by Harper James
It’s been a solid five minutes before he really moves again, turning his head to me, his eyes landing on mine immediately, like he knew I’d be waiting for him to look over. I don’t know what to do, what to say— I don’t even know how to move. Should I shrug? Give a pitying smile? Wave him over so we can leave? I can’t decide, and so I do nothing, waiting for him to walk toward me, then brush past me. He touches my arm lightly as he does so, signaling for me to follow him, and I do.
“So,” I say quietly once we’re back in the car, sitting in silence in the parking deck— he hasn’t even put the key in the ignition. “What was that about?”
“They wanted me to testify as a character witness. The fact that Sebastian and Carson have washed their hands of the whole thing is bad, so they’re desperate to get me to speak on his behalf. You know— talking about what a great father he is, how he taught me to play football, how he’s a great role model.”
“And you wouldn’t do it?”
“I said I would do it, but that I wouldn’t omit anything. The lawyers weren’t exactly saying I should lie under oath, but they didn’t want me to bring up anything that might look bad. So…nothing about the time he locked me and Sebastian out because we’d collapsed during suicide runs on the field. Nothing about him telling Carson that he’d rather not have a middle son at all than a son who couldn’t throw a solid pass.”
“Oh,” I say, breathing slowly. I lick my lips, then dare to ask the question. “Do you think he did it, Tyson?”
Tyson closes his eyes, and there’s a sharp clip to his voice. “I don’t know. I truly don’t. But everyone thinks I should know how I feel about his guilt or innocence. My mother, the lawyers, my father, the press— even you. Everyone thinks I should be able to answer that question, and I don’t know why. My father is more than my father— he’s Dennis Slate. He’s a whole person, and he’s bad and he’s good, and how can I know which one he’s more of when to me, he’s just always been my father? That’s why I won’t testify for him or against him— why I’m only willing to tell the whole truth about him and leave it at that.”
I nod, and after a long, long while say, “The kid whose kidneys I got? He died in a drunk driving accident.”
Tyson looks startled by the change in topic. “That’s awful.”
“He was the driver. He killed two other people who were in the car with him. And then I got his kidneys and survived. He wasn’t perfect, and I’m not perfect, and I’m alive because he did something horrible, and now I’m supposed to never do anything horrible to make it worth it, and it’s all just so complicated. No one is a single thing. No one is all good or all bad,” I say, shaking my head. I’ve never told anyone this before— not even Trishelle. I didn’t know myself until I tracked down my donor’s family years ago, and learned that the kid who I’d always envisioned as a straight-A student with a bright, sunny future, was far from it.
But did that mean his life was worth less than mine? Did that mean it was okay for my family to celebrate as his cried?
“The woman that died,” Tyson says slowly, “she was related to the girl my brother Sebastian married. Her aunt. I’ve always wondered how Ashlynn can be with Sebastian despite who our father is. Especially when our lawyers paint her aunt as this hussy who had random sex and did drugs and was happy to have an affair with a married man. But…Ashlynn shows up and sits with her parents and the prosecutors, and for a while, Sebastian would show up and sit with my family and the defense. And then they’d leave together, like they’d never been on opposite sides.”
“That’s amazing. I mean, it’s great, but also amazing that they can both…be like that,” I say, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall.
“I think they’ve always been more at peace with it than I am— the idea that a person can be more than one thing.” He turns to me now, and there’s a gentle note in his gaze that wasn’t there a few moments before. “I said you’re perfect, Anna, and I meant it— but you’re also imperfect. And brave. And sexy. And smart. It’s all of those things that I want. It’s all of those things that I had to have when I saw you that first day in the gym. Everyone is so eager to be defined as one thing— football player, or cheerleader, or businessman, or movie star, or whatever. But you…I could tell right away that you weren’t trying to define yourself. You were trying to escape definition, and you have.”
I smile back, the hurt from earlier ebbing away as his gaze warms the entire car. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Tyson.”
He takes my hand and kisses along my knuckles lightly, then exhales. “Let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”
“No argument here,” I answer, happy to go somewhere else— anywhere else— with Tyson. I don’t know what we are, exactly— I know I’m not his minder, or his girlfriend, or his sex partner, or just a friend.
What we are, I think, might defy a single definition just as much as who we are does.
Chapter 16
“This is insane,” I say, shaking my head at the view. It’s a week after the court hearing, and Tyson and I are in the luxury box at the top of the stadium. The view of the perfectly curated football field below is practically Photoshopped, it’s so amazing.
“Told you,” he says with an almost-smile, watching as I lean toward the glass. The room itself is gorgeous, with leather chairs and enormous televisions, wine cabinets and cigar cases. It doesn’t look like the sort of place you go to watch a football game— it looks like the sort of place you go to negotiate peace treaties or merge billion dollar companies.
We’re here because I’ve never been to a football game. Or at least, that’s where the trip here started— I said I’d never been to one because the crowds made me nervous, and Tyson suggested I watch the next game from a luxury box, since he could get me one without much trouble. I get the impression he wants to know I’m watching him play, wants to know that I’m in the stadium with him, and idea that makes my heart stir a little.
