Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  I’m pulling the three-year-old artificial Christmas tree out of the big cardboard box it came in. We keep it in our storage unit in the basement. I’ve drug out the boxes of Christmas lights and bulbs that we both bought the first year we put up our tree. As much as I’m not in a festive mood, I’ve got to do something to try and make things right with Eva. She’s a nut about Christmas. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and this past one in particular the best ever. The problem is, I can’t even pleasantly reflect on that one scrumptious memory now that I know the identity of my clown because it simply makes me feel that much sadder.

  And emptier.

  And more remorseful.

  I told my counselor in this afternoon’s session that I am ready to take the next and most important step. I am apologizing to Weston Matthews. In fact, I’ve already typed up and printed out my letter of apology to him. I’ve got one for Eva as well, though I’d prefer to talk to her first, but if she’s determined to keep shutting me out, then I’ll slide it under her bedroom door if I have to.

  I’ve got the tree assembled and the lights in place when Eva comes home from her afternoon shift at Big Daddy’s.

  “Chloe wants to know if you’ll take her lunch shift tomorrow,” she comments, as she tosses her handbag onto the couch and pulls her jacket off without really acknowledging me or the tree.

  “Sure. I’ll do a double then. No problem,” I reply, wishing that she would just acknowledge me by looking me in the face.

  “Text her then,” she replies, walking into the kitchen. “She’s got a date that she wants to prep for all damn afternoon I guess.”

  “Well good for her,” I reply brightly. “She’s a sweet girl and I’m glad she’s getting back on the horse after that crap Eddie pulled with her back in the fall.”

  I can hear Eva getting a bottle of water from the fridge. She’s silent until she uncaps it, and comes back to stand in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, finally making eye contact as she chugs down some water. “It’s funny you said that. I feel exactly the same way,” she replies, and I give her a smile that isn’t returned. Mistaking her conversation for an ice-breaker, I realize I’m wrong when she doesn’t say anything more, so I turn and start pulling bulbs from the boxes.

  “I think Weston deserves better as well,” she continues, her voice flat and direct. “In fact, that’s who she’s going out with tomorrow evening.”

  My heart thuds as I try to appear unaffected by her words. And the truth is, that the content of what she’s just told me doesn’t wound me nearly as much as the fact that Eva wants me to know. That part of it just sucks.

  “Well, I’m happy for the both of them,” I lie, because to say it doesn’t bother me that my clown is moving on does in fact cause my stomach to knot and my throat closes up like there’s something stuck in my wind pipe. And why I should even think that Weston hasn’t hooked up with anyone since his clown debut on Halloween is just plain crazy, not to mention unrealistic. But you have to understand that my mind has only until recently known that they are one in the same. In my mind, the clown was someone totally different than Weston Matthews. He was soulful, troubled, and maybe even hiding some pain of his own, the same way that I have for so many years. It’s still difficult to separate the two in my mind. But with Eva’s bit of news, I have to face the grim reality.

  “You know, Eva,” I say, still focusing on the Christmas tree. Once you’re ready to listen, I’m ready to talk. I owe people apologies at the very least and, if they’re interested, I am willing to explain---not excuse mind you, but at least explain.”

  “Maybe another day,” she replies heading towards her room. “I’m beat and Marcus is going to call later.”

  And with that, I’m dismissed by my best friend for the moment.

  Chapter 41

  For the hundredth time it seemed, Weston tried like hell to make small talk with Chloe Davis. It was going to be a long evening if she continued with the one or two word answers she seemed to be so fond of. He racked his brain to come up with some more questions for her.

  Weston had always found that chicks loved to talk about themselves, their interests, their dreams, their latest shopping trip, but fuck if Chloe was biting on any of it.

  This had clearly been a bad idea Weston thought, as they sat across the table from one another and waited for their appetizers to be served.

  “So, Chloe,” Weston started, “do you enjoy working at Big Daddy’s?”

