by Kim Roshell
“It didn’t?”
“Not. At. All. I mean, after we kissed in that closet, we thought it made sense—”
“Wait. You . . . kissed Whit?”
“Yeah, but—” He told her that already. Right?
Why else would Ashley make that comment about us bonding, unless . . .
He didn’t tell her everything, everything?
My brain registers what my eyes are seeing. The look on my best friend’s face isn’t the eerie calm of someone who knows all the fine details of what’s occurred over the past few months. The brewing storm stirring the blood beneath her reddening cheeks is what you’d expect from someone hearing unexpected news for the first time.
Those Cheetos float on the bile rising in my stomach, mistaking the thunderous pounding of my heart as encouraging applause for an encore appearance.
“You’re one of the girls Whit kissed?” One of the girls? “You kissed my boyfriend?”
“Yes, but it’s not how it sounds. It was the game.” The excuse, flimsier than a cheap paper plate, is my best offer. My brain replays her last two words like a scratched record. Whit is her boyfriend. Present tense. Possessive.
They’re back together.
He really did play me.
“The game.” She nods. “I asked you did anything happen, what did you tell me?”
The question works like a drawstring, tugging my shoulders high until the tension sends an acute throb to my neck.
“I said no,” I whisper, in deference to the rise of her voice and our growing audience.
“Uh, huh, which was a lie,” she booms, stating the obvious to everyone, in case anyone is confused. A single strand of her hair entwines with her lashes.
Shamefully, the minute imperfection gives me something else to focus on rather than meet her furious glare head-on.
“I’m sorry, Ashley. Sincerely. You were already upset about Yale. I didn’t wanna make it worse.” My defense is so weak, I’m damning myself at my own trial.
“So, I should be grateful you lied, then crept with my boyfriend behind my back?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No?” She laughs. Tosses her hair. The lone strand detangles itself, of course, because how dare it lodge there in the first place. “Coulda fooled me. Last I heard, friends don’t kiss best friend’s boyfriends!”
I agree, knowing once again, she’s right. What I did in that closet and over break aren’t things any good friend would do. No excuses. What I did was shady. I own it, and if Ashley had an actual peek inside my heart, she’d know I genuinely couldn’t feel worse about my actions if someone paid me a zillion dollars to do it.
“Believe me, I’d take it all back, if I could.”
“Believe you? Why should I believe you?” Plumes of black smoke—promise, I see them—billow from Ashley’s flaring nostrils. “You’ve been lying to me for weeks. Months. Why should I ever believe anything you ever say again?”
“Because you’re my best friend, Ashley. I love you. So does Whit. Kissing him was wrong. I know that. He does, too.”
Rage, unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed, electrifies Ashley’s whole body, chest puffed, labored breaths. I’m scared the extreme rush of oxygen will cause her to blackout, or something. In nearly thirteen years of school, I haven’t so much as pinched someone in self-defense, now here I am, one breath away from exchanging blows with the only person who knows I can sing along to every Bieber song ever written.
I brace for the first punch.
She lifts her steeled chin, sneers. “Oh, I know he loves me, but you and I know a guy being in love with someone else is easy for you to ignore.”
“What?”
“Admit it, Simone, you’ve wanted him from day one. Do you really think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him? I bet you planned the whole thing.”
“That is not true, Ashley.” I have looked, but I didn’t plan anything. I never would have.
“No? Why should I believe you, Simone?” she asks, her voice rising another two decibels. “After all, sneaking around is what you’ve done since you were practically a baby, right?”
My heart stops. All the bracing in the world won’t prepare me for the blow she’s about to deliver.
“Don’t do this Ashley.”
“Do what?” Her eyes narrow in direct challenge. “Humiliate you the way you’ve humiliated me? Why not, Simone? Think people will talk about you even more if they knew all your dirty little secrets?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Oh, sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. Pathetic is waaay more like it. Obviously, seducing your real mom’s boyfriend was just the start. I don’t even know why I’m friends with you. You’re a freak! No wonder Leann begged the court to take you!”