“Alright,” I say, looking down at the empty field, at the rows and rows and rows of empty bleachers. “I’ll come to the next one. How could I turn this place down? I wish I had a picture— I forgot my phone.”
“Wouldn’t do it justice anyway,” he says, and walks up behind me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest, so we’re both looking out the window together.
“Does it make you nervous? All those bleachers full of people?” I ask.
He shakes his head above me. “I think it’s more intimidating like this. It seems bigger right now. When it’s full, it’s just a crowd. When it’s empty, you start thinking about how a crowd is really thousands and thousands of people.” He steps aside and slides open the doors that lead to wide balcony, and the cool fall breeze sweeps through the room. The air smells like cinnamon and sunlight, and I take a deep breath, happy to be here with Tyson.
“However,” he says slowly, a coy spark in his eyes, “there’s a price, you know. For the luxury box.”
“Is there?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“It’s a very, very nice place to watch the game from,” he goes on, voice lowering. He steps toward me, and I bite my lip in anticipation of where this is heading. “You’ll need to pay me back for the effort.” My core stirs as he closes the door to the room, then looks back to me. He takes a long, steadying breath, forcing himself to maintain control. “Anna, undress for me.”
I take a breath, looking at the room, at the enormous windows. There’s no one out there, but they’re still so expansive and…well…they’re windows. Tyson clears his throat, though, and so I do as he says, sliding my shoes off, pulling my sweater over my head, and finally wiggling out of my jeans. He watches me the entire time, and when I’m completely naked, I stand before him, enjoying the feeling of him surveying me. I can see his erection, already pressing at his pants.
“Go to the couch. I want you to sit down, and spread your legs. Let me see your pussy.”
I flush a l
ittle, but it’s excitement, not embarrassment, then do as he says. The leather of the couch immediately clings to my skin when I sit down and prop my legs open, first a little, then farther when I see the stern look in Tyson’s eyes. He’s still fully dressed, while I’m here exposing my most private parts to him. I rest my wrists over my knees so as not to obstruct his view.
“That pussy,” he says, the word almost a hum. “That sweet, tight pussy. Touch it, Anna.”
I’m surprised by his words, but place one hand across my pussy, rubbing it lightly.
“Touch it like you mean it, sweetheart,” Tyson says, looking entertained by my easy caress. I look down, bite my lip, and spread my pussy lips a bit, bringing my other hand down against my clit. It’s already swollen from just being here, nude, with Tyson. When my fingers roll over it, I shiver in pleasure. My eyes drift shut, and I begin to push a finger into my pussy, wishing it was his cock instead of my own hand.
Soon, the pleasure builds and builds, as Tyson talks dirty to me.
And then I’m calling his name as I come for him and he watches me, and it’s so hot and dirty and wrong…and right.
It’s everything at once.
I can’t believe that he’s gotten me to actually enjoy pleasuring myself while he watches. I never thought I could be so bold.
After I come, and after I get dressed, Tyson takes out his phone.
“I want a picture of you.”
I bite my lip, and then offer a compromise. “Only if you’re in it too.”
We take a quick selfie together, and when he shows it to me, I can’t believe how normal we look.
Like a real couple.
Except, we’re not a real couple. Nobody even knows about us. It makes me sad, but then I remember that I agreed to all of this sneaking around and secrecy.
There’s no one in the stadium so we walk with unusual confidence, our hands clasped together. Holding his hand is such a simple act, so first-base, and yet it feels almost as powerful as having sex with him— though in a very different way, of course. We part ways once we’re outside— Tyson has his own practice to get to— and my palm is left warm and wanting from where it was pressed to his.
“Wait,” I say, remembering, and turn to call out to him before he’s out of earshot. “The picture.”
“You want me to delete it?” he asks genuinely.
I bite my lip and smile. “No. I want you to send it to me.”
“Of course.”
I walk back to the apartment in a sunny haze.
When I get inside, I hear Trishelle on the phone, talking loudly.
I go into the bathroom, leaving my purse out on the couch as I freshen up. When I come back out of the bathroom, Trishelle is sitting on the couch, staring at her phone.
“What have you been up to? You hungry?” I ask as I walk to the kitchen and fill up a pot to make a box of macaroni.
“No,” she says, voice steady— far steadier than it was a moment before. “In fact, I suddenly lost my appetite.”
“Why, are you feeling sick?” I ask. “I can make you some chicken broth if you want.”
She doesn’t answer and now I’m getting worried. Maybe she’s really sick and not just a little under the weather. I leave the kitchen and see that Trishelle is still looking at her phone, her eyebrows furrowed, her mouth a line.
Except then I realize— it’s not her phone. It’s my phone.
“Trishelle,” I say, heart pounding. “That’s my phone. Why did you take it out of my purse?” I walk toward her, but Trishelle springs away down the couch, all without ever taking her eyes off the phone. “Trishelle!” I say, voice growing higher, more desperate.
