by Ashley Love
I nod. "Thanks."
"Now, just give me a vague outline. Like, hold your hands apart. How big was it?"
6
The week starts with me and Blake tiptoeing around each other. I stay at Emma and Cadence's Saturday night, but I can't avoid my room forever. When I get back, Blake isn't there, and I breathe out a sigh of relief before changing, putting in my headphones, and working on my paper. By the time he gets back, I've finished it.
Blake, for his part, treats me like I'm another piece of furniture. We don't look at each other; we don't speak; we don't even argue. He works out at the gym, I don't play my music in the room once. On Tuesday when Blake has one of his teammates in the room, showing him something on his laptop, I walk right back out instead of plunking myself down on my own bed just to irritate him. On Thursday when he leaves his sweaty clothes around the room after practice, I bite my tongue instead of yelling at him.
It isn't until Friday that things go back to normal. It happens fairly easily, too. I'm doing my homework, Blake's throwing a ball up into the air while lying flat on his bed, and he randomly says, "I still don't like you. And you hit your keys too hard."
I pause, turning to him. "I still don't like you, either."
"Good." Blake throws the ball, it nearly hits the ceiling, and then he gracefully, swiftly catches it as it falls back down. "I don't want you to think that just because we, like, whatever, that I suddenly can stand you or something. Because I can't."
"Like having sex with you would change the fact that you're an asshole," I spit.
Blake gets off the bed, dropping the ball to the floor. It rolls under my bed. "Go to hell, Aubrey," he mutters, heading for the door. He slams it behind himself on his way out.
When he's gone, I can suddenly breathe again. It's like I was holding my breath all week, hoping that what happened hadn't changed things. Because it didn't, not for me. Blake still makes my blood boil. I still want to punch the guy. But I'd feel...guilty, maybe? If things changed for him. But they hadn't, he's still a dick, and I like it better this way. It's like being on even ground again. It's easier when we hate each other because I know what to expect. This whole week has been the opposite.
I grin to myself as I get back to work.
7
My mom calls me on Monday, between my second and third class of the day, when I'm walking to the coffee shop to get something to wake me up. I tug my phone out of my pocket, read her name on the screen, and hit 'talk' immediately.
"Hey, sweetie," she says brightly. "How's my genius daughter?"
I smile, stop to plunk myself down on a bench. I pull my cigarettes from my bag while saying, "Hey, Mom."
"Are you smoking?" she demands, just as I flick my lighter. "I thought you quit."
I groan, putting the cigarette back in the pack. "I'm quitting," I correct. "Slowly. School is stressful."
"But you're keeping up your grades, right? You're attending all your classes, not slacking off?"
"Of course," I say instantly.
Like I could slack off. If I slacked off, I'd lose my scholarship, and we don't have a lot of money, my family. In fact, I'm the first to go to university, or college. Hell, aside from sister, Claire, I was the first to graduate high school. I can't afford not to bust my ass. Can't afford to slack at all, to miss classes or get behind on my work. If I lose my scholarship, I lose my future. Not just the distant one, but the immediate one. I'd lose my monthly funding, I'd lose my dorm room. I'd be so, so fucked.
And everyone would be so disappointed in me. I remember, when I got accepted, full ride, how proud everyone had been of me. How my mom had cried and my dad had slapped my shoulder and said, "I always knew you could do it." How my parents had thrown a huge party, and invited all their closest friends to brag about it. How they'd saved up for months to get me my laptop and other supplies.
I'd be disappointed in myself, too. And it would have all been for nothing. The past four years of pushing myself to exhaustion. Of giving up those years of high school where I was supposed to be a teenager. Where I was supposed to go to parties and hang out with friends and skip class to smoke weed underneath the bleachers. Years I'd instead spent doing homework. Doing extracurriculars because they looked good on applications. Years where I'd missed out on school dances and that one party I'd been invited to.
