that. But she also knew she still wasn’t, so they decided it would happen whenever it was supposed to happen.

  “We’re releasing the plan,” Layla told the girls at lunch a few days later. They all nodded and laughed—and she knew they all only sort of believed her.

  And then, as luck or the universe or whoever would have it, Layla ended up with an empty house that very same night. Her parents and siblings were all out and about and all she had to do was text Logan, and he could’ve come over, and they could’ve closed any of the doors—or all of the doors—and done whatever they wanted in any room or on any bed or anywhere . . .

  . . . But she didn’t text Logan.

  And she felt guilty about not doing it, but not nearly as guilty as she would’ve if he’d driven all the way to her empty house, with the two condoms in his glove compartment, and then she still hadn’t been able to do it with him. It seemed simpler to just avoid the situation altogether.

  Today, however, she texted Logan to come over as soon as she got home from school and saw the big envelope waiting for her. Logan had to stay late. Something about a student council project. Layla wasn’t really sure. She had been too consumed by the envelope.

  The one that now sat between them on her trampoline. “This is it,” she said solemnly.

  “You might want to actually open it before you start making too many big, emotional plans.”

  “Whatever it says, you’re still gonna be in Philadelphia next year,” Layla said.

  “Please just open it,” Logan pushed, not wanting to have that conversation again.

  As Layla went to open the envelope, she noticed that the last remnant of her Valentine’s Day manicure was still clinging to her nails. The coat of red polish that had looked perfect just a couple weeks ago was now all chipped and fading. Now it was all just a mess.

  Layla couldn’t help but think that was thematically appropriate.

  “‘Congratulations, Layla Baxter,’” she read out loud from the letter.

  “Yay!” Logan cheered, interrupting her. “Victory!!” he yelled, holding up his fingers up in the shape of a V. “Is this what they do? That victory thing?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Layla, come on. Since I’ve known you, all you’ve talked about is going to school at USC. ‘Congratulations’ means you did it! Why do you look so miserable? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” she tried to lie.

  It didn’t work.

  “We’ve known we were gonna be on opposite sides of the country next year for months,” Logan said. “What did you think was going to happen?”

  Layla shook her head. She didn’t know. She had done her best to mentally prepare for this moment. She knew it was coming, but the reality of it still hurt. Now, officially: Logan was going to spend the next four years in Philadelphia and Layla was not.

  She could feel all of her emotions creeping up on her, washing over her. She felt powerless to stop them. She felt disconnected from Logan and all the things she thought she’d wanted so badly even just a few weeks ago.

  And so.

  When Logan said he wanted to take a break, Layla had no choice but to agree with him.

  The words had blindsided her, knocking the breath out of her chest and the blood out of her brain, dislodging the tears from behind her eyes . . . but, deep
down, Layla had to admit she’d seen it coming. “Okay,” she said.

  “You agree?”

  “No. But I understand why you’re saying it.” Actually, she didn’t. She didn’t understand. That was a lie, and Layla really was an absolutely horrible liar.

  “I love you to the moon and back,” Logan said the way he always did. Layla knew that he meant it, he really did love her, but maybe that just wasn’t enough anymore. “I just . . . ,” he tried to explain, trailing off.

  “I just won’t sleep with you,” Layla said, completing his sentence.

  “Stop,” Logan said sharply.

  “If I said, ‘Let’s go right now,’ I don’t think you’d be walking out the door.”

  “Layla, obviously I want to have sex with you! Right now? Tomorrow? Since the first day I laid eyes on you? Yes, please, let’s have sex. But. Clearly, I can’t do it without you, and you don’t want to do it with me, so . . .”

  Layla didn’t know quite what to say anymore. She wiped a tear from her eye before it could fall down her cheek, but Logan saw it. And he heard it loud and clear.

  He took a break.

  He took a breath.

  He ran his fingers through his hair.

  And then he softened his voice and started again as sweetly as he possibly could. “I’m not trying to make you feel worse than you already do.”

  “I know,” Layla said.

  She really did know that part.

  “But don’t you think it says something that you didn’t want to sleep with me—and that you still don’t? This isn’t me trying to pressure you, I swear. This is just me. And I’m just saying I think there’s a reason you aren’t feeling it . . .”

  Now all the tears were streaming down Layla’s checks. She couldn’t wipe them away fast enough. Logan watched her cry, giving her the time and space and silence that she needed. Layla appreciated him more in this moment than she had in a very long time.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to say.

  “I hate seeing you cry, but you’re pretty damn adorable while you do it, so it’s confusing . . .” Logan smiled a sad, little smile. For the first time ever even his dimple looked sad. And his face, too. It was full of appreciation. And love. And a little bit of loss.

  Layla felt the same way.

  “It’s all the feels . . . ,” she said, almost beginning to laugh through the tears.

  She loved and hated this feeling so much.

  “It is . . . ,” Logan agreed, quickly trailing off before any more words could come out of his mouth. It was the first time Layla thought he might actually cry too. And then that made her eyes burst into a fresh, new set of tears. Fully explosive waterworks. And it wasn’t just because of Logan. It was everything. The Crew. The end. The pact. The plan. It was all of it, and now it was all streaming down her face and staining her cheeks and causing a giant snot bubble to slip out from her nose. It was an ugly cry at its ugliest. And Layla needed it.

  “I love you, Layla,” Logan said again after enough time had passed. This time, his words sounded like the good-bye that they were. “And I always want to have love for you. But I’m worried if we don’t break now . . .”

  “Do you want to break? Or break up?” Layla asked.

  “I don’t want to let it get so bad that I feel like I’m going to really lose you.”

  “You don’t have to lose me at all,” Layla said after some silence.

  But Logan had already made up his mind.

  This was it.

