Rush

by Samantha Towle

  There’s a pause. Then, “So, you’re really not hittin’ it?”

  “Do I look stupid to you?”

  And the compliments just keep coming.

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “Fuck you.” Ares chuckles. “And, no, I’m not hittin’ it.”

  “Then, you are as stupid as you look, quarterback. ’Cause, if I were single, I’d be tapping that in a heartbeat.”

  “Nah. She’s Coach’s daughter. That’s a recipe for disaster in itself. And all the shit that went down with her earlier this year…she has baggage a mile wide. And baggage doesn’t interest me.”

  Pearl Jam’s “Black” is playing in Ares’s truck. And it’s apt because it’s the color of my mood right now.

  “Baggage doesn’t interest me.”

  The words have been on repeat in my head all day, and I’ve been getting angrier and angrier.

  I don’t know why it bothers me so much. It’s not like I’m interested in him in that way.

  Sure you’re not, Ari. You keep telling yourself that.

  Fine. I do like him. A little bit. But I know he has no interest in me in that way, so I’m not paying attention to my feelings. Instead, I’m tamping them down.

  And, yes, it stung when I heard he wasn’t interested in me. More so because I had baggage.

  But, mostly, I’m pissed because I don’t like being the topic of conversation for him and his buddy while they’re doing reps.

  It’s disrespectful.

  Yeah, but it’s not like he respects you. Remember how he used to talk to you? The things he said?

  I know, but I thought things had changed after that night with Kyle. I thought he saw the real me now. Not just the screwed-up girl who’s clinging on by her fingernails to stay sober.

  But, clearly, nothing has changed. He still sees me that way.

  I didn’t want to ride home with him tonight. But I also didn’t want him to know I’d overheard.

  So, here I am, sitting in his truck.

  Angry and hurt and a million other things. Fingers curled into my palms in quiet contemplation.

  “You okay over there, Jailbird?” he asks, finger tapping on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “I’m fine.” I grit my jaw and stare out the passenger window.

  I can feel his eyes on me again, but I ignore him.

  “I meant to tell you this morning…Gigi loved the painting. I gave it to her last night.”

  “I’m glad.” I’m speaking as few words as possible because, if I say more, my anger will come spilling out.

  “I made the donation to AFSP.”

  “Good.”

  He swings the car to the right and firmly hits the brakes, stopping by the sidewalk, and we’re still a five-minute drive from my apartment.

  “Okay, what gives?” he says in a frustrated tone.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing. Sure.” He nods, disbelieving. “So, nothing is the reason you’ve barely said a word for the last half an hour, and you won’t look at me now.”

  I turn my eyes to him. “I didn’t know it was a prerequisite to talk.”

  He looks annoyed, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes that I can’t decipher. “It’s not, but usually, I can’t get you to stop talking.”

  Nice.

  Maybe, if he’d kept his mouth shut, then I wouldn’t be feeling like I do right now.

  Shitty.

  And like I really want to drink.

  No, I don’t. I’m not going to let his carelessness with words lead me down the path of spiraling thoughts.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s eating you anytime soon?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he echoes, brow rising.

  “Yeah, why? Why do you even care if something is bothering me?”

  He looks surprised. Like he’s not actually sure of the answer himself. “I just…do.”

  I laugh humorlessly. “Good answer.”

  “Fucking hell, Jailbird.” He tosses his hands up, irritated. “Because we’re friends; that’s why.”

  “I thought I had too much baggage to be your friend.”

  He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard you…in the gym, talking to Thompson about me.”

  “So?” His face doesn’t change. Not a trace of guilt there.

  Then, what did I expect? This is him I’m talking about. I don’t think the guy has it in him to feel guilty.

  “So?” I laugh again, and it still doesn’t have a trace of humor in it. “I don’t like being fodder for you and your buddy.”

  “You weren’t fodder. Thompson was being a dick, and I was just trying to shut him up.”

  “You did a stand-up job of that.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” he snaps. “It’s just locker-room talk. That’s what guys do. I’m not going to stand there and tell him things that will give him ammo to wind me up about later.”

  “Oh, well, that’s okay then.”

  “Stop being so fucking sensitive!”

  “Fuck you, Kincaid. You ever think that maybe this isn’t me being sensitive? And that it’s you being an insensitive prick?” I yell back.

  He pushes his hand into his hair, gripping the strands. “It was a nothing conversation, and you’re getting all bent out of shape for no reason. I didn’t bad-mouth you. I just stated facts.”

  “Yeah, what was it again? ‘So, you’re really not hittin’ it?’” I say, imitating a male voice. “‘Do I look stupid to you?’ So, that’s a fact, is it? That someone would have to be stupid to be with me?”

  “That’s not what I said!”

  “You just said, you stated facts! And that was one of the facts that you said to Thompson this morning!”