  “Yes. I’ve met some very nice people there. Well, like you,” she finished, tossing in a nervous giggle the same way she’d done on every response she’d given him so far.

  “What do you do for fun?” he asked, taking a gulp of his water.

  “I like to watch television,” she admitted. “Mostly reality shows,” she said, giggling again.

  “What about you? What do you like to do for fun?” she asked and Weston only debated for three seconds before giving her his honest answer.

  “I like to fuck,” he replied, gazing over at her. “I like to fuck hard.” He watched as her flawless alabaster skin turned a rosy shade of pink. He almost felt bad, but not quite. Clearly, she was a work of art that had nothing inside. He’d met her at Big Daddy’s. He’d been drunk at the time, and felt it was time to get out into the world again and get laid. But hell if he would have guessed she possessed the personality of wet cardboard.

  She shifted in her chair nervously. Weston knew that he’d been a shit. Personality or not, she was a sweet girl.

  “I…I guess we could if you want,” she whispered a deeper shade of pink rising to her forehead. She was beautiful. Blonde wavy hair and bright blue eyes perfectly made up to accentuate them.

  The server brought their appetizers and the wine they’d ordered. Weston had taken her to one of the most expensive restaurants in Bainbridge since she lived there. She was graduating the following spring from Ratliff. Her major was Political Science.

  He watched as she picked at her shrimp cocktail. “Listen,” he said, “I was out of line. I’m just having a hard time finding something to make you open up.”

  “So, we can take sex off the table then?” she asked, tentatively. “Because it’s not that I wouldn’t ever want to, I mean, I’ve heard you’re really, really good and all…”

  “Let’s take it off the table,” he replied frowning. What was that about? Do chicks really tell one another everything?

  “I mean, if it’s a deal breaker, Weston…”

  She left the statement hanging.

  Jesus Christ. He was so ready for this date to be done with he decided. As beautiful and willing as she apparently was, there had to be more to it. And the fact that his inner voice was telling him that made him wonder what the hell had happened to him.

  He had been bewitched. He hadn’t been with anyone since his witch. He hadn’t actually had the urge to fuck anyone since that night. Jacking off had become his newest hobby. How pathetic was that?

  “Is everything alright?” Chloe asked, taking a sip of her wine. She was studying him now, clearly perplexed.

  “Yeah. Everything is fine. It’s just this has to be an early night. I have practice in the morning.”

  “Oh. Okay,” she said, disappointment threaded into her words.

  And later that evening, having dropped Chloe back at her apartment with an obligatory goodnight kiss, he jerked off to the image of long brown hair and haunting green eyes etched in his mind.

  Chapter 42

  I’m so exhausted. I can’t figure out why sleep continues to elude me. I worked a double today, made a haul in tips and I should be tucked into my bed, sawing logs, but that is not the case.

  I’m putting the finishing touches on our Christmas tree and watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” for the umpteenth time in my pathetic life.

  There’s nothing more to do with the tree. It’s finished. I need to find a new distraction I think, glancing at the clock. It’s one in the morning. Eva is probably over a
t Marcus’ for the night. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to tell me all about Weston’s date in the morning, if he, in fact, even makes it home tonight. In which case, I’m sure she’ll share that little tidbit with me as well. For not talking to me, she did make it a point to drop that piece of news on me.

  So, I can’t help it. Something has been gnawing at my gut ever since she gave me the news. I suspect it’s jealousy, though I have no right to feel jealous because Weston and I are nothing to one another.

  I finally shower, and then take my exhausted ass to bed. But sleep doesn’t come. So, I do the only thing I feel like doing, I cry. I cry as loudly and as long as I feel like because there’s no one here to hear me; nobody around to care. It’s cathartic I decide. It releases that knot in my gut the longer I cry and sob, so it’s good for me.

  And then the sound of my bedroom door opening stops the tears just as my overhead light switches on.

