by Lilah Grey
I swallowed. “I’m so happy for you,” I said, placing my hand on her leg.
And I was. I was glad that one of us was happy. Violet, more than anyone, deserved it.
“How are you doing?” Violet said. “I feel like I’ve been a terrible friend.”
The question caught me off guard. “What are you talking about, Vi? You’re amazing.”
“I mean, James and the draft. Your mother. I’ve been so wrapped up in my life that I haven’t stopped to find out how you were doing.”
“I’m fine,” I said, patting Violet’s leg. It was a lie, but Violet had already listened to me bitching about my life long enough. I didn’t want to ruin her moment.
“The draft’s coming up, and that’s all I’ve been focused on.”
“You’re going to kill it. First round, I have no doubt.”
I snorted. “I hope so.”
“I’m going to head out for a bit. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Meet up with Philip, you mean?”
Violet blushed. “Maybe.”
I laughed. “Have fun.”
Once she left my mind drifted from thought to thought in no apparent order: to my last game, to James, to my mother, back to James, the draft, the letters, and on and on. It continued like that for a while, until my phone ripped me from my thoughts.
My mother again.
I let the call go to voicemail, but instead of deleting the message like I had with the previous ones, I listened.
“I know you’re not happy with me. I know you found the letters. It was—” She paused for a moment. I could hear her breathing. “I was just trying to protect you.”
What was it with everyone trying to protect me?
“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that Ian and I are separating. I found him with his—” She paused again; I heard her blow her nose. “It doesn’t matter. Let me know when you hear about your applications.”
Click.
I sat on my bed, dumbstruck. She didn’t even apologize about stealing the letters. It was an afterthought. That message could be summed up in a single sentence: I can see why you’re mad, but get over it. I’ve got more important issues to deal with right now.
James was right about one thing: my mom could not care any less about my life.
The next few months went by in a blur. Winter break had ended and school was back in session. Without soccer, there was very little to distract me from the impending draft. I was so nervous, still unsure about whether I’d find a team or if I’d be heading to grad school in the fall. Thankfully, the rejection slips had begun to stream in—Stanford and Yale.
I found them amusing, rejected from something I didn’t even want.
My mom had stopped checking in with me. The only communication I had with her was the single line in my bank statement that allowed me to pay for rent, food, and gas. Maybe she felt bad about hiding those letters. Probably not. She was probably so caught up in her own life, with the separation, that I was no longer on her list of priorities.
Most of my days were spent with Violet in the library on the pretense of doing homework, but that never happened. I’d been reading ESPN and random blogs, learning whatever I could about the draft. And about James.
I couldn’t help myself, following along as he visited soccer clubs across Europe. I wished that the next headline would contain an American club, but each time I was let down; he wasn’t coming back. I still hadn’t found the courage to read all those letters he’d sent me; they sat unread in the nightstand next to my bed.
“Did you get the email?” Violet asked as she looked at me over her laptop.
“Email?” I frowned, my eyes still focused on an article about the upcoming draft.
“From Harvard. About the interview. They just sent it.”
I glanced up at Violet and looked at her as though she were crazy. She kind of was if she thought I’d get an interview.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Stop browsing ESPN for articles about James and check your email.”
“I wasn’t reading an article about James.”
“Because you’ve already read them all.”
She was right. I sighed, opened up a new tab, and waited for my inbox to load, knowing full well that nothing was going to be there.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, staring at an email from my prospective advisor. “Violet…” I said, my eyes still locked on the email. “This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to actually get this far. I mean, seriously?”
Violet beamed at me. “I told you.”
My prospective advisor wanted to schedule a Skype interview. I responded with my availability and then closed my laptop. I needed to get out of the library and into the gym to clear my head. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of actually getting accepted anywhere. I’d applied to schools so far out of my league to make sure that I didn’t get in. It was supposed to be a smokescreen for my mother.
It’s just an interview. It doesn’t mean you’ll get in.
45
James
“Switch it back,” I snapped at the bartender.
Two bushy brown eyebrows joined together into a straight line. “Seriously? Why would you—”
“Do you want to lose your only paying customer?”
I looked around at the empty, dingy bar. Aside from the bartender and me, the only soul in the place was a crotchety old man mumbling to himself in a booth, nursing the same beer he’d had since I’ve been here.
The bartender’s nose flared a couple times, his jaw twitching as he surveyed my face.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, flipping back to the draft.
I sipped my scotch, watching as two commentators volleyed back and forth. They had no idea who was going to be drafted first, and it was silly to speculate. But that’s what the people want, right? Speculation. Drama. Two idiots blathering on about things they have no business discussing.
Thankfully, the camera switched to an overhead shot of the venue. Swarms of people maneuvered through endless rows of tables like ants. Corinne was in that room somewhere. I squinted, as though with a little effort, I’d be able to pick her out.
“Wow. Just look at all those athletes. The hopes and dreams. All—”
“Mute it.”
