Impossible Love, The Complete Before You Go Series

by James, Clare

  I level a long stare at Noah, stunned he could say that to me. Or even think it.

  Then I take the beers and go back to my game.

  I feel Noah’s eyes on me the entire time.

  Chapter 13

  That night, after Michael leaves, I find the two things he left for me. The first is a bag of all my ballet slippers. I pull them out and set them all around my bed, reaching out to stroke the leather and satin.

  Next to the bag is a piece of paper—a message on the university letterhead that reads in bold print, “Company B dance tryouts are December 30th.” Then in Michael’s scrawl: I think you should consider it. I’ll be back to see you again soon. In the meantime, let me know if you need anything. I’ve got your back, little sis.

  That he does, I think curling up under my covers.

  I don’t know what I would’ve done without Michael last year, especially the day Thomas’ friends came after me. The day that continues to give me nightmares.

  I remember I could feel them behind me as I headed to my dorm room. It had only been a week since everything went down, but I quickly became the resident scapegoat. Once everything became public, my friends abandoned me, playing shocked and horrified while Thomas played the victim. He actually had everyone believing that the whole thing was my fault. I was the slut who came to strip at the party, got drunk and out of control, and started pointing fingers. And poor Thomas had to sit out two games while the embarrassing mess got sorted out.

  His act worked well. After all, he had the pictures to prove it.

  Even my parents wouldn’t rock the boat with his family. Apparently, the partnership between Mr. Richardson’s company and my stepfather’s was what funded my mom’s lifestyle, and she wasn’t willing to give it up.

  When I turned the corner that day, I could feel Johnny Milton and gang on my heels. Johnny was Thomas’ best friend and he was pissed that Thomas was forced to sit out two games because of me.

  Then they all started in with that whole fake cough routine—hurling the worst of insults.

  “Slut.”

  They started closing in.

  “Trash.”

  I moved faster.

  “Whore.”

  I was in the hallway, just a few more steps to my room.

  Johnny Milton yelled, “There she is guys, the poster child for STDs.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just kept walking, inching toward my door.

  By this time people were peeking out of their dorm rooms, gathering in the hallway. Then Milton threw a condom at me and said, “Tabby, maybe next time you decide to put on a little show and make your way around the hockey team, you should use protection.”

  The package hit my back.

  When I reached the door to my dorm room, it was papered with photos of me at the party posing with various guys. Of course, their faces were blacked out. I was topless and bombed out of my mind, there in color for everyone to see.

  I remember the way the walls tilted in and the floor moved in waves after I scanned the photos. I was dying. Bit by bit. The name-calling and attacks were getting worse and there was nobody to save me.

  I took it. I took whatever they threw at me every day, because I deserved it. Because what I did was bad, and gross, and stupid. And it made me bad. And gross. And stupid.

  I stopped in my tracks, stared at the ground, and told my feet to run, but they didn’t listen. Slowly giving up, I took a deep breath and tried to focus. Milton moved in, catching my shoulder. He spun me around so I faced him and his gang of mutts.

  But before Milton could say anything, someone approached him. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Then a rough spin landed him ninety degrees in the other direction. The rest of Milton’s pack scattered.

  It was Michael.

  And Michael’s fist.

  It dove in and landed on the side of Milton’s face.

  There was a loud slapping noise, followed by a crunch. I tightened my arms around my body. Michael was silent for the entire altercation, until his ass kicking left Johnny Milton curled up on the floor. Then he bent down and leaned in real close.

  “You got off easy this time, you dumb fuck,” he spit. “The next time you bother my sister, you won’t get up. You get me?”

  Milton moaned.

  “I said, do you get me?” Michael asked again after a kick to Milton’s ribs.

  “Yeah,” cough, cough (real ones this time). “I get you, I get you,” he said.

  Milton never bothered me again.

  Too bad that wasn’t the end of it.

  Chapter 14

  The following Monday, Noah and Jenna are having another strained exchange in front of Professor Sands’ class. I duck my head and try to shuffle by them again. This time, I’m nearly knocked over by Jenna as she pushes her way ahead of me through the door. I regain my composure and get to my seat.

  Before class even starts, Jenna stands up and flings her designer school bag in a dramatic swoop that clears the surface of my desk and sends my papers flitting and my pencil rolling.

  She doesn’t even look back—out of ignorance or arrogance, I’m not sure.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pick that up,” I mumble. “I’m invisible anyway.”

  “No.” Jenna turns around with an icy expression. “But I wish you were.”

  Funny thing, I’m not even upset. It doesn’t matter. I’m only buying time here, simply trying to get through each day. Nothing more.

  “Classy,” I mutter just low enough that she can’t hear me.

  Unfortunately, he can.

  “Aw, give her a break,” Noah’s voice snaps from behind. “She’s having a rough day,” he adds trying to come off laid back, but I can hear the irritation in his voice and I shiver. That familiar feeling of judgment and disdain is back and a stifling sadness washes over me.

  I hate that he’s gotten under my skin.

  “Who isn’t?” I say over my shoulder.

  “Hey.” He touches my elbow. “Are you okay?”

  Could this guy have any more crazy mood swings?

