by Sara Ney
I might be a douchebag, but I’m not a quitter.
Yours
Sincerely
Fuck
Talk soon,
Zeke.
Violet
On Friday night, I’ve sequestered myself in my bedroom. Mel and Winnie are both getting ready to hit the bars since it’s the weekend, but I’ve been in no mood to socialize.
With them, or anyone else.
My door is ajar, so I can hear them both laughing, and occasionally they stick their heads in to make sure I haven’t changed my mind about going out. Getting dressed up. Getting drunk.
Or, Zeke Wasted as Winnie so eloquently put it.
I know waiting around for a guy to text you is a dumb thing to do—sadistic, really, and a little pathetic—but unlike a lot of guys, he isn’t playing games. He said he’s going to text me and I believe him.
I think.
I showed his letter to my roommates—a huge mistake, because obviously they’re both outraged on my behalf, having found me crying in the living room the night I blindly walked myself home from the library, too upset and blinded by tears and mascara to drive.
The letter sits on my desk.
I’ve read it at least fifty times, fingers running over the hurried lines. The messy, hurried scrawl. Black ink. Black mood.
For him to write that?
My stomach flutters thinking about it, thinking about those words. All the words, spewed onto that abused sheet of paper, ineloquent and unplanned.
The least I can do is be present when he texts, and I can’t do that unless I’m home.
I want to be home when he texts.
So I lie in my room on a Friday night, googling televised college wrestling. Find the schedule for Iowa. Find the network. Sprawled across my bed, remote in hand, flip through the TV menu until I find what I’m looking for.
Iowa versus Purdue.
I study the screen, transfixed. Study the sidelines and wrestlers as the camera pans the stadium.
I’ve never seen wrestling before, not in person and not on TV. Didn’t realize it was even a big deal until coming to Iowa, where wrestling reigns and the boys here are bred for it.
The stadium is massive; I don’t know what I was expecting, probably something comparable to a high school gym. This? Whole different level. The arena is massive.
The blue mats are huge.
There are wrestlers on my screen who are fast on their feet, stalking each other in the center of the mat, grappling for the upper hand. The guy in black suddenly has his opponent in a headlock, and I realize with a gasp that I recognize him.
Sebastian Osborne, Zeke’s roommate. It takes him two rounds to win his match.
The next Iowa wrestler is Patrick Pitwell; he wins as well.
Followed by Jonathon Powell, who takes three rounds.
Sophomore Diego Rodriguez takes just one—and loses.
Zeke Daniels walks onto the screen, his stats displayed on the bottom of the screen. He begins stretching his thick quads on the sidelines, removes his pants, sliding them down over his muscular thighs.
I feel my cheeks turn bright red, furiously blushing crimson despite being in the house alone. Those thighs in his wrestling uniform are firm and hard.
His very visible bulge lies flat against his lower stomach.
I know what both feel like between my legs; that spot gets hot and wet and blushes, too.
Overheated, I whip off my bedspread, flipping onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Catching my breath. Salvaging what’s left of my composure when it comes to this boy. Trying to get my temperature to drop and get a grip on the reality of what’s happening with us here.
Trying to focus on my screen.
I’ve never paid attention to wrestling, have no idea what those leotards they’re wearing are called. Leotards? No, that can’t be right.
I grab my laptop, flip it open, and search wrestling one-piece.
Wrestling singlet, noun. The uniform is tight-fitting so as not to get grasped by one’s opponent, allowing referees to see each wrestler’s body clearly when awarding points. Underneath the singlet, wrestlers can choose to wear nothing.
I get it now; I get why the girls on campus go crazy for these guys. Even jerks like Zeke Daniels.
Strong, powerful, and larger than life, he moves into the center of the ring. Grips his opponent’s hand to shake it. His pouty lips are set in a grim line, eyes bearing down on the wrestler from Purdue.
I’ve seen that look of determination in person. That formidable, unsmiling face. Felt his potency firsthand.
The announcer begins his commentary; the two wrestlers circle and lower their levels, blocking each other. Zeke’s opponent—a junior named Hassan—circles away, removing his hands so Zeke can’t get control of them.
Both wrestlers are grappling, bodies hunched, hands extended, both immobile for only a split second before Zeke makes his move. Striking fast.
He flies into action, grabbing Hassan by the inner thighs, hauling him up. Lifting. Hefting him up and over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Hassan is suspended in the air while Zeke gets into position to drop him to the mat so he’s flat on his back.
Zeke’s biceps and thighs ripple. Glisten.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, he’s going to drop him and break the poor kid’s back!
I can’t watch. I’m horrified.
I hold my breath, covering my gasp with the palm of my hand. Release it when Zeke slowly lowers his torso and adversary with steady, skilled precision to the mat without hurting him or losing control. Unbelievable strength.
The tattoo on his back strains with every shift, every calculated movement of his muscular, tight body. Sweat dampens his furrowed brow. His black hair. Perspiration beads on his back and chest.
Within seconds, he has Hassan pinned to that blue mat.
Seconds.
