Winner Take All

by Laurie Devore

  “Jackson Hart posted a picture of a bunch of shots,” she says, the accusation in her voice.

  I look at her quickly. “I wasn’t in it, was I?”

  She laughs in a way that is clearly not amused.

  “Fine.” I push my fingers through my hair. “I’m a jerk. I got drunk and showed up to volleyball hungover. I’ve completely lost the fragments of my mind that held me together.” I shake my head. “I can’t explain it to you because I don’t know. Why am I doing all of this?”

  She relents, a small amount of sympathy creeping onto her face then. Lia is the patient one between the two of us, always has been. Like a true setter, she sits back and waits, bails everyone else out if they mess up. I’m all passion and nerves and she’s steady. I’d be lost without her, I can’t help but think. “You’ve been killing yourself since April. It could wear on anyone. But why Jackson?”

  I dip my head down to the sink again, taking a gulp of water from the faucet.

  “It’s not a great look,” she adds. “If people from school found out you were together. Girls with Jackson don’t always get the best reputation.” She tilts her head, looking at me. “Or have you forgotten?”

  “We’re not together,” I say. “He just gets it, in some weird way. The pressure.”

  “He’s still Jackson.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I say so forcefully, I almost believe it. “He’s vile.”

  “There’s something about him you like. I see you. I know you, Nell.”

  “I know him,” I return. “I know what I’m doing.”

  She sighs.

  “Okay, not today, obviously.” I glance toward the door that leads to the gym, watching it. “They’re going to be back soon. I need to get out of here. I can only imagine what they’d think if they saw me like this.”

  Her eyes narrow. “This isn’t over. I’m trying to look after you.”

  I shake my head, shaking her off like a bug as I walk back out into the main part of the locker room, grabbing my bag from my locker. “I don’t need to be looked after, especially when you’ve got so much going on. And you’re being paranoid—I tell you everything.” I smile, trying to make it casual. “Usually it’s to your detriment.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s just … Don’t trust him, okay?”

  This I can answer with confidence. I swing my bag up on my shoulder. “Of course not,” I reply.

  Her eyes meet mine as if looking for a sign. Apparently, it’s a good one because she finally says, “All right. Feel better, and drink lots of water.”

  I nod, giving her a small wave and leaving her behind.

  20

  I feel something vibrating next to my head. I sit directly up, thinking I’m late. I’ve been waking up on and off all night, terrified of oversleeping and not arriving on time for the tournament tomorrow. But the clock on my nightstand says it’s one AM and my phone says JACKSON HART is calling me.

  I slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear. “Are you dead or dying?”

  “Is this some sort of psychological test?” he returns.

  “What do you want? I have an early wake-up call.”

  “Shit, sorry,” he says, throwing his voice like he is. “I’ll go.”

  “Go?” My voice cracks. “Are you here?”

  “In my car. Down the block.”

  “Dammit, Jackson,” I hear myself saying, but I’m already out of bed because I can’t stand the thought of him driving away. I slide into a pair of flip-flops and put a T-shirt on over my tank top. I think about putting a bra on, but screw it—I don’t care what he thinks of me.

  I tiptoe down the stairs and out the door, jogging over the sidewalk to get away from what feels like my parents’ prying eyes.

  His headlights are on and he’s leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed as if holding up his body is too much work. He jumps in surprise when I open the door.

  “Nell Becker, silent assassin.” He cranks the engine and we’re off again.

  “This is starting to feel familiar,” I say, more of an out-loud thought than anything else. I see him half grin to himself. “You’ve got like five minutes to tell me what you’re doing here. I have to be up at five thirty.”

  “Why?” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s leaving my neighborhood again.

  “You always do that,” I say. “Drive right out of the neighborhood. Like you can’t wait to get away from this part of town.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “I don’t like your house because it makes me remember who your mom is.”

  I roll my eyes. “She’s the head of school, not a monster. But seriously, I have a volleyball tournament in Charleston. A lot of scouts will be there, so it’s a great opportunity. I should be in bed.” But I want to be with him more. Even though I know I need to go to sleep right now, I can’t help but feel wired. I realize it’s not just the potential of the tournament that has my adrenaline racing—it’s him. I feel wired about him and I don’t know why that’s so shocking, but it is.

  Why hadn’t I noticed it before?

  “Your life is just a continuous series of opportunities, isn’t it?” he says.

  “That’s a nice way to look at it,” I answer, although I’m not sure that’s what he means. He’s driving close to the river. It seems like he always is. We’re near where Doug had his accident.

  Navigating his truck down a boat ramp, Jackson pulls over and opens up the door, getting out without saying anything to me. I take this as a directive to follow.

  He leans against the hood of his truck, watching the water lap sadly against the cement as if it can’t be bothered to try. I lean next to him and cross my arms. We stand like that, a breath between the hair on our arms when he says, “I was at this party at Marcus’s. The usual, you know?” He glances over at me. “Same old people, same old drinks and music and conversations, and I was like, God, I wish Nell were here. She’d know what to do.”