  “You’re taking it out of context.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “Jesus! See, this is why I avoid women like you—”

  “Women like me?” I let out a dry laugh, cutting him off. “You mean, women with baggage. Women with substance abuse issues, right?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation, and the chill in his voice is enough to refreeze the melting ice caps in the Antarctic.

  I swallow hard, past the lump in my throat. “Well, you don’t need to avoid me anymore.” I grab my bag and open the door.

  “Where are you going?” He sounds irritated, maybe even bored. And that makes me feel a million times worse.

  God, I was so stupid to think that he would ever be my friend. He hasn’t changed one bit from the person I first met that day.

  He’s just the same judgmental asshole as he was then.

  “Somewhere you’re not,” I bite and clamber down out of the truck.

  “You’re being stupid, Ari. It’s still six blocks to your apartment.”

  I turn to face him, my hand on the door, ready to shut it. “Sounds like me, right, Mr. Perfect? Stupid with baggage a mile wide.” Then, I slam the door shut before he can say any more to hurt me, and I take off, striding away in the opposite direction from him.

  NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” is blaring out of the speakers from my iPod docking station in my living room.

  I should be doing yoga. Relaxing. Focusing. Clearing my mind. But I can’t.

  I’ve got too much anger inside me to even attempt to do yoga.

  So, I’m currently doing exercise in my living room to rid myself of the adrenaline tearing up my body, so I can relax enough to do yoga.

  I could’ve gone out for a run to burn off the hot energy, but I don’t feel sure that I might not run straight into a bar right now.

  How I managed to get home without going inside of one was a goddamn miracle.

  Did I stop outside a pub and stare at it for a good five minutes?

  Yes.

  Did I go in?

  No.

  And, for that, I deserve a fucking medal.

  I wante
d to go inside so bad. It would have been so easy.

  But I didn’t give in to the urge, and that’s what counts.

  Instead, I walked away and speed-walked home. The second I got inside my apartment, I stripped off my clothes and changed into a sports bra and shorts. Pushed my coffee table up to the wall and turned on my music.

  I must have been listening to NSYNC the last time I’d had my iPod on, so I left it playing. Can’t beat a bit of old-school boy band to do old-fashioned exercise to. Sit-ups. Push-ups. Jumping jacks. Anything to burn off my anger. And it’s slowly working.

  My heart is pumping. I’m sweating. Getting that anger right out of my veins and mind.

  I start jogging a circuit around my apartment, singing along with the music.

  I probably look like a crazy person right now. But I’m doing the best I can.

  I’m not used to dealing with emotions. In the past, whenever I felt something I couldn’t handle, I would drink, and then it would disappear.

  It’s like learning how to handle my emotions without a crutch all over again.

  But I did it.

  I’m doing it.

  “Bye Bye Bye” comes to an end, and “It’s Gonna Be Me” starts to play. I chuckle to myself, thinking of the It’s Gonna Be May memes.

  God, I’m sad.

  I start singing along when I hear what I think is a knock on my front door.

  I stop and tilt my head in that direction, wondering if I actually heard it or not.

  Yep, I did because it comes again but harder this time.

  Must be one of my neighbors. I hope they’re not coming to complain about the music.

  I go over and turn the sound down. Then, I pad over, barefoot, to the door.

  Reaching up on my tiptoes, I check the peephole.

  I suck in a surprised breath when I see who’s standing outside my door.

  Ares.

  How the hell did he get in my building? You have to be buzzed in. And what is he doing here? Probably come to have a go at me and get in the last word.

  Well, he can just piss right off.

  I step away from the door, having no intention of opening it.

  Like he knows I just thought that, he says through the door, “Ari, I know you’re there. I just heard you turn down the shit music.”

  Ugh. Asshole.

  I stubbornly fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not pretending not to be here. I’m just choosing to ignore you.”

  “But you’re not ignoring me right now.” He sounds smug.

  Jackass.

  I flip him the bird even though he can’t see me.

  “Will you open the door?”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use the word please before. Especially not to me.

  That makes me open the door. But I’m frowning when I swing it open. And I hate how my heart switches up tempo at the sight of him standing there. Traitorous heart.

  I see his jaw clench as he takes in my appearance. And you know what? I don’t even care that I’m only dressed in a sports bra and shorts, all sweated up. I’m not trying to impress him right now.

  Actually, I’ve never wanted to impress him, period.

  All I’ve ever wanted was for him to like me. To be my friend.

  When he finally lifts his eyes from my body to my face, his brow rises. “NSYNC? Really?”

  “You got me to open the door, so you could pick apart my choice of music?”

  “No. I wanted to make sure you were okay, and—”

  “You mean, you came to see if I was drunk. Well, I’m not. Sorry to disappoint.”

  His eyes darken, jaw tightening to shatter. “The thought didn’t even cross my mind.”

  That does surprise me.

  “I actually came to apologize.”

  No, that surprises me. I have to grip the door to stop from falling backward from shock.