Not that I hadn't made some friends, only they were like me. They worked hard, and they were too busy planning for the future to live in the now. So while I didn't sit alone at lunch, while I had someone to work on projects with in classes, to bitch about the other kids with, I didn't have someone to hang out with after school. Didn't have someone to call me in the middle of the night just to talk about their parents fighting, or their boyfriend breaking up with them.
Except for Max but, really, I don't like to think about Max all that often. When I'd graduated, left home, I'd left that part of myself, too. It's easier this way.
"That's good, then," my mother says, her voice getting thicker. "I'm so proud of you. You know that, yeah? We're all so, so proud of you."
"Mom," I whine. "Don't cry, okay? I've been gone for months. I thought we talked about this. No getting emotional."
"I'm sorry," she blubbers. "I just love you, and I want the very, very best for you. You deserve that. You deserve more than that."
"I have to go," I say abruptly. My own eyes burn, and the girl who walks past me gives me a funny look. "I have class. I'll talk to you soon."
"You better!" my mom says. "I love you."
"Love you. Tell the girls I said I miss them, and tell Dad I love him, too."
"Will do," she promises. "Bye."
When I've got my phone in my pocket, I put my cigarettes back in my bag and head for the coffee shop. I still have about twenty minutes before class, which gives me enough time to wait in the always impossibly long line for a drink and maybe something to eat.
As predicted, the shop is packed. The line is to the door, and every single table is filled to the point of brimming, extra chairs pulled around the edges just to fit people in. It's the only place on campus, aside from the cafeteria, to get anything to eat or drink. Which means that, unless you have a car or a lot of time to spare, it's your only option.
"Aubrey!"
I almost don't react to it. Unless it's Emma, or Cadence, hardly anyone really talks to me. But I turn, find Lucas two people behind me in line, and hesitantly smile. Next thing I know, he's line hopping, butting in front of people to stand beside me.
"You just saved me, like, five minutes," he says. Behind us, people grumble about him jumping ahead. "Thanks."
"Uh, no problem," I say, but I didn't really do anything.
Lucas nods. He's got a backpack hanging off one shoulder, sunglasses on his face even though we're still inside. He's also wearing his jersey, and I distantly remember someone mentioning the game on Thursday. Or everyone, really, because sports is a big thing around here, and it's all anyone can talk about most of the time. Plus, I room with Blake, which means I get an unofficial game schedule.
Around game days, Blake turns into a ball of nerves and angst. He wallows nervously around the room, working out more than he should, blasting his music until me or our neighbours complain, and then he'll put in his headphones and stomp out of the room. He gets extra moody, snapping at me for the most miniscule things, even ones that he's aware are stupid and petty. Like me turning over in the middle of the night, or my alarm going off in the morning to wake me up for class.
"You should come," Lucas says, like his train of thought is running on the same track as mine. "To the game. I don't think I've ever seen you at a game."
I snort, I can't help it. "How would you even know? Hundreds of people attend those games. There's no way you'd have noticed me if I went."
"True," Lucas says, "but Blake says you never go."
"Not my thing," I admit. We shuffle forward a few feet. "Don't really have the time, most
days. And it's not my scene. I don't really like sports."
"School pride, though!" Lucas says loudly. "You gotta attend at least one game, dude. You should come Thursday. Bring your friends. Afterwards we always have a big party at Garrett's house. It's different than the last one we went to, promise. It's more laid back. The whole team goes."
I make a face. "I don't really think that—"
"Seriously," Lucas says lowly. "Some people would kill for an invite to that party. You realize that, right? It's hard to get in if you're not on the team. But I want you to come."
I'm aware of the fact that Lucas has no idea how much of a douche he sounded like, saying that. I know it wasn't meant to be malicious or 'We're better than everyone' but it sort of was, acting like I should be jumping at the opportunity just because it was a 'cool' party for 'cool' people or whatever. But Lucas isn't like that, I know. He's just...a little naive, maybe.
"I don't know," I eventually say. We're almost at the counter now, and I'm grateful. "I'll think about it?"