  “Imagination is a powerful gift,” I say, working as much disdain into my voice as I can muster. The worst thing I could do is hint at my epiphany—tell him I want to be here, together.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to wish me into your life. I’m the one who keeps showing up at your house.” I could say it out loud, make it real, but I’m afraid he might realize that I’m just like everyone else.

  I’m afraid I might realize it.

  He walks forward, scoops up a rock or a broken piece of cement or something, and skips it across the water. Three. Four. Five. I put my hands on the hood of the truck and push myself up to sit on it.

  “What do you want me to say?” I call to him. The moon is bright tonight, shining like a promise. I can’t tell if it’s waxing or waning, but I know it’s so close to full. Like it’s waiting for some other part to fill it up.

  He turns back and looks at me. “Everything. Say everything, Nell.” He walks toward me, leisurely. I feel my heart pounding against my chest like the night is demanding something from me—something hot and angry and absolutely terrifying. So when he’s close enough, I grab on to the front of the button-down shirt he’s wearing and pull him to me, between my legs, and I lean forward to kiss him like I did when the feeling of alcohol was destroying my brain cells. He doesn’t seem surprised. He doesn’t hesitate because he never hesitates. He grabs the back of my head, forcing my mouth down on his, our bodies pressing into each other. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he lets go of my neck to grab my hips with both hands. Our mouths aren’t sure if this is the only chance we’ll ever have or if we’re never going to stop touching.

  I slide from the hood of the car, pushing him away as I do and then pulling him back to fill the finite amount of space that was between us. Every inch of skin feels electric. We’re supposed to stop. We’re supposed to want to stop, one of us is supposed to jump back and say this is wrong. Say this is a mistake.

  I’ll be damned if I’m losing this one.<
br />
  I link my fingers through his belt loops, pulling us away from the front of the truck. He follows me, pushing me up against the back door, his teeth scraping against the skin of my collarbone. I reach blindly for the door handle, pulling it open, and shove him into the cab until he’s sitting on the seat. I keep reaching for him, falling into the cab, into him, my mouth frantic. It’s been like waiting to dive into the river on a hot day, realizing the cold water on your skin is all you needed from the start.

  I love how in control I feel, how in control he lets me feel, like I get to decide whatever comes next. And I feel it in myself that I don’t want to stop, I want to touch him. I don’t care if that’s what other girls would or wouldn’t do. I work at the button of his khakis. I feel like a thousand fires that won’t be put out, like a raging bull rushing headfirst into red. His whole body tenses as I slide my hand under the elastic of his boxers. His mouth moves considerably more eagerly over any part of me he can reach as I explore. I love this moment, where he’s so vulnerable, wants me so badly. My hands on his body.

  I’ve never felt like this before.

  So when I finish with him and he falls back, panting, my smile is so small, hidden, as I scrape my teeth against my lower lip. I climb out of the truck and into the fresh, hot air of the Cedar Woods summer night, my heart pounding and the buzz all over my skin inexplicable. I glance back as he fixes his shirt and his pants and does the hair rub before he climbs out to stand next to me. Leans next to me again.

  He sighs deeply. Starts to say something. Stops.

  I shove away from the truck, walking down the slope toward the water. I leave my flip-flops where I stand and wade into the river, down the slick boat ramp, my athletic shorts soaking straight through. It hasn’t been hot for long enough yet so the water offers a little chill that raises goose bumps all over my body. He follows me down once he sees what I’m doing, leans over, and rolls up the cuffs of his khakis. As he’s doing that, I kick the water at him, splattering it all over his outfit.

  “Fuck, Becker,” he says, and I can tell he’s not referring to the splash. I laugh and laugh until I have to tilt my head back, I am laughing so hard. He watches me in my manic state like he’s waiting for something. It feels like a game. Like a challenge.

  Make your move.

  I grab the bottom of my T-shirt and pull it over my shoulders. The bottom is soaked through anyway. I walk back and toss it carelessly against the boat ramp before I wade back into the water, my white tank top clinging desperately to my skin. I feel Jackson watching me and I think there’s power in this. In being reduced to my barest self in front of him and knowing I’ll survive it.

  With his eyes still on mine, he unbuttons his shirt, shrugs out of it, and pulls off his white T-shirt underneath. Then he runs at me, knocking me completely into the water and I drag him down with me. Both of our heads bob back up and we keep laughing. I push my fingers through his hair, his face floating in front of me.

  “What?” he asks, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face.

  I shake my head. “Your pants. You rolled them up and everything. God, you are so stupid.” And even that seems especially funny.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, incredulous.

  I go all the way under, water filling my ears and the space between my fingers, and I tug at my tank top, pulling it all the way off. I float back up, pushing my hair out of my face, the water covering me from the shoulders down. I toss my top back toward the shore. We stare at each other across the few feet of space between us.

  Now what?

  We’re in a stare-off, our faces completely devoid of expression, and I know I have to make the first move, always touch him first. I push the water with my hands, swimming slightly closer to him. He treads water. The moon reflects all around us and the night moves in a way that calls to be felt. I put my hand forward, the moonlight shining off my pale fingers, and place it against his warm skin, right above his heart. His heartbeat is steady against my skin. He covers my palm with his own, his fingers creeping around it and pressing my hand into his chest.