I stare, eyes wide when the referee counts out the win. Pounds the mat. Watch when both wrestlers rise to their feet, the referee taking Zeke’s wrist and raising it above his head, declaring him the victor of that match.
His chest heaves from the exertion he made look so effortless.
I’m trying to reconcile this sweating, aggressive Adonis with the one who’s been so gentle with me. Tender. Loving and kind with me in bed—not like the one in front of me now, hefting a two-hundred-pound human in the air like he’s weightless.
In front of an entire stadium full of spectators. In front of a nation of people.
My mouth gapes, and I lean toward my monitor, enthralled.
He is larger than life, this boy.
This man.
Zeke: It’s me. You have time to talk?
Violet: Yes.
Zeke: How was your week?
Violet: Okay. Yours?
Zeke: I’ve had better—I miss you Violet. I really fucking miss you.
Violet: It’s only been a few days.
Zeke: It doesn’t matter. I feel sick to my fucking stomach every time I think about this whole damn mess.
Violet: I honestly still don’t know what to say about it, Zeke.
Zeke: Did you at least get my letter?
Violet: Yes, I got your letter.
Zeke: What did you think?
Violet: I think it was your truth, and I know it took a lot of effort for you to say all those things
Zeke: I hear a but coming.
Violet: But actions speak louder than words, Zeke.
Zeke: Then help me Violet. I don’t know what I’m doing.
Violet: I know you don’t. I wish I knew what to say. I wish you hadn’t…made me feel what I felt, good and bad. In a matter of weeks, you’ve managed to make me feel both.
Zeke: Pix, please. I am sitting on a bus in the middle of fucking nowhere, unable to do anything but text you, and it’s going to take at least another two hours before I’m home. So PLEASE just don’t tell me no. Not yet.
Violet: Are you sure you’re not feeling this way because yo
u’re not getting what you want? Is it because you care, or because you’re being stubborn?
Zeke: Probably both, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I care a lot—more than I’ve ever cared about ANYTHING. I can’t even believe I’m having a conversation like this. Do you realize that? This is insane. I’m texting about my FEELINGS.
Violet: It’s nice.
Zeke: It’s nice? That’s all you have to say? Because I’m skittish as hell and kind of want to puke my guts out.
Violet: YES ZEKE. That’s all I have to say. Because it’s really nice to hear, and maybe someday you’ll get to the point when you can SHOW it.
Zeke: I know I deserve that.
Violet: I hear a but coming.
Zeke: But it still fucking sucks.
Violet: They’re just words, right?
Zeke: No. They’re not just words and we both know it, and I’m sorry I didn’t realize it until now.
Violet: Can I tell you something?
Zeke: Of course.
Violet: I watched your match against Hassan tonight on ESPN.
Zeke: You did???? Wow. Seriously? I’m typing so fast right now, LOL
Violet: Yeah. I googled it and hunted down the channel.
Zeke: Well—what did you think???
Violet: I thought it was amazing—YOU were amazing. Everything about it was incredible. You’re so strong. I am so in awe of you.
Zeke: No one is more in awe of someone than I am of you, Violet. And no one is stronger. And when I get home and you’re ready, I’m going to come see you. There’s so much shit I want to say that makes being on this bus a fucking nightmare.
Violet: Hey Zeke?
Zeke: Yeah?
Violet: I’m ready.
Zeke
I sat on that damn bus for four hours and fifty-eight goddamn minutes with nothing to do but think. And think some more.
So when I step onto Violet’s front porch and give the wooden door a few short raps with my knuckles, I’m a ball of energy, body buzzing—not just from my win tonight, but from my text conversation with Violet.
I bounce on the balls of my feet nervously, hands stuffed into the pockets of my gray sweatpants. In a mad dash to get here, I didn’t bother to change into something decent, like jeans or whatever. Sweatpants and hoodie are as good as it gets and I make no apologies for it.
The door swings open.
Vi’s roommate Winnie glares at me through the storm door, scowling. “Can I help you?”
I scowl back, tempted to roll my eyes. “Is Violet home?”
“Why should I let you in?” She folds her arms, looking me up and down through the glass. “You look like a murderer.”
What the fuck. I sigh. “What would make me look like less of a murderer? So you let me in.” It’s fucking cold.
She taps her chin, thinking. Smiles.
“Well, you can start by taking your hood down. And take your hands out of your pockets where I can see them. You look shady.”
“You know damn well I’m not shady.”
Her pleasant smile turns into an evil grin. “Yeah, but I know you’re going to listen because you want me to let you inside the house. Am I right?”
I nod.
Remove my hands from the pockets of my sweats, reach up, push the hood of my sweatshirt down.
“Satisfied?”
“Almost.” She stares through the glass, crossing her arms. “I just want you to know, just because you think you’re hot shit doesn’t mean the rest of us approve of you.”
I cross my arms, mimicking her stance. “Is this where you threaten to kick my ass?”
“No. This is where I tell you…” She inhales. “This is where I say…I hope you know what you’re doing. Do you? Have any idea what you’re doing?”
“No. I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.”
“Hmmm.” She regards me through the window. “At least you’re honest. I can’t say much for your foul mouth though. You should work on not being such a total dick.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been hearing.”