  After he left, it took Layla two hours and fourteen minutes to text The Chat. Layla didn’t want to text them, but she knew that she had to. She knew that was the part that would make it feel real. That was the part that would hurt the most.

  And it did.

  She didn’t text Logan again, though.

  She couldn’t.

  She also couldn’t eat dinner.

  Or talk to anyone.

  She couldn’t do much of anything except watch the minutes tick off the clock. And listen to her sobs. And feel all her tears. And then the phantom tears too. The ones that didn’t actually fall after all of the real tears had already rolled down her cheeks. Layla felt like there should still be more tears, but there just literally wasn’t any more salt water left in her entire body. Layla didn’t know there was a limit to that sort of thing. But apparently there was.

  Apparently, maybe, there was a limit to every sort of thing.

  Even love, she thought.

  Maybe, she hated to think, especially love.

  115 days until graduation . . .

  EMMA understood the importance of a good distraction.

  “Savannah is having a big birthday party tomorrow night,” Emma said as they sat at their lunch table. “At her dad’s. Her friend’s gonna DJ. We should go. It’s gonna be awesome and I’m sure Savannah would appreciate it.” Emma hadn’t really told the girls all that much about Savannah. They knew she worked on the yearbook and the newspaper, but besides the facts Emma hadn’t shared all that much. Mostly it was because, Emma being Emma, she didn’t know what to say exactly, but she knew that she wanted them to come with her to her birthday party. But Alex already had a Star Wars movie date with her brother, Max, and Zoe had an actual date with Austin. Layla tried to say she was going to stay in and watch a movie, but Emma shot that down really quickly.

  “Nope,” Emma insisted.

  “Nope?”

  “Friends don’t let friends throw themselves pity parties.”

  “I’m not throwing anything . . .”

  “Exactly. You’re coming with me to Savannah’s. You need to.” It had only been about forty-eight hours since she and Logan broke up, but Layla was barely functioning. She was still referring to the whole thing as a “break” even though it was very clearly and definitively a breakup. It’s not like any of the girls expected Layla to be all “okay” all of a sudden or anything, but this was worse than Emma had ever seen. She knew Layla needed a push in the right direction. “And the truth is I’m really not asking you to come with me, I’m telling you. It’s time to get up, dress up, show up.”

  “Oh, look at you, using some of my favorite words against me . . .”

  Yep. Emma knew exactly what she was doing. She ­rattled off a few more of Layla’s favorite sayings for good ­measure. “Fake it till you make it. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Be gentle to your ­precious little soul.”

  “O-kay. Serenity now. I hear you,” Layla said, finally cracking a smile.

  114 days until graduation . . .

  LAYLA did not want to go to Savannah’s party.

  At all.

  But she also knew Emma was right. She had to do something. Moping wasn’t going to get her anywhere and at least once she and Emma got to the party, and drank some beer, Layla stopped feeling so sorry for herself . . . she had to admit she was having a marginally good time.

  At least a much better time than she had expected.

  To be fair, most of the goodness was because of Wyatt, the cute boy she’d been talking to for the past ten minutes. Wyatt went to Venice High School. He owned a skateboard and a surfboard and a guitar. And he had longish blond hair that kept falling in front of his eyes. When Emma first saw him approaching, she made a joke that he could be the Ken to Layla’s Barbie. Layla wasn’t looking for a Ken—she wasn’t looking for anything, honestly, and couldn’t stop thinking about Logan—but Wyatt’s grin had managed to occupy at least a little space in Layla’s brain, and Emma forced an introduction and then had somehow managed to slip away, saying she needed a beer refill, and just never came back. So far it was all working out fine. Wyatt was easy to talk to and even easier to look at, and just as Layla began to think that this enjoyable moment might be a sign from the universe, a reminder that she needed to trust the timing of her life and accept that Logan was right about needing to take a break slash breakup . . .

  . . . it happened.

  It started simply enough.
>
  Wyatt called her a cutie, which wasn’t even all that remarkable as far as compliments go, but she couldn’t remember the last time she got a compliment from a boy who wasn’t Logan. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. And her heartbeat. It all made her look down at her feet and the floor and the Ping-Pong ball that just happened to be rolling down the hallway. It rolled under the kitchen table until it came to an abrupt stop next to Logan’s sneaker. Her first thought was that she wasn’t expecting to see Logan at the party, but then she couldn’t help but think about the stupid Ping-Pong ball. She wondered why he wasn’t bending down to pick it up . . . until her eyes drifted up his legs which led her to Vanessa Martin’s legs and then to Vanessa’s skirt and her hips, which were on top of Logan’s jeans and his hips, and then to Vanessa’s hands, which were basically under Logan’s shirt, and Layla couldn’t tell whose tongue was in whose mouth, but it looked like the answer was that both of their tongues were in each other’s mouths at the very same time, and the whole thing was the absolute worst thing she had ever seen.

  “You okay?” Wyatt asked, mostly oblivious to the situ­ation.

  Layla managed a little nod. She also managed to put her number in Wyatt’s phone. But that was all she could do. She had to get out of there. Immediately. But just before she could make her way out of the living room, Logan pulled away from Vanessa and looked up just long enough to catch Layla’s eyes. She could feel her her cheeks turning red and her lips begin to quiver.

  Clearly Logan wasn’t expecting to see her tonight either.

  * * *

  EMMA walked through the party, looking for Savannah.

  She didn’t really know anybody else here, but she recognized everyone’s faces and knew most of their names. She’d seen all of their yearbook pictures. She knew which clubs they were in and what they wore to school dances and which Superlatives they’d been awarded, but she didn’t actually know them. Before Emma could get lost in a drunken thought pattern about how hard it was to actually know anyone in this big, crazy world, her phone started buzzing.