Lucas grins. "You should. Let Blake know what you decide." His eyebrows draw together. "Actually, don't do that. He'd probably not tell me because he hates you. Just, uh, let me know. I'll give you my number."
"That's really not—"
Lucas is already pulling a pen out of his bag, grabbing my arm to scribble his number down, avoiding the tattoos there that I had gotten over the past couple of years. They're the only things I've asked for in years, because I know my parents don't have a lot of money and they can't get me concert tickets, or a car or something like that for my birthday or graduation. Instead I asked for tattoos, because I like them, like the way they look and their permanence, and my mom's brother has a tattoo shop so I get them done for cheap.
Though they don't exactly fit with the rest of my look, I know. And I remember how surprised Cadence and Emma had looked when they first saw them, and Cadence's "Shit, here I thought you were a nerd. Damn, cool ink."
"You don't have to," Lucas adds when he's done, recapped pen safe and sound in his bag once more. "If you really don't want to, don't feel bad. But if you decide you do, just text me. Or text me whenever, for any reason."
"Okay," I agree, a little too stunned to do much more. "I—I will."
"Can I help you?" the barista asks, and I roll my sleeve back down and order myself a coffee.
8
The library, more than anything, is my favorite place on campus. It might just be my favorite place in the whole world, actually. Maybe it's the books, which I've always been drawn to. Aisle after aisle, shelf after shelf of books. Or maybe it's because no one bothers me in the library. Everyone's too busy doing their own thing to talk to anyone else. And it's also the only sure fire place that Blake never, ever, goes.
Which is why I nearly have a heart attack when I reach up to grab a book, tug it off the shelf, and turn to find Blake behind me. He looks so out of place. He's wearing his jersey today, unsurprisingly (it's like the team lives in those things during weeks that they have an upcoming game), and it's like seeing a lion in the middle of the ocean. It's like seeing a shark in the desert. It doesn't make sense.
"What are you doing here?" I demand.
Blake looks uncomfortable, too. He shifts on his feet, crosses his arms over his chest, looks around. Maybe he's afraid of someone seeing him here or something.
"I just—" He cuts off, running a hand through his dark hair. "You need to tell Lucas you don't want to go to the party."
I let my arm drop to my side, book held precariously in my fingertips. "I wasn't planning on going to the stupid party anyway," I respond.
"Good," Blake snaps. "I don't know why he'd even invite you. You wouldn't belong there."
I raise my eyebrows, and that comment stings, just a little. But it comes from Blake so I don't let it bother me. "Did you really come all the way in here just to tell me that? How long did it take you to find the library, anyway?"
Blake glares at me for that. "Just text Lucas and tell him you don't want to go, but don't tell him I told you to."
I lean against the shelf. "And what's in it for me?"
"What's—You don't even want to go!" Blake shouts. In the distance, someone shushes him. "You don't even want to go," he repeats, quieter. "So just tell Lucas that."
This isn't surprising. Blake goes from asshole to major asshole the closer he gets to a game. The fact that he went out of his way to come tell me not to go the party probably has more to do with the fact that he needs an outlet for his nerves, and I always seem to be it. That doesn't mean that it pisses me off any less.
"Maybe I want to go, actually," I say. "You know, I think I will." I lean the book on the shelf and pull out my phone, bringing up Lucas's contact. "I'll ask Lucas what time I need to be ready—"
My phone is tugged out of my fingers without warning. I reach for it, but Blake holds it behind his back, his stupid bushy eyebrows furrowed together.
"Why do you always have to be difficult?" he hisses.
"Give me my phone back," I say carefully, going from irritated but amused to pissed in seconds. "How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff?"
Blake slowly backs away from me, a grin on his face. He quickly types things out on my phone, while I gape at him.
"There," he says. "I told Lucas for you. You're welcome."
He tosses the phone and I scramble to catch it, and I only just manage. The thing is, Blake's an idiot. If he hadn't said anything, if he hadn't gone out of his way to make sure that I didn't go, then I wouldn't have. I had no intentions of going to that fucking party. I hadn't even told Emma or Cadence about it because I knew they'd try to persuade me. But there's something about Blake telling me not to that makes me want to.
