“What…what happened? I told you,” he stutters. His brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, and it’s taking him a moment, or five, to catch up. “I told you I wasn’t going to talk to you about Ace anymore.”
Still not with me. I lay it out as plain as can be. “Ace took some pictures of you kissing a girl last night.”
His face moves from confusion to comprehension to anger. “Goldie, I was drunk off my ass last night.”
The careless statement, the accusation that lurks behind his words that I’m the unreasonable one here, only fuels my rage. I feel myself shaking and this time I know it’s not because my blood sugars are out of whack. It’s because of him. Because I took a chance on him and he was supposed to