The bartender scratched his beard, leaned over, and grabbed the remote. The talking heads on the screen continued to jabber away, but none of it reached me.
I took another swig of scotch. I wanted to be there. I’d bought a ticket for the event, so I could watch from a distance, but I’d wandered into this bar instead. I knew I’d do something stupid if I saw Corinne in person, and I knew I wouldn’t go unnoticed in a building full of soccer elite. It was better this way.
I laughed into my glass of scotch as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I was looking grizzled and worn these days. Rangy hair and beard. If it weren’t for the designer suit, I would’ve been mistaken for a homeless person.
“Another,” I said, waving my glass at the bartender.
He grabbed the bottle of Glenlivet and walked over to me, taking his sweet time to pour my drink. I snatched his thick, hairy wrist as he turned.
“Leave it.”
I fished out a couple hundred dollar bills and slid them toward him. His eyes widened, glancing at the bills and then back at me. He set the bottle down, taking the bills and pocketing them.
I downed the scotch, slammed the glass down, and then refilled it as I watched the TV screen, hoping to see her face.
Just once.
“—The Portland Tempest select… Chloe Carter of the Philadelphia Hawks—”
My mind reeled as the final name of the draft was called. I grabbed the bottle of Glenlivet, tipped it, but nothing came out. Bone dry.
Jack and Chloe were on fullscreen, hugging and kissing as tears streamed down Chloe’s cheeks.
“— indeed Jack McGregor of the New York Stars—”
&nbs
p; They broke their embrace, and Chloe ran off screen. When the cameras caught up to her, she was hugging Corinne. My heart splintered when I saw Corinne’s face, marred by a sadness deeper than any I’d seen before. Her gaze was empty and hollow as she draped her arms limply over Chloe.
The camera lingered on Corinne for a moment as Chloe turned to rush onto the stage. She didn’t move; she stood there, a husk of the Corinne I once knew.
My stool skidded across the floor as I pushed myself away from the bar. With all the alcohol running through my veins, I nearly toppled over a table as I rushed out the door.
“You okay?” The bartender called out.
I pushed through the door and into the cold night air.
I had to see Corinne.
CORINNE
“Are you sure?” Chloe said, her arms drooped over my shoulders.
“I’m happy for you,” I croaked. “I really am. I just—” I lowered my gaze away from her eyes and onto the pavement below as my eyes began to well with tears again. “I just want to go home right now.”
“I understand.” Chloe brushed the side of my face with the back of her hand. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m here for you.” She looked back at Jack. “We’re here for you.”
“Go celebrate,” I said, forcing a smile. “You deserve it.”
“Are you sure I can’t call you a cab?” Jack said.
“I’m fine. I’d like to walk for a while.”
When Chloe and Jack finally left me, I could feel the wall I’d built up, maintained throughout the entire evening, crumble. I waited as name after name was called, cheers and whistles erupting after each one. I clapped and cheered along with everyone else, but as round after round ended and I’d yet to hear my name, the optimism I had going into the night had all but disappeared. It wasn’t until the last name was called that it was shattered completely.
I was shattered.
Everything I’d worked for was gone in a single night.
I could declare again, but what were the chances that I’d make it next time around? Go through the whole thing again? I couldn’t do that to myself. And truth is, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it. I wasn’t strong enough.
Drunk people laughed and screamed around me as I walked, head down, through the streets of downtown Philadelphia. I had no idea where I was headed.
Nina: I’m so sorry, honey
Three missed calls from Violet
Violet: Omg Cori. I’m so so sorry. Please call me back.
And on and on.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Well, there was one person, but he was halfway around the world.
I shoved my phone back into my purse and stared at the red ‘Do not walk’ sign, waiting for it to change. Nerves flooded in my core as I spotted a familiar figure at the other end of the street. I laughed; I was tired and at my emotional end, imagining what I wanted to see.
The man standing at the other end of the street wasn’t James; he was in France. The article I’d read earlier in the day said as much. There were plenty of men with the same build as him. Besides, that’s where all the similarities stopped. He was wearing a nice suit, but it clashed with his oily, scraggly hair and beard.
But I had second thoughts when we crossed paths, and James’s familiar scent flared my nostrils. I looked back, but the man continued on. It wasn’t Him.
When the cold winter air finally began to register, I called an Uber.
“Have a good night?” my driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
I looked at him and broke down. His eyes shot wide open, mumbling an apologizing before he sped off.
That was the quickest ride home I’d ever had.
46
Corinne
“You can’t stay in your room forever,” Violet said from the other side of the door.
I knew that, of course, but I wasn’t going to let that minor detail stop me from trying.
More than a week had passed since draft night, but the painful mark it left on me hadn’t become any less noticeable. I’d lost all hope, all motivation, everything. Everything I’d worked for my entire life—my identity—had vanished. I didn’t know how to process a defeat so brutal, so final. And rather than try, I’d spent the past week binging on Netflix, Chinese takeout, and copious amounts of sleep.
