by Ginger Scott
Whatever.
Chapter 1: The Last Day of Summer Ball
Ty
“Come on, princess. Get your ass up! It’s time for workouts. Early bird gets the worm, and all that shit,” I practically sing to my brother, whose head is buried under two pillows. He’s still nursing himself a little after our late night. Nate’s not used to my schedule. I’ve never needed much sleep, a side effect of constantly waking up in pain—however real or not it may be. I pretty much filled my undergrad years with party after party, and I still finished with a three-point-eight GPA.
“Gahhhhhhhhh,” Nate bellows, his voice muffled by his mattress as he throws the top pillow at me, hitting me in the chest. “What are you, part robot? How are you not tired?”
“I’m just that awesome. Awesome people don’t need to sleep as much as you mere mortals,” I say, tugging the blanket from his body to really piss him off.
“Alright! I’m up, I’m up,” he says, pushing his fists into his eyes and rubbing like he did when he was a kid. He’s still that kid to me—probably always will be. “The team doesn’t even start workouts until nine anyway, asshole!”
He’s complaining, but he’s still getting dressed. I push Nate. I push him because he takes it, which means he secretly likes being pushed. And I push him because the kid is seriously talented. I was good…before I got hurt. I maybe could have played college ball, probably for some junior college back home. But Nate, he could go all the way, as in big leagues, and stay there—for years.
“Hey, that’s awesome asshole, thank you very much. Now get your shoes on so we can get our miles in,” I say, pushing out into the hallway to wait for him.
We go six miles every morning—Nate takes the treadmill at the gym, and I work the hand cycle. My body, at least what’s left of it, is something I can control, so weights and fitness has kind of become an obsession. School has always been easy, which is probably why the partying never seems to get in my way. But throwing myself in the pool and making my arms pound the water for a mile or two is a challenge—I need those challenges to remind me that I’m still alive.
“You’re like this happy little morning elf, and I hate you,” Nate says, throwing his workout towel at me before turning to lock up our room.
“Dude, it’s not like I’m the one putting the hard stuff in your hands. You know, you can get drunk on just beer, bro. You don’t have to do shots and shit like that. That’s why you’re always so tired in the morning,” I tell him.
Nate was a goody two-shoes in high school, always hanging out with the same group of guys and his girlfriend. The switch flipped when he found out she cheated on him. Thank God I was home when that happened. He left the party, came home to me, and we shared our first bottle of Jack. Damn, maybe it is my fault—I should’ve started him out on something weaker.
“About that, man…I think I’m out,” he says, pausing right before the doorway leading out of our dorm.
“Out of what?” He’s lost me on this one.
“Out…of this partying and trolling for random chicks thing we’re doing every night. It’s…it’s just not me,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. “Fuck off, I knew you’d make fun of me.”
“Sorry, sorry dude. That was just…”I have to pause again to try to keep a straight face. Tucking my big-ass grin into the side of my arm to hide it, I force myself to take a deep breath—and to take my brother seriously. “I’m sorry. I guess I just don’t see the down side.”
“You wouldn’t,” Nate says, walking ahead. My smile’s gone at that—he’s right, I wouldn’t. And that stings a little.
Workouts go the same, and when Nate heads off to join the team, I put in some extra time. There’s a posting for personal trainers that I’ve been looking at, I just haven’t had the balls to ask about it yet. But today’s the day. There’s a cute girl working the main counter, so I hit her up first.
“Hey, Nike!” I call her Nike because that’s what her shirt says. She looks down and smirks and then looks back into my eyes. My grin makes her smile and bite her lip, and I know I’ve got her. “Sorry, didn’t know your name.”
“I’m Sage,” she says, leaning over the counter just enough to give me a nice view of the frilly white lace trim on her bra.
“Sage, nice name,” I smile, falling right into my routine. “So I was checking out the posting for the personal trainer. That filled yet?”
“Nope,” she says, her smile bigger now. “You interested?”
“Yep,” I say, playing off of her flippant answer. She’s oblivious though.
“Hang on, I’ll get the manager,” she says, pushing back from the counter with a skip and heading into a back office. I allow myself a glance at her tiny shorts and perfect ass while she walks away.
The manager wasn’t as charmed by my dimples and good looks, so I had to win over all six-foot-four of him with my skills. After six years of physical rehab, I know my stuff, so he was happy to hire me to work with freshman students who were just looking to stay in shape.
I type Nate a text on my way back to the dorm, making our now regular lunch plan for burgers at Sally’s. I think it’s our dad’s fault, but Preeter boys like their routine. I think maybe only two or three days have passed that we haven’t eaten at least one of our three meals at our new favorite hole-in-the-wall.
I have a good hour to kill before Nate’s practice is done. Alone time. At least during school I can sink my mind into something for one of my classes; I usually end up working ahead just because I can’t stand being idle. But there’s not much to distract me now. Even Sports Center is lame in August. McConnell is not known for its football team, so like hell am I going to get into that.