Okay, I may not have Rhonda Rousey’s skills, but I’m all over that attitude.
Pissed with me for kissing her man? I get it.
Bringing Leann, the original source of my nightmares into the mix? Well, that’s hitting way too low under the belt.
Time to walk away before this confrontation really turns violent, which is becoming increasing probable. I grip my purse tighter, turning to work my way past the crowd.
“Really, Simone?” Ashley shrieks to my back. “You’re gonna run like you always do? You’re not gonna wait for me to tell everyone how Leann petitioned the court to take you away after she found her baby girl in bed with her boyfriend? Seems to me that would make us even.”
I do exactly that.
I step over my heart.
Run.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Trying to outsmart truth only proves your ignorance.
—Granddaddy
Whit
“Ashley, this really ain’t—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The world is a scary place when hitting a homerun does nothing to improve my disposition. Exhaustion tugs on my spent muscles. I’m in no mood for a verbal battle without inflicting a few wounds of my own.
The stench of our ugly 6-1 loss fills the locker room. We got our asses handed to us out there on the field. More than one metal door is receiving some misplaced abuse as a result of our abysmal performance. Our record is hardly anything to brag about on a national level—hell, not even a state level, for that matter—but for the first time in twenty-six years, The Grant Wildcats have a record with more wins than losses, yet we got bitch-slapped by a team whose starter nor backup pitcher stepped foot on the mound.
Their #3 is a freshman. A freshman.
I hate losing.
Not too fond of engaging in conversation after losing, either.
Thanks to one of my moron teammates, I’ll get a serving of both today. Someone had to have let Ashley in and she looks every bit ready for nonstop debate.
There’re a few different ways I can respond:
1. Evasion: Ask what she’s doing here, knowing Coach could step out of his office at any moment. Also, this is the boy’s locker room. Lockers don’t slam themselves shut, so I know we’re not alone.
2. Deflection: Cross-examine, address those rumors floating around about her these last few weeks. Maybe confront her on how she put her best friend’s private matters on blast. If what Ryan heard is true, Simone got more than a little hurt because of that announcement.
3. Then there’s the guy’s #1 go to in sticky situations of this nature—Play. Dumb.
Viable options, if the goal is becoming that guy who inspires Taylor Swift’s next big kicked-that-asshole-to-the-curb anthem. I am the one who ultimately instigated this shit storm. All the same, I won’t wuss out while Ashley runs another victory lap after an unfair fight.
“If we’re having this conversation, we’re doing it civilized. None of that daytime talk show shit like the performance you apparently put on earlier.”
Something in my expression must say I’m more than a little short on patience, because she loses some of the attitude. Color rises in her cheeks. “You�
�re defending her now?”
“Depends on the charge.”
“Wow, protecting the girl who came on to you.”
Is she being serious?
I choke back a ripple of laughter bubbling in my throat. If she barged her way in here to spout ridiculous accusations, I won’t pull any punches. “When have you ever known me to break under the pressure of a little sexual aggressiveness, unless I wanted to, Ashley? You know me better than that, just like you know Simone wouldn’t purposely stab you in the back.”
She snorts in obvious disagreement.
I toss my cleats in the bottom of my locker, push the door shut with my foot. Slamming it would probably feel way more gratifying, but I can’t find the energy. Hand to God, I could kick my own ass for backing down last night. I knew this shit would come back to bite me when I didn’t confess everything. The same inner voice that told me to make another late night visit to Simone’s on Sunday night, prompted me to come clean last night. I foolishly ignored it both times.
I move my bag to the floor, take a seat. Leave room for Ashley to join me on the bench, then wait, watching as she draws her bottom lip between her teeth and glances off to the left. The diversion tactic don’t work. Her lower lids well with tears. After a dense exhale, soggy from emotion, she slumps down beside me. Head bent, she lets her hair fall into a blond veil around her face.