  I whirl around and Eva is standing there. She’s still in her coat and her face is a mask of concern. She’s immediately at my side, climbing next to me in my bed. “Oh Peyton,” she whispers, “Please, please don’t cry. I’m so, so sorry for being such a bitch.”

  “No,” I sob, “It’s totally my fault and I know it. I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have told you what was going on, but…”

  “Stop,” she says, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Let’s just agree that neither one of us is perfect and take it from there, okay?”

  “Okay,” I sob. “Can we talk now?”

  “Sure,” she says, pulling her coat off and curling up next to me. “I’m listening.”

  And then I tell her everything. When we finally drift off to sleep an hour later, I no longer have a single secret from Eva.

  Chapter 43

  It’s the weekend before Christmas and I’ve allowed Eva to talk me into going with her to the Big Game.

  What is the Big Game you ask? Apparently, it’s when the Cornell hockey team makes the trek from Ithaca, New York to Cambridge, Massachusetts to get their asses kicked by the Hardwick hockey team, at least according to Eva.

  She’s done nothing but talk non-stop about it, and urging me to go with her.

  “There’s a big-ass party afterwards,” she coaxed. “It’ll be so much fun, Pey.”

  “Oh no,” I argue, shaking my head vehemently. “No more parties for me---no way.”

  “But that’s going to be the best part of it,” she whines. “A huge celebratory party like no other.”

  “What if they lose?” I ask.

  “Shut your mouth,” she says, giving me a dirty look. “That is so not having the spirit.”

  “Eva,” I say, drawing out her name for effect, “Hardwick isn’t even our school for Chrissake!”

  “I promise you that it will be a great time. Besides, it presents the perfect opportunity for you to do what you’ve set out to do.”

  I know she’s talking about my apology to Weston. I let Eva read the letter I wrote to him, but she insists it should be made in person in order to be taken more sincerely. And really, I can’t argue with her point there, though it will be so much harder doing it face-to-face. I have pointed that out to her numerous times.

  “Ohhh,” I whine. “You are back on that kick, seriously? I told you I’m not sure if I can handle a face-to-face apology. It’s going to be really difficult for me.”

  “So what if it’s difficult? It shows you have class, Pey. Plus maybe it will bring better closure for the both of you. I mean, you’ve both lost something here, right?”

  I quirk a brow at her, and immediately the words pop into my head. I can’t help myself. “You can’t lose what you never had,” I say with a sad smile.

  She rolls her eyes, “Andie to Ben in ‘How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days’,” she replies. “And I can’t believe you are changing the subject with that movie quote.”

  “I just don’t know if the timing will be right for an apology in person. Aren’t there a lot of people there? This isn’t up for public display, Eva.”

  “I know that,” she says, “but if you are never around him again then how will you be able to deliver one in person?”

  She has a point, I get that. “Well, what if Chloe is with him?” I ask tentatively.

  “Oh puhleeze,” she replies laughing. “Their one date was their only date. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Apparently not,” I say, my spirits soaring just a tad.

  “Oh, that’s right. That was the night of our BFF talk. Well, I was over there with Marcus, and all I know is that Weston was home, sequestered in his room by nine-thirty,” she finishes, with a fit of giggles. “And when I saw Chloe the next day at work, she said they bored one another to death.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, now chuckling along with Eva. “That’s kind of weird, I mean, knowing Weston and all.”

  “Right?” she says. “So, you see? No excuse. We’re going to that game.”

  “Okay,” I relent. “Yes to the game. As for the party? That’s a ‘we’ll see,’ got it?”

  “Whatevs.”

  “Oh, and by the way, I never did ask you how you and Marcus worked things out after he asked you if you knew about all that shit. I seem to recall your saying you were disappointed in the both of us.”

  She gives me an ornery smile. “Well, we just kind of mean-fucked one another until it was all good.”

  “Oh brother.”

  Chapter 44

  Here it is. D-Day once again. Only this time it’s not a costume party I’m going to with Eva. This time it’s worse.