  We both wait, the water dripping off us, making rivers down our skin. I’m unsure of what to do next, a thrilling, unfamiliar feeling. Without giving it the amount of thought I usually give to things, I take his hand and put it on my face. He trails his fingertips over my cheek, down the skin on my neck and across my collarbone. He plants his palm against the middle of my chest. I swallow.

  “Look at you, Nell,” he says to me, his voice coming out choked. I hear the way his mouth curls around my name. Most things he says come with an air of derision—like he knows a secret he won’t bother sharing with you—but not my name. He says it like he means it.

  It’s in that moment that I know so clearly that I want him to touch me. To feel fully alive in my skin. I move to kiss him again, and he meets me halfway, his hands desperate for every part of me. I love how much he wants me to touch him. I love how vital I feel—I am a part of the river and I’m apart from everything else about me. And the only sounds in the night are the trees and the waves and our breathing, mixing together.

  It’s not unexpected, but Jackson’s mouth moves exactly how the rest of him does—with confidence. The more I kiss him, the more I want to kiss him, to feel the way his fingertips dig into my skin and his mouth demands mine, the way he strays to my neck and my collarbone but never for too long. I can’t help but think that this is where I always want to be and this is how I always want to feel.

  Our bodies are pressed too close together and there’s a chance this may swallow us whole. I shiver, and promise myself it’s only from the chill.

  He pulls away. “Nell?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice an octave higher than normal.

  “This water is cold.”

  We both start laughing and I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly way too aware of how naked I am, even under the cover of water. Jackson gets out and pulls some towels from his truck—no one ever travels without them in a river town. He turns so I can get out of the water and wrap one around myself.

  We lie next to each other bundled up in our own towels in the bed of his truck, watching the sky. Watching for stars, for unidentified flying objects.

  “You kissed me,” he says, acknowledging it at last. “Twice.”

  More than that, I think, but who’s counting? “One could argue that Lois’s concoction kissed you the first time.”

  “Why?”

  “Seemed like a thing I could do,” I tell him.

  “Another frontier to conquer.” I see him turn toward me out of the corner of my eye. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “I didn’t, like, know”—he swallows—“I didn’t know you had been dating people or whatever.” He waves his hand afterward as if to wave what he just said away.

  “What does that mean?” I ask, baffled.

  “Nell, you just.” He coughs. “You took charge.”

  “Is there something wrong with that?” I ask, trying not to sound upset by his words.

  He laughs. “Are you kidding? No, no.” Then he looks at me and away. “Sorry. Most girls … they don’t…”

  “Wow. Jackson Hart rendered speechless. What do most girls do?” I ask, my voice growing more dangerous by the second, the moments before losing their shine.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re fearless, that’s all,” he says quickly.

  “Do you categorize them?” I ask. “Shrinking violets? Secretly aggressive? Knows what she’s doing?”

  “I’m not apologizing to you for having sexual relationships with the people I date. And I would never expect you to do that, either.” He bends one arm at the elbow and rests his head on it. “It’s none of my business. Sorry I asked.”

  “Asked what?”

  “Who you’d been hooking up with.”

  I almost don’t say it. I really don’t want to, only then the words are forming on my lips. “No o
ne,” I say at last.

  He stares at me. “No one?”

  “I mean”—I keep my face toward the moon—“I’m not some never-been-kissed girl or anything. But just now? I felt like doing it, so I did. Because it felt good.”

  “It did,” he agrees. I feel his eyes leave me until we’re looking in the same direction. “I’m glad it’s not Taylor Reagan, to be honest.”

  I purse my lips. Taylor. How obvious. “I need to go,” I say, pushing myself up. His eyes follow the curves of my body as I shake out my wet hair.

  He raises an eyebrow. I think he’s going to ask me to stay—some small part of me wants him to—but then he grabs on to the edge of the truck bed and sits up next to me. “All right,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

  21

  I’m chugging the coffee I sent Mom to get me once we’d gotten to the gym at College of Charleston. “You don’t drink coffee,” she told me, like there was some universe in which I was unaware of this fact. But I can barely keep my eyes open. I’d drifted in and out of consciousness on the hour ride here and now just the thought of being alive seems a burden too large to bear.

  Lia runs up to me and bends over, whispering as I drink. “Are you okay?” I glance behind me at where the other girls have already started bumping balls to one another. Time to look alive. I roll my head around on my neck a couple of times.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” I tell her. It’s mostly true.

  She puts her hand on my back, rubbing it sympathetically. It just makes me feel like a bigger, more irresponsible jackass. “Don’t get sick, okay?”

  “Me? I would never.”

  I try to pull myself together. To put my nose down, turn off my mind, and let my body do the work. And I almost convince myself it will be that easy. Until the first whistle.

  The important parts of my brain all seem to be napping. I’m in the wrong places at the wrong times. I miss simple calls. Hit things out of bounds that I usually nail. In the second game of our first match, Coach Prince benches me.