“Out of all the girls in this school, did you have to kiss her?” she whispers.
A heavy cloak of guilt drapes itself over my shoulders until they sag under the weight, as the pain in her voice rains down on my head like hot coals. Any way you slice it, I’m an asshole.
The clang of metal on metal echoes around us as a few more lockers slam shut. Bodies shuffle in our direction, but neither of us glance their way or speak until we’re alone. Finally, quiet envelops us with all the comfort of finding yourself in quicksand. I loosen her white-knuckle grip on the edge of the bench, resting our linked fingers on my thigh. “Wasn’t something I set out to do, it just happened.”
How can the truth sound so lame?
“Last night, when you said you kissed someone I thought you meant after we broke up, not before.” She tilts her head. “Not since then though, right?”
I keep my mouth shut. What can I say that will make the whole truth any less painful? Memories of that last night Simone and I were together still cranks my pulse. She won’t care that we haven’t exchanged so much as a text message since the end of break. She’ll hear the truth in my voice. See it in my eyes.
Ashley’s eyes widen. “Seriously, can this day get any worse?”
I repeat my apology, knowing the words are inadequate. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Right,” she snaps. She lets out a bitter laugh, snatching her hand from my loose grasp. “Mom’s pissed. Her boss has already been on her back for missing work, now she has to stay at the hospital overnight with Simone. I’m sure your faithful alibi filled you in.”
He did.
Hope those sketchier details aren’t true. I almost ditched the game, headed to the hospital to verify the details for myself. Common sense prevailed at the last second. Me and Ashley’s mom sitting in a waiting room together?
Yeah, no.
However, if I find out that Beckham Glass was, indeed, somehow involved in her fall, that dude is done. “He mentioned her arm may be broken, wasn’t sure.”
“Well, you now you can fill him in. God, I feel stupid for caring. Not like she gives a shit about me.”
“You know that ain’t true.”
“Whatever.” She laughs, zero humor to be found. “Here I’ve been thinking you could barely stand her. How did any of this even happen? Can you at least tell me that?”
I don’t want to. Sharing details won’t change facts. “You really wanna go here, Ashley? Because none of it is likely to give you the warm and fuzzies.”
“I’d like to understand how the guy I love and my best friend decided they should hook up.”
“Wasn’t like that.”
“Okay, then explain.”
This day sucks. “Fine. If you recall, it started with the game.” At this, I give her a pointed look, add, “We were playing along, just like everyone else.”
“Yeah, but not everyone else kept playing once the game was over.”
“Sure ‘bout that?”
Her cheeks flame.
“Look, let’s not point fingers, okay? Wanna know what happened with Simone and me? We tried forgetting the incident happened, but I couldn’t. Me,” I admit, knowing those words probably feel like an icepick to the heart, but if she truly wants understanding, what can be clearer than that? “I enjoyed kissing her. Please know I ain’t saying that to hurt you more, but you ask why I didn’t.”
I wait while she digests my confession, tears streaming down her face.
“So, you two have been sneaking around all this time?”
“No.” I lean in, forcing her to look at me. “The sole purpose for hanging out last week was to see if we could really try being friends instead of treating one another like the other is invisible all the time.”
Her mouth scrunches, brow puckers.
“Sounds like you two see one another perfectly.” The sharp tip of anguish in her tone piercing my heart. She shakes her head, fresh tears falls. “Wow, the guy I expected to spend my life with cheated with my so-called friend. Pretty cliché, don’t you think?”
“Simone is your friend, Ashley.”
She snorts again. “Uh, how ‘bout nah?”
“We didn’t cheat. But, hey, you want someone to blame? Blame me. I wasn’t planning on telling you. Ever,” I argue, wanting the heat off of Simone. Neither of them deserve what’s happening. “I kissed her every time, not the other way around.”
Ashley sucks in a deep breath, choking on this newest declaration. Once again, I wait out the silence, do penance, purposely keeping my eyes focused on the pain I’ve caused. The locker room clears before she’s finally able to staunch the flow of tears.