  A Hardwick hockey game.

  And not just any game, mind you. This is for the All Ivy title. She’s excited as we get ready, telling me about Cornell’s players, their positions, and their stats. Who to watch, who plays dirty.

  She might as well be speaking Latin to me for all the good it’s doing. I’m clueless about hockey---pretty much the same way that I’m clueless about all sports, collegiate or professional. It’s just never been my thing.

  Yet, here I am, dressed in what Eva says is appropriate garb for the game and after party, for which I still have not agreed to attend.

  Damn her!

  I make sure that I drive so that there’s no way I can get roped into going to that party by not having my own transportation back to Bainbridge.

  “You look so fucking hot!” she exclaims, circling me in my bedroom where I’m brushing out my hair.

  “I’m not trying to be hot. I just want to be comfortable,” I reply. “But you on the other hand, look fantastic.” And she does. She always goes way out in her dress and accessorizing whenever Marcus happens to be in the same zip code. Those two are absolutely perfect for one another, and that little ping of jealousy is raising its ugly head again.

  I tell myself to stop. I’m not going back there again.

  Forty minutes later, I pull my car into a parking lot two blocks away from the hockey rink.

  “Is it always this packed?” I ask Eva as we get out of my car. “When they’re playing this well it is,” she replies. “Plus I keep telling you, this is for the All Ivy title.”

  “Whatever that means,” I mumble low enough so that she doesn’t hear it.

  “I’m just hoping that Marcus can draw LaPierre into the penalty box a few times. He’s Cornell’s most dangerous weapon,” she comments.

  “Me too,” I reply, “Who’s LaPierre?”

  She laughs good-naturedly. “He’s the captain of Cornell’s hockey team. He’s a dirty player, but Marcus is ready for him, trust me.”

  “And what position does Marcus play?”

  “He’s right wing. That’s offensive, though in hockey, the offense has to play defense, too. It’s not like football, you see.”

  Of course it isn’t.

  The rink has a line outside a half-block long. “Damn, are we even going to get decent seats?” I ask.

  “No worries,” she replies, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind her, “I’m connected, which
means you’re connected.”

  And she wasn’t kidding once we got to our seats. I couldn’t believe how close we were to where the action was going to take place.

  The second the puck is dropped center ice, the tutorial from Eva about how the game works quickly flies out of my head. The action on the ice is enthralling, how brutal and quickly the guys move and---even buried beneath heavy padding and helmets---I can see what incredible shape they are in, how muscled and agile hockey players’ bodies are.

  Weston is like a man possessed as he guards his goal, lightning fast thrusts of arms and legs over and over deflecting the incoming puck. The only thing I can say as I watch the rapid progress of both teams is that Marcus is a maniac and Weston is a beast. How freaking sexy is that?

  Each period passes before me with no awareness of any other action on the ice accept him. He is locked in brutal warfare with the unrelenting Cornell players. I never expected the game to be so exciting or how watching the quickness and fierceness of Weston at the goal would feel.

  Strange sensations pump through my body. It is sexually arousing to watch him in complete mastery of his sport. How quickly his body moves---an arm toward a flying puck, a leg spread on the ice to deflect. Unexpectedly, images flash in my head. Weston’s virile attack on the ice blurring with the memories of him plunging into me.

  I’ve quickly grown obsessed with him watching his moves on the ice, but seriously, he isn’t my clown anymore. He is Weston. And as Weston, all I can feel is some deep-seeded want.

  The arena is filled with an electric charge because Hardwick is up by one goal. The pulse in the air matches the fast flow of blood in my veins and my quickly panting breaths. I can’t tear my eyes away from the rapid, unceasing actions of Weston in the goal.

  The spectators leap to their feet, as Eric LaPierre makes one final attempt to tie the game for Cornell. Back and forth the puck goes between him and his teammates as they race toward the goal. LaPierre pulls back letting his stick go. Weston lunges inside the goal and deflects the Cornell puck.