  I turn to face him. “Yes, I’m great. Between your little speech at the bar and Jenna’s regular tantrums, it’s a complete pleasure to sit between the two of you.”

  I start to turn back when he grabs my elbow.

  “What do you mean my little speech?” He looks confused.

  “You know, that I’m basically a slut with the way I act around men.”

  Noah flinches as my words come out. “What?” He’s almost yells before he realizes it. “Tabby,” he whispers now. “I would never say anything like that.”

  “Oh really,” I cock my head to the side. “Because you did.” I whip back around in my chair. I don’t want to look at his perfect, judging face anymore.

  But I can’t leave it alone. What he thinks does matter to me.

  I turn back to him again. “And just so you know, you were the first and only guy I’ve ever brought back to my apartment. I have no interest in Foster, but Jules introduced us and it was nice to maybe count two people as friends in a city where my only social interaction is dinner with my parents. And that guy at the bar? He’s my brother, you pretentious dick.”

  And with that, I storm out.

  Chapter 15

  In the morning, I get ready for my appointment with Dr. Payne, my shrink. And yes, that is her real name. You can’t make this shit up. The timing is perfect after my little confrontation with Noah. I smile at the memory.

  It felt so good!

  Dr. Payne and I have had more than two dozen sessions in the past three months, so she pretty much knows everything that happened. Actually, she knew most of it from our first family session. Dad pulled no punches and pretty much laid it all out on the table.

  Thankfully, I go to therapy by myself now and we’re down to one day a week.

  Today, Dr. Payne waits for me on the steps of her old Victorian where she houses her psychiatric practice in Uptown. She slides her orange reading glasses down
the tip of her nose and greets me with a smile and a hug. Sometimes we go into her office to talk, but most sessions are held in the multicolored rocking chairs on the porch.

  “Have a seat Tabitha,” Dr. Payne says in her raspy voice, gesturing to the row of chairs. I hate this part. It seems like a test. I worry about the color of the chair I select. Does it mean something if I take a seat in the chair closest to the garden or closest to the door?

  She studies me as I make my selection, I’m sure of it. That makes me even more nervous.

  I realize it’s taking me too long to make a decision so I grab the chair closest to me and sit. It’s the red one. Dr. Payne takes a seat in my rocker’s blue neighbor.

  “How are you, Tabitha?” she asks, sliding her glasses up her long face.

  On. Off. On. Off. All session, she messes with her glasses. It drives me insane.

  “I’m fine I guess,” I tell her with a yawn.

  It’s early, too early for therapy.

  “So tell me about your adjustment to school,” Dr. Payne says in her soft voice—the voice she uses to coax information out of me.

  “It’s going okay,” I tell her. But when she raises an eyebrow, I know she wants more, so I continue with absolutely everything I can think of. Yes, this stuff I can talk about.

  I tell her about my classes in great detail, trying to take up as much time as possible. We talk about the dance production that I went to see with Dad and Amy and I see her wheels turning. I have a feeling that will be the subject of further discussion. We talk about the newspaper and we even talk about Noah. Of course, I keep a close guard over that topic. I work hard not to blush at his name, and there is absolutely no mention about my failed Take Back the Night project. Oh, what a field day she’d have with that bit of information.

  Then, once she has me comfortable, Dr. Payne fires off her usual lists of questions about my feelings and state of mind, to which I reply, “It’ll be okay. I’m feeling better. Talking about it helps.”

  Denial, denial, denial.

  Productive to my therapy? No, but it usually gets me out of the session still intact. Resistance is futile, et cetera, et cetera.

  “So you mentioned your dad and Amy, but what about your mother and stepdad. What’s going on there?”

  Crap. I need to sidestep this question.

  “Things are getting better,” I lie. “And I saw Michael last week.”

  “How is your brother?” she asks.

  “Good, I think.” I have to guess here, usually my conversations with Michael are solely focused on me. I feel the shame as I just now make this realization. I’ve been taking, taking, taking. Taking from everyone, and not giving a thing back.

  I look down, too ashamed to look her in the eyes. I can’t even answer a simple question. That’s all it takes and suddenly I’m sinking, lower than low.

  I. Hate. Myself.

  Correction: I will pretend I’m okay. Fake it until I make it.

  And so begins the battle.

  The shrink notices something’s gone wrong. “What is it, Tabitha?”

  “Nothing, everything is just fine.” Even I can hear the edge in my voice.

  She dismisses it and moves on. She’s good at that.

  “Okay then, I’d like to take a step back in time for the rest of our session,” she says, paging through her notes. “I think you are still carrying a lot of weight from the events last year, and I think it’d really help to discuss it.”

  That little snake.

  “I’d like to talk about what lead to the events on Thomas’ birthday,” she continues.

  “We’ve talked about this already,” I say. “At length.”

  “Yes, we’ve talked about what happened that night and after, but never really before. I want to know why you decided to go to the party with Megan and dance for Thomas and his friends.”

  “Well,” I begin, too tired to fight. Sometimes it’s just easier to give her what she wants. “It wasn’t really that thought out. Megan was always telling me I needed to loosen up. She thought it’d be fun. ‘It’s just an innocent little dance,’ she told me. She said Thomas would love it. Looking back, I think he’s the one who put her up to it.”