Starching her shoulders, she looks me square in the eyes. “You wanna be with her?”
My stomach churns.
Had this question been raised weeks ago, my answer would’ve been easy. First, and foremost, she is Ashley’s friend, no matter what’s went down. Even after Ashley nailed her to the cross today, I’d still put money on Simone answering her calls and texts, if and when she tries to reach out.
Leap the friendship hurdle, and there’s still a chasm wider than Hoover Dam between our common interests. Simone lands solidly in the anti-social category, possesses a major adversity for travel, and anything political bores her into a coma. The only sport she knows anything about is running, and that’s only enough to dodge me.
Rom-coms and musicals top her movie favorites, while action flicks get an eye roll unless there’s “a really hot guy in it.” Sci-fi, she calls, “cruel and unusual punishment,” and horror films? Those are an emphatic “No!” Attraction aside, Simone and I undeniably suck on paper.
Then, there’s the obvious difference that shouldn’t mean shit. At. All.
Some days, I can barely look at Mama.
Only thing is, I’m functioning on mere fumes because our time together has become my only dreams—pleasant, albeit far from restful.
Those dreams tip the scale in Simone’s favor.
“That’s not what this is about, Ashley. I meant everything I said last night about needing time to get my head together. Honestly, I’m feeling a little suffocated. I may be a guy, but even I know that ain’t a good sign. For now, I need to get through this school year with my GPA intact, spend time with Coop and Chirp before fall. Coop’ll handle my absence all right, but his hands will overflow with taking on everything, unless I show him the ropes. That won’t leave much room for anyone else.”
“I understand,” she whispers, surprising me with an unusually easy acquiescence. “But will you do something for me? Before you decide anything, will you think about w
hat we’ve had these past two and a half years, what we’re giving up? Because I know we don’t say the words, but I really do love you, Whit. I don’t think I realized how much until I let you go.”
A pang of regret burns through my chest. Part of me wishes I could return the words she wants to hear, but the other part, the part that questions if I’ve ever truly known my own heart won’t let me. Saying them now will only muddy already murky waters. I’ll confess I felt an unexpected wave of nostalgia after she left last night. For the first time in months, we actually talked. That’s something we used to do a whole lot.
The best I can do is agree.
“I’ll consider everything,”
“Thank you,” she murmurs, noticeably relieved.
In fact, her relief is contagious because I feel it spreading through my limbs, numbing my brain as her body sways closer, not stopping until her lips are pressed to mine. For a split second, I find myself returning the kiss, the soft glide of her mouth beneath mine, sweet. Familiar. Once upon a time, everything inside of me would rev at the sound of the tiny moan that escapes her throat, but in this moment, all it triggers is a reminder of the dangers of casual kissing.
I pull back. “Ash—”
“I know,” she say, placing the tips of her fingers against my lips. “Just think about it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Simone
“Thanks for this. Taking me home.”
“You’ve already said that, and for the third time, you’re welcome, beautiful. Now, stop.”
“Sorry. It’s just, things are—”
“Awkward with your girl’s mom,” Shawn cuts in. “Told me that, too, not that I wouldn’t have figured it out. That woman looked ready to toss you in before I stopped the car.”
“Eh, she wouldn’t have went that far. A little shove with her foot once the door was open? Possibly,” I joke, though the last twenty-six hours have been anything but funny.
Sleep was nearly nonexistent last night. A nurse woke me every five minutes, checking vitals and this temporary cast. My eyes burn from exhaustion. I loosen my grip on the seatbelt, rub the cloudiness away. Thank God for small favors it’s my left wrist that’s all piecemealed instead of my right, or else I’d be in a world of trouble. In a brilliant display of gracelessness only I can manage, I snapped it in more than one place, leaving me literally screwed in more ways than one. Pins in my bones, no working at Tate’s to fill the lonely hours.