  “You were right. I shouldn’t have discussed you with Thompson. The moment he brought it up, I should’ve shut him down. I let myself get pulled into the locker-room banter, and it was wrong. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Thank you for apologizing. But there was truth in it. You think I have baggage.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  True.

  “I guess. But you used it as a reason to not be with me.”

  His head tilts to the side. “Do you want…that?”

  “God, no!” Liar. “It just hurt me to hear that I’m undateable because of my alcohol abuse problems.”

  “You’re not undateable, Ari. Far from it.”

  My heart spikes.

  “But I can’t date someone like that…like you.”

  And plummets.

  “Because of my own reasons. But I shouldn’t have said it as a slight against you when I was mouthing off to Thompson.”

  I hate the ache I feel in my chest right now.

  I know he doesn’t want me. I’ve always known that from the moment I met him.

  Sure, he probably thinks I’m fuckable.

  I see the way he checks me out sometimes. He’s doing it right now. I’m not blind.

  But thinking someone is screwable is completely different to seeing them as dating material.

  I am the complete opposite of what he wants.

  I know this.

  So, why is it bothering me so much?

  I get to have him as a friend, and that is huge. I don’t have many…okay, I don’t have any friends. But, now, I have him and, because of him, Missy, too. And that means everything.

  “So, am I forgiven?” he asks in a gentle voice.

  Knowing that he cares enough to come here and apologize makes up for everything that happened this morning and in his truck on the way home.

  “Sure.” I smile, and so does he.

  “Does that mean I can come in now?”

  “Oh. Okay.” I step back, letting him into my place. “How did you get in my building?” I ask, closing the door as he makes his way over to my sofa.

  “Your neighbor let me up on his way out,” he tells me as he removes his jacket, laying it over the arm of the sofa and sitting himself down, kicking off his shoes.

  I love how comfortable he already is in my apartment.

  “Great security,” I quip.

  “He’s a Giants fan.”

  “He would be.” I roll my eyes, and he chuckles.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks me.

  After that workout, I’m starving. “Yep.”

  “You like pizza?”

  “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

  He bursts out laughing. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Jailbird,” he crows. “Shit, now, I wanna watch The Big Lebowski.”

  “Nope, we’re watching Dexter,” I tell him. “Because you’ve made me wait nearly a whole week to watch the next episode, and I’m dying here.”

  “You mean, you didn’t cheat on me and watch it already?” His laughter has stopped, and the tone in his voice is so serious, it makes me stop and look at him.

  There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel like it was some kind of test.

  A test he expected me to fail.

  But I didn’t.

  “Of course not.” I give him a faux-annoyed look. “When I say I’ll do something, I do it.”

  Something akin to relief flickers in his eyes, and it leaves a warm feeling swirling inside me.

  I walk over and turn NSYNC off, and then I pick up the TV remote and toss it to him. “You set up the next episode of Dexter while I order the pizza. Anything you don’t like?” I ask him.

  “Anchovies. They’re the devil. I’m good with everything else.”

  “See, I knew there was a reason I liked you, quarterback.” I smirk, using his earlier words back on him.

  He gifts me with a wide smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes.

  I feel that smile all the way down to my toes, like a rush of adr
enaline.

  And I know I’m in trouble.

  I’ve been summoned to my dad’s office. I don’t know what he wants me for. I don’t usually get called to his office. If he wants something, he just rings me. I’ve only been in his office once since I started working here, and that was on the day I started, so I can’t say I have a good feeling about this.

  As I walk up the stairs to the second floor, where my dad’s office is, I look at the photos hanging on the wall; they’re of players in action from over the years. There’s one of Ares hanging up there, and it makes me smile.

  I’m going to the cinema with Ares tonight. After saying that he wanted to watch The Big Lebowski after my, “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” quip, he told me a few days later that he saw that it’d be showing at a cinema in Greenwich Village that did late-night screenings of old movies and asked if I wanted to go.

  My answer was…“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

  Clearly, I’m hilarious.

  I never got to see The Big Lebowski when it was first released because I was only three at the time, so it will be cool to see it on the big screen. And, of course, I’ll be with Ares, which will make it even better.

  We’ve been getting on brilliantly after our disagreement. He practically spent the whole weekend over at my place, watching Dexter. We got through a serious amount of food and episodes. We’re on season three already.

  Although I did have to kick him out on Sunday, as I had arranged to go shopping with Missy.

  Well, it was more like window-shopping for me, as I’m trying to save money to pay my dad back. It was fun. I hadn’t had a girlie shopping day in forever.

  I’ll be sad when Missy goes back to Dartmouth, but we’ve promised to message all the time, and she even invited me to come visit. No frat parties though.

  But, when she goes back, I’ll still have Ares here to hang out with. Actually, I think I’ve spent more time with him these past few weeks than I have Missy.

  Although the more time I spend around him, the more my feelings for him grow. I’m keeping them under wraps, but I need to get a handle on them because unrequited feelings for someone who is turning out to be a good friend is not a path I want to go down. I need to keep my head straight.