Which is why I press Lucas's contact and hit 'talk'.
"What are you doing?" Blake asks, as I bring the phone to my ear.
"Hey, Lucas," I say cheerfully. "I was just—"
Fingers wrap around my wrist, slowly pulling my hand down. I don't even fight Blake on it, not when he's this close, his dark eyes clouding my vision. He smells like heavy body spray, that same shit that he cakes on every morning, that gives me a headache, most of the time, but right now sort of smells...good. I can hear Lucas's voice through the speaker, too quiet to pick up on the words when the phone is lowered to my side.
Blake presses the button to end the call before he kisses me. Just like the first time, there's nothing soft or pleasant about the kiss. It's a clang of teeth, of lips pressed hard together, rough and angry. The phone tumbles from my fingers as I reach my hands up to fist in the back of Blake's shirt.
It hurts, the way Blake's pushing me against the bookshelf, but his hands are under my shirt almost instantly, fingertips sliding up my back, over my shoulder blades before sliding back down, skimming over my ribs. My lips part, and it gets even more violent, the way Blake tries to dominate the kiss but I fight him on it, pushing my body hard against his, tongue insistently curling against his as my head swims, not enough oxygen getting into my lungs.
When Blake's lips move off mine so he can bite along my jaw, I grit out, "You can't tell me what to do, you know."
Blake bites sharply at my neck in retaliation. "You don't even want to go," he argues. "You're so fucking infuriating."
I tilt my head back, giving him more access as his lips and teeth attack my neck. "Pretty big word there, Blake," I gasp out. "Fuck."
Blake's fingers fumble with the button on my jeans, and it hits me like a brick, the fact that we're in the library. The fact that we're in the library and Blake (fucking Blake) is trying to get my jeans off. Succeeding, really, because he's tugging down the zipper too, hand crawling into my panties.
"Wait, wait," I breathe. "Blake—"
He pulls back abruptly. His cheeks are red, and his lips are puffy and parted and slick. He steps right away from me as if I burned him.
"We're in the library," I explain, for
some reason regretful that Blake's no longer touching me. Weakly, I add, "Someone could see."
I'm not sure what happened, but Blake is back on me instantly, kissing me again as he undoes the button on his own jeans. He grinds me into the shelf, hips rolling against mine, the button of his jeans digging painfully into my hip but I don't really care. He's hard against me, and I'm wet, and the only thing I do care about is the fact that we could get caught. Anyone, at any moment, could come into this aisle and see us. There'd be no denying what we're doing, and I can't afford to get banned from the library, I really can't.
Only...Blake's hand is in my panties again, and he's got a finger inside me, pumping it slowly as he sucks at my collarbone. My traitorous body arches into the touch, pushing up into his hand as a moan slips between my lips. I need to stop this, I know I do, because the first time was a bad enough idea. This...this is worse than the first time, because not only am I hooking up with Blake, which in itself is at the top of the list of 'Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done', we're also in the fucking library.
So it makes no sense that I push my hands down the back of Blake's pants, pulling us closer together while simultaneously trying to pull his boxers down. Blake's hand is suddenly gone, and the elastic of my underwear snaps against my stomach until Blake pushes them down a bit, doing the same to his own boxers. He keeps a hand around my back, between the shelf and my body, to hold us together while the other grabs at my hair.
My moan tangles with Blake's when we slide together just right, but it's not good enough. I could cum like this, sure, but it'll take forever, and I'm frustrated enough already. It's no surprise that Blake does this to me, makes me feel crazy and so fucking heated, because it's always been like that. Only right now we're sort of channelling that rage into fucking instead of yelling at each other.
"You need to be quiet," Blake grunts. He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, fitting his hands between our bodies. He sticks two fingers inside me while wrapping his other hand around his dick, and I think that, despite his words, he wants me to be loud. "Don't want someone to hear us, do you?"