“So, just so you know, if you hurt her—”
“You’ll kick my ass?”
Winnie stares me down until I clamp my lips shut and listen.
“Just so you know, if you hurt her, you’re hurting all of us. We’re friends, and we do this together.”
What the fuck does that mean? “Like, I have to date all three of you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, no. I mean, Violet is our best friend. If you hurt her, we’re all going to be hurt. Her pain is our pain. Do you want to make all three of us hate you?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Good, because Melinda and I will kick your ass if you do.”
I knew it, knew she was going to threaten to kick my ass!
“Uh…so…” I try glancing around her into the living room for any sign of Violet. “Can I come in?”
Her eyebrows rise. Chin tips up defiantly.
“Please Winnie, can I please come inside?” Jesus Christ, I cannot believe I’m begging to be let into a girl’s house, but desperation does some fucked up shit to a guy.
“Hold on a second. Let me check with Violet.” With another scowl, Winnie shuts the door in my face, disappears into the house.
A minute passes. Then another.
Then five.
Then ten, until I’m freezing my balls off.
Then.
The door finally opens, and Violet is standing on the opposite side of it, looking…
Like a breath of fucking fresh air, light shining from behind her, pale hair glowing ethereally. Long and wavy and I want to bury my fingers in it, breathe her in and sleep beside her.
Bare feet, jeans, and a faded yellow sweatshirt, Violet is the picture of light and sunlight and everything I’ve been missing for the past few days.
She unlatches the door.
Steps forward, pushing on the glass, so it opens all the way.
“I missed you.” That’s the first thing I say when she gives me room to step up into the house. I stop in front of her, gazing down into the hazel eyes that have been haunting my damn dreams for the past few days. “I really missed you.” My hands reach for her face, cupping her jaw, thumbs tracing her cheekbones.
“You smell good,” her pink lips reply.
“Oh yeah? Like what?” I lean forward so we’re close enough to kiss. So close I can taste it.
“Like…” She sniffs. “Shower and sweat. Strong.”
“I smell strong?”
“Yes.”
I bend, brushing my mouth across her lips. “I missed you so much.”
Somewhere from within the room, a feminine throat clears.
“Please go do that in her room.”
Winnie.
The plain girl with the death glowers.
Violet blushes, pulling on my wrists so my hands release her face. “S-sorry Win.”
“I do not want to hear you having sex,” her roommate makes a hmph sound. “Make him beg, Vi.”
“I will.”
Violet takes my hand, leading me through the living room to the hallway. To her bedroom door.
Leads me over the threshold.
I pause in the doorway, hesitating.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just…looking.” The room isn’t what I pictured in my mind; I’d imagined something more flowery and froofy. Fussy with knickknacks and posters and shit. Like, unicorns and crap.
This room is nothing like that. One double bed with no headboard, there’s a light gray comforter pulled over the top. Three white pillows stacked, one on top of the other. White blinds on the windows for privacy, no curtains. A wooden desk that probably came off the curb at the end of the spring semester. Small desk lamp. Chair. School supplies neat and methodically arranged into rows. Above that, a corkboard with small, instant camera film. Several movie tickets stubs. A red ribbon—from what victory, I can’t tell fro
m here.
On the far wall is a narrow rack with some shirts I recognize, pants folded neatly and stacked on top. I make a quick count of the four pair of shoes lining the bottom. One pair of boots.
It’s plain and simple, and bare.
Confused, my brow wrinkles. “Where’s all your stuff?”
Her face turns pink, but she laughs. “I don’t have any stuff. I’m an orphan, remember?”
Oh fuck. Shit.
“It’s okay, don’t feel bad.” She pats my arm, and I tense up from the contact. “It works because I drew the short straw; no closet, no clothes. I borrow a lot from Mel and Winnie.”
She bumps my hip, shooing me from the door so she can close us in. Locks the door.
I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it on the chair. “Where do you want me to sit?”
“On the chair I guess. I’ll take the bed.”
I straddle it, throwing a leg over each side. Rest my hands on the back, leaning forward. Violet is sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed, positive and pretty radiating off of her like sunlight.
“Winnie is a good little guard dog,” I begin, chagrined.
“I-Is she?” Violet demurs, studying her fingernails, peeking at me from under her lashes. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Smartass.
“Yeah. I was outside freezing my ass off for almost fifteen minutes before you came outside.”
If Violet is surprised by this news, she doesn’t show it. “She’s my people.”
My people. My friend. My family.
“You won big today. I can’t believe you picked that guy up from a standstill—I was scared to death. How did it feel?”
“Heavy.” I roll my shoulders, listing my head from side to side, knots burning from the inside out. “I’m the last wrestler on the roster. The sooner I win, the sooner we can leave, and honestly, I wanted to get it over with so I could come home.”
“What was the rush?”
I meet her eyes; they sparkle naïvely into mine.
“You know what the rush was.” She can’t be that oblivious.
“You picked a guy up off the ground, slung him on your shoulder, dumped him onto the mat, and pinned him in under a minute so you could get home sooner?”