It’s a bad idea—it always is—but my phone is in my hand and my fingers are typing and hitting send before I can stop myself. It’s been three weeks since I’ve talked to Kelly. She had the baby two months ago. That was a slap in my face, a reality dose I probably needed. That’s why I broke up with her in the first place—so she could have these things. I did it because I loved her so much I wanted her to have it all. But damn did it hurt seeing her live her life and move on from me so effortlessly.
Kelly stayed with me after the accident, through high school and the summer before we both left for college. We were going to go to the same school—that was always the plan. But I could tell by the look on her face, the one that she wore more and more every day, that she was forcing herself to go through with it all. She wanted out. But she loved me too much to hurt me. So I pushed her away instead.
My phone buzzes back with a response, and I hover over the screen for a few seconds, afraid to open it. I just asked her how things were going at home with Jax, the baby. We’ve managed to remain friends for four years. Friends—even though every conversation with her is like driving a stake through my heart. Last year, she got married, and a few months later, she told me she was pregnant. And I died a little more.
Swiping the screen, the first thing I see is a picture of tiny feet nestled inside Kelly’s hands, the diamond ring on her left hand like a banner waving in my face. Her husband, Jared, tolerates me, but I don’t think he’d mind at all if Kelly and I just stopped communicating completely. I have a feeling he’ll get his wish one day—distance and time, they do funny things to the heart, they make you…forget. Or at least want to forget.
He’s beautiful. That’s all I can say.
Thanks. That’s all she writes back. And I know we’re near the end, and I feel sick. I’m getting drunk tonight, with our without Nate as my wingman. Hell, I might just pull up a stool at Sally’s and join the regulars who plant themselves there all day.
Cass
“Oh my god, you literally brought your entire life from Burbank to Oklahoma, didn’t you,” I huff, dragging two extra bags on top of my own trunk along the walkway toward our dorm.
“That was the deal. I would come here, but I still get to be me—and I like to have my things,” she says, prancing ahead of me wit
h the lighter bags. Paige is a full minute older, but you’d think years separated us with the authority she holds over my head.
When it came time to decide on a college, Paige’s choices narrowed down to Berkley and McConnell, and Berkley was definitely her preference. But for me, it was always McConnell and only McConnell. They had the best sports and rehab medicine program in the country, and that’s what I wanted to do—what I was destined to do. But my parents wouldn’t support me moving thousands of miles away without someone around to keep an eye on me. Supervision—the word made my skin crawl I had heard it so often. Supervision and monitoring, words bandied about so often in conversations about me, but never in conversations with me. God how I wished just once someone threw in the word normal.
So, as much of a pain in the ass as my sister is, she’s also a saint, because she picked McConnell, and I’m the only reason for that. And I owe her—I owe her my life.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” Paige starts as soon as we get our bags, mostly hers, loaded into our dorm room. “I want this bed. And I’m still going to rush a sorority. Mom and dad don’t need to know that I won’t technically be living with you.”
“Works for me,” I say, already unzipping my bag and flipping open the lid on my trunk. I feel Paige’s purse slam into my back suddenly. “Ouch! What the hell?” I say, rubbing the spot where the leather strap smacked my bare skin.
“The least you could do is pretend to miss living with me,” she says, her eyes squinting, her smirk showing she’s a little hurt.
“Oh, Paigey, I’ll miss you. I just hate that you have to be my babysitter—still!” And I do hate it. I think that’s the worst part about being a teenager with MS; everyone’s always waiting for something to go wrong.
It started in the middle of my freshman year—I would get this pain in my eye. It would come and go, weeks between each occurrence. When I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I told my parents—and we went to the eye doctor. My vision was fine, and he told them it was probably stress from school and the running in soccer leaving me dehydrated. What a simple and succinct diagnosis. It was also complete crap.
The fatigue hit next. Again, easily summed up with too much soccer practice, which of course led to truly uncomfortable fights between my parents—my mom wanting me to quit completely and my father saying I just “need more conditioning.” It was because of these fights that I hid the tingling from them. That went on for months, until it was summer. And then one day, I couldn’t walk.
I could stand from my bed, get to my feet, but that was it. The second I attempted to move toward my door or drag my feet toward my closet to get dressed I wobbled and fell. I felt like the town drunk without the benefit of the booze and a paper bag. I screamed for Paige and my parents, and I knew by the look on their faces that my life as I knew it was done.
The fights continued, and my parents separated for a while. After the MS diagnosis, my mom insisted I quit soccer. And I got depressed. My dad supported my wishes to play again, of course under strict circumstances and with limited workouts. And everything pretty much sucked for the next year.
It was a series of med trials, seeing how certain combinations affected me and finding out what side effects I could handle. I also got really good at giving myself a shot—three times a week for three years, until they came out with the pill version last year. I didn’t mind the shots, though. What I minded were the constant questions and lectures from my parents. “How are you feeling?” “Are you fatigued?” “You should rest, stop working so hard.”
Paige never lectured. Through it all, she just stayed the same. True, she’s terribly self-absorbed, and there were moments that she resented the attention I got because of my disease. But it was more about the attention, and the fact that it wasn’t on her. And I liked that.