“Why not?” I said, glancing at the door for a brief moment before returning to my laptop. The Office was playing. Well, it should’ve been playing.
“Yes, I’m still here…” I muttered, clicking the ‘Yes’ box underneath the prompt. And I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I still had a few more seasons to get through. I’ve heard that you should never start what you can’t finish, and I wasn’t about to quit now.
Violet jiggled the door handle, and when it wouldn’t budge, she pounded on the door. It was hard enough that I felt a rattle in my chest.
“Corinne Olivia Crosley. I will break down this—this fucking door if you aren’t out of your room when I get back from my interview.”
Holy shit.
I don’t think I’d ever heard Violet cuss before. I swallowed hard.
“Okay,” I said, tremulously.
“I know you’re hurting, but hiding from reality isn’t going to fix anything. It might make things somewhat bearable, but eventually, you’re going to have to face what happened. And it’s going to be a hundred times worse by then because you’re letting everything else slip away. Do you even remember the last time you went to class?” Violet paused, and then added, “…or showered?”
No on both counts…
“I care about you Corinne, and it pains me to see you like this. It really does. You don’t have to face this alone. I’m here for you, if you’d let me.”
My throat tightened. I tried to respond, but only a painful croaking noise came out that I doubted Violet could’ve heard.
“I’ll be back in a couple hours. I’m meeting Phil—” Violet cleared her throat. “Dr. Collins. After my interview. And I meant what I said. I will break down this door if I have to. I don’t want to, but I will. That’s how much I care about you.”
Not much later, I heard the front door shut.
A sick feeling welled in my gut as I looked around at the disgusting mess I’d found myself in: half-eaten cartons of orange chicken, fried rice, and lo mein; toppled pints of Ben & Jerry’s, some of which still had ice cream in them; empty variety bags of fun size candy bars, their wrappers strewn in random places.
There weren’t any dirty clothes on the ground, at least, except for the dress I wore on draft night. But then I cringed when I realized why: I hadn’t changed out of my sweatpants and tank top since then. A shiver of disgust shot through me.
What was I doing?
This wasn’t helping me, and it wasn’t making me feel any better either. It distracted me from the pain, but it wasn’t making it go away. I let out a guttural, frustrated groan as I shut my laptop; I’d let this go on far too long. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I knew that I couldn’t go on like I had these past few weeks.
I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning my bedroom and the rest of the apartment. It had a surprisingly soothing effect. Even though nothing had really changed, I felt better.
I was pulling out the batch of cookies from the oven that I’d made as a thank you for Violet when I heard the front door open.
“Violet!” I yelled over the clash of the metal pan against the countertop. “I made you cookies!”
Silence.
“Violet?”
A bag hit the floor a few seconds later, and I heard Violet sink into the couch. A tangle of nerves grew in my gut as I set the oven mitts on the counter and walked toward the living room.
Violet sat on the couch, silent tears streaming down a dejected face.
“What happened?”
I sat down next to her and placed my hand on her leg. My mind raced; I’m sure the interview went fine. Violet was more than qualified and personable
.
She turned to me. “Philip’s married,” she said with a shake of her head.
I had no idea how to respond, so I hugged her, letting her cry into my shoulder. Eventually, she pulled away and then told me the entire story.
He wanted her to stop by after the interview, and when she did, he introduced her to his wife. She’d been living in the UK while he worked here. The wedding band he’d never worn had magically appeared on his finger. She had to sit there, listening to Dr. Collins go on about what an amazing student she was and how she would go on to do wonderful things in the field.
“She was so gorgeous, too,” Violet groaned. She blew her nose. “Oh, and let me tell you what happened when she left.” Violet’s eyes locked on mine for a moment, seething with anger.
“The asshole had the nerve to touch me. He literally was going to try and fuck me less than a minute after his wife left. He actually looked confused. And get this,” she said, standing up from the couch. She walked over to her purse, fished out her phone, and then walked back over to me.
“He’s still blowing up my phone,” she said, waving her phone in front of me. “He’s such an idiot.” Violet collapsed on the couch. “I’m such an idiot…”
“No you’re not,” I blurted out. “The asshole lied to you. He deceived you. He never even wore a wedding band. How were you supposed to know?”
Violet shrugged, a tight-lipped smile on her face. “I really liked him,” she muttered.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s better to learn he’s an asshole sooner rather than later.”
“I guess,” she said with a sigh.
We sat on the couch silently for a few minutes. Eventually, Violet broke the silence. “I’m never going to listen to another Phil Collins song ever again.”
I laughed for the first time in weeks. “I’ll second the ban,” I said. “For solidarity.”
“Now let’s get those cookies. I’m starving.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We spent the rest of the night stuffing our faces with cookies and watching cheesy romantic comedies.
“Oh my GOD. What are you doing?” Violet groaned. “You’re meant to be with Colin!”
She turned to me. “It’s so frustrating,” she said, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Why can’t she see it?”