“I knew it,” she says, voice almost a whisper. “I knew there was something going on, some reason why I never met your mystery boyfriend.” Her eyes are tearing up and her voice shakes.
“Trishelle, please,” I say, and now there are tears in my eyes because I know exactly, exactly what she’s looking at, and I can’t undo it.
I know that I should have just told her the truth about me and Tyson Slate from the beginning, but I was a coward and now I’ve hurt my best friend.
My hands fall to my sides, and shake as I speak. “Trishelle, give it back.”
“Don’t lie to me anymore,” she says, even though I’m not able to speak, much less lie, right now. “Is Tyson Slate the guy you’ve been seeing, the person you’ve been sleeping with?” Despite her words, though, she looks like she might still be convinced that she’s wrong.
“You! You and Tyson Slate!” she snarls. “How? How the hell did you even meet him?”
“At your tryout. I didn’t know who he was, Trishelle, and then he and I were…we were sort of a thing before I even knew you wanted him,” I stammer.
“You were already with him when I told you I wanted him, and you didn’t bother mentioning it to me?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me!” I answer, and I’m crying, and she’s crying, and I don’t even know what to say or how to say it or who I am or who she is. Everything is a dark blur of speed and anger.
“You didn’t give me the chance to believe you,” she says. “The auction— he bought me at the auction and then…it was to get to you, wasn’t it? It wasn’t about me at all? I’ve been— fuck, I’ve been throwing myself at him like an idiot, and you just let me!”
“We didn’t want to tell anyone. We wanted to keep it a secret.”
“I’m your best friend, Anna. You aren’t supposed to let me humiliate myself so a guy you’re sleeping with can avoid telling the world that he’s with you.”
“Best friend? I barely even see you anymore, Trishelle! And when I do, you’re like some psycho cheerleader version of yourself,” I snap, emotion shifting like a riptide— though the tears are still coming.
“Sure, yeah, pretend like I’ve become a bitch when you’re the one fucking a football player and running around in secret, laughing at me behind my back.”
“I’m not laughing at you, Trish. I would never.”
“Sure you are,” she says. “And just so you know, he will never be seen with you in public, Anna. This picture is as good as it will ever get. Trust me.”
I swallow, choking on the breath I’m trying desperately to take. She’s wrong. I know she’s wrong— I know I held Tyson’s hand today, I know he took the time to get me into the theater to practice, I know he thinks I’m perfect. I know she’s jealous. I know she’s angry.
I know there’s nothing I can do or say to make myself feel anything but sick and furious and awful and wrong.
I bite my lip hard, then spin around. I gather my phone, my purse, a few incidentals, and I hit the door just as the pot of water I started a lifetime ago begins to boil over.
16
I probably should have sorted out where, exactly, I’m going, before I got outside. I don’t even have a car, and can’t think of a single other friend I can call to stay with. Hell, I don’t even have the last name of the other students whose numbers I’ve gotten for study groups or class projects. I make my way to the student center and collapse onto one of the oversized couches, just like I did that night of the auction earlier in the year.
I stare at the clock, waiting for it to be eight. That’s when Tyson gets out of practice. That’s when I can call him. That’s when I can tell him what happened.
“Whoa, slow down,” he says at 8:01.
“Trishelle saw the photo. She got to my phone. And she’s pissed at me.”
“Oh, god damn it,” Tyson says under his breath.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say in a squeaky, pathetic voice. “I left and don’t want to go back, but I don’t know where else to go.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Give me a few minutes to get something from the varsity house, okay?”
“Should I come there?” I ask.
“Definitely not— if Trishelle tells the other cheerleaders, they’ll be there and out for blood. We’ll go somewh
ere private, okay? I’ll call you back and come pick you up in a little bit.”
I nod, slightly relieved— at least there’s a plan now. I gather my things and head down to the front of the student center; a few moments later Tyson calls and lets me know he’ll be picking me up shortly, and that we’ll be going to a hotel. He arrives in another rental car, and when I get in he zips away from the student center fast, like he’s worried someone might get a photo of us if he doesn’t peel out.
We’re on the highway now, apparently going to a hotel that’s nowhere near main campus— which is fine by me. We ride in silence, save the hum of the air conditioning, finally exiting almost a half hour later. The hotel we pull up to is on the lake, and is really more of a resort— there’s a valet out front, and we’re met at the door with glasses of champagne despite the fact that my face is tearstained and Tyson is still wearing his dirty practice clothes.
“Thanks, we need it,” he mutters, taking a glass for himself then handing another to me. At the check in table, he gives our names, then adds that the reservation for a week was made by Sebastian Slate.
“Your brother?” I ask.
“He offered— and believe me, he can afford it,” Tyson says. “If anyone knows the need to get away, it’s my brothers. I called him and he set it up for us.”
“That was really nice of him,” I say with a small smile.
“Hey, Trishelle is going to get over this,” he says, sensing how distraught I am about our argument.