We made a deal with my parents, coming here as a package deal. We fought for it for months; my mom really wanted to keep me at home. But that’s the thing about MS. It never goes away; it’s always with me. And the shots, drug trials, therapies—they don’t fight the disease. They only slow it down. Like the front line of the Pittsburgh Steelers, except nowhere near as effective. Maybe more like the front line of the Miami Dolphins. So in the end, I got my way. Now that I’m here, I’m not going to let MS be a part of any conversation. I’m just Cass Owens, and my story ends there.
“Hungry. Now,” Paige says, snapping her fingers at me. I smile out the window, not offended in the least. I’m free.
“Let’s go eat greasy, fried crap,” I say, grabbing my purse and blowing right past her, ignoring her eye roll and protest and impending whine about needing a salad with low-cal dressing. Freedom!
Ty
I’m two beers ahead of Nate by the time he walks into Sally’s, and I can already see the lecture building with every step closer he comes. He’s doing that thing, where he cracks his neck on one side and looks down, shaking his head at me in shame.
“Save it, bro,” I say, picking up my glass and finishing off the last of my second beer while he sits down and admires both empty mugs.
“You called Kelly, didn’t you?” It’s not really a question, so I don’t answer. “I don’t know why you torture yourself. It’s not like you can’t meet other women. Damn, Ty—that’s like your best skill. You meet women every five minutes, and they’re in love with you after six minutes.”
“Yeah, but I don’t love them. No one is Kelly,” I say, feeling every bit of my self-loathing settle over my body.
“No, but maybe…just maybe, someone could be better, you know, like different better. If you’d just give it a damned chance,” Nate says, stretching his legs out from the booth and pulling a menu out from the rack on the wall. I can’t help but watch his muscles stretch and hate him, just for the smallest second, for being whole. I don’t really hate him, but sometimes it’s hard to be so damned positive all of the time. “Order me a cheeseburger and chili fries. I’m hitting the head,” he says, pushing out from the booth and walking to the restrooms in the back.
Our mom always says that Nate’s the romantic one. Me, I’m all numbers and practicality and logic. But I don’t know, I think my romantic side is alive and breathing—it’s just tortured. It’s this sliver of my soul that feels certain that there’s only one girl out there who could ever love me, and her love wasn’t meant to last forever.
“Hahahaha! You are sooooo not the sexy one,” a chick’s voice squeals from behind me so loudly that I’m compelled to turn around. That, and she said the word sex, pretty much an automatic for me. I glance over my shoulder, and at first all I can see are two blondes. I can’t quite make out their features though, but if pushed, I’d say they were both probably pretty damned sexy. When they pass me, I breathe in and the air smells like the ocean. One of them is taller than the other, lean but built, clearly a runner. The other one is curvy, and she’s wearing a sundress that, if I had to guess, was hiding no bra and probably a pretty sexy pair of panties.
“You’re, like, predictable sexy,” the tall one says, and I hear a bubble snap from her gum. “I’m like ninja sexy.”
I can’t help but smirk at what she says. This chick’s funny. And I’d have to say, that might just give her the edge on sexy. I keep my gaze forward, pretending to look at something on my phone screen on the table, but I notice the pair of them slide into a booth across the room.
“What’ll you have today, Ty?” Cal says, pulling the pencil from behind his ear to write down our order. I don’t know why he bothers asking. Four weeks we’ve been coming here, and I’m pretty sure we’ve ordered the same thing every time.
“Cheeseburgers,” I say, nodding to Nate, who’s now standing behind Cal and waiting to slide back to his seat.
“Oh, hey Nate,” Cal says, writing down our order and putting the pen back in its spot somewhere within his mess of hair and the mesh Budweiser hat he wears every single day.
“I’m starved, man. Today’s practice was brutal. It’s just…so damned hot,
” Nate says, pulling his own phone out and looking at the screen. I’m glad he’s only half paying attention to me, because my focus is dedicated to the booth about twenty feet away.
“Do you have any low-fat dressings? Like, at all?” the curvy blonde says, a strand of her hair wrapped around her finger when she asks.
“We have Italian,” says the older woman taking their order.
“Yeah, but is it just oil? That doesn’t mean low fat. Is it fat-free or low-fat?” This chick is high maintenance.
“It’s…Italian,” the waitress says. A small chuckle escapes my lips and the other girl, the ninja, looks my way briefly. I don’t know why, but my heart kicks a little at getting caught.
“She’ll have the Italian. Just put it on the side,” the ninja princess says, and the waitress walks away.
“Good thinking. It’s low-fat if you put it on the side,” the diva says, and my ninja princess just stares at her, watching her pull out a mirror and check her lipstick, and then flips her gaze to me. This time I don’t panic, instead just lifting the right side of my lip in a tiny grin to let her know I’m with her—hell, I’m so with her. She shakes her head at me in disbelief and then returns her gaze back to her friend.
“Putting the dressing in a different bowl doesn’t change its chemistry, Paige,” she says, and I smirk again.
“What’s so funny, dude?” Nate interrupts, but I shake my head and hold up my hand against the table.
“Hang on, I have to hear this out,” I whisper, and he bunches his brow before turning to look at the two girls behind him who have me completely rapt.