  “What kind of guy was he, Tabby?”

  That was the thing. The thing I couldn’t really explain to myself or anyone else. In my head I knew I was nothing more than a hook-up to him. But sometimes I wasn’t so sure. Sometimes when I was with him, I felt like it was more, or at least had the possibility of being more. So I let it play out. Hoping.

  That’s why it was so hard to believe he let that happen to me the night of his party. That he didn’t do anything to stop it. Or, even worse, that he planned it from the beginning.

  Once I threatened to take legal action, Mom immediately got our attorneys involved. The lawyers suggested going the civil route instead of criminal court—apparently the photos floating around campus did not make for a strong criminal case. I hated the thought of a civil lawsuit because I knew that even if Thomas was found guilty, the most that would come out of it would be a dent in his family’s bank account. The case didn’t even get that far. We went to mediation, his attorneys paid me off, and that was it. I never even wanted to take the settlement, but the lawyers (and Mom) insisted.

  To summarize, I was basically pimped out to Thomas and his friends in exchange for a six-figure settlement. Thanks, Mom.

  Afterwards, Thomas didn’t answer my calls or texts and he pretended not to see me in school. I didn’t have the courage to pursue it any further. He was out and I was on my own. All I wanted was to forget—and for everyone else to do the same.

  I don’t tell Dr. Payne all of this because I must convince her I’m better. I edit, make it less dramatic, tell her it was a difficult time but I’m getting over it.

  Dr. Payne taps her pen on her notebook. I know she wants to pump me for more information, but our hour is almost up.

  “Tabby, I know how difficult talking about this stuff can be,” she says moving into the wrap it up portion of our session. She rests her hand over the death grip I have on the red rocker.

  “But you did great today,” she goes on. “We are making tremendous progress. The downside is all this talk might make it tempting to slip away from us again. But don’t go back there, Tabby.” Urgency now replaces her calm matter. The drastic change in her voice is jarring. It makes me listen. “Don’t go back to the time when all you did was react to others, instead of listen to yourself,” she says without giving me time to respond like she usually does. For the first time, she doesn’t want to hear from me. She’s in full-on lecture mode.

  “It’s time to move forward, Tabby. Time for you to build the life you want to live and stop being a victim.”

  My blood starts to boil. What did she know about it? Listening to me for a few hours a week gave her the right to tell me how to feel, how to live?

  If she saw me that night with Noah, she wouldn’t call me a victim.

  No, she had no idea what I was capable of.

  I stopped being a victim a long time ago.

  Chapter 16

  After the nightmarish therapy session, I’m back on campus with fifteen minutes to spare before Professor Cass expects me in political science. Dr. Payne has put me in what my mother would call a foul mood and I’m so not up for a lecture on the Articles of Confederation. And the thought of having to listen to Jenna’s drama and watching her little posse of wannabes hang on her every word gives me a headache.

  There is only one place I want to be right now and I can’t go home so I go to the restroom to regain my composure.

  Dr. Payne’s words play in my head.

  Victim.

  Don’t let yourself be a victim.

  Dr. Payne’s voice won’t leave me alone and I start to feel claustrophobic. The solitude isn’t working. I need air. I need people, noise, distractions. I open the door to leave and bump into Jules.

  “Hey,” she says, gripping a cigarette with he
r lips. “We missed you at Sasha’s the other night. How’s the work at the paper going?”

  “It’s going okay,” I tell her.

  She raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing me.

  “Well,” I admit. “It’d be better if our assy editor didn’t have such massive mood swings.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she says. “He means well, but after freshman year, I don’t know.” She considers her words. “He became more…intense.”

  “You seem to know a lot about him.”

  “At one time, we were good friends.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Foster too. We had some really good times.”

  “What happened?” I ask, now curious.

  “Lots of things.” She waves her hands. “We all just kind of drifted apart, I guess. Foster and I became our own island.” Jules is lost in thought for a moment.

  “Can you elaborate?” My curiosity takes over my manners.

  “It’s really not my story to tell, Tabby. But I can give you the dirt on the rest of the university populous.” She grins. “And there’s still time for a quick smoke break before poly sci. Are you in?”

  “Sure,” I say, unable to turn away from her. And though I wish she’d tell me more about Noah, I kind of respect her more for her loyalty.

  For the next seven minutes, I watch Jules blow smoke rings as she dishes out all the campus gossip. It’s funny. For a girl who seems so not into the college scene, she sure has her finger on the pulse.

  The good news is: I think I might have a new friend.

  The bad news is: I think she might be broken, too.

  Chapter 17

  Lonely in my apartment, I take Dad and Amy up on their dinner invitation. I could use the company, food, and a few new books for English Lit.

  “Do you mind if I check out your library?” I ask Dad. The front room of their house is filled with books. Dad is all about the classics, odd cultures, and political debates. Amy’s shelves are filled with the ladies, from Jane Austen to Alice Walker. Between the two of them, I should find something that’ll work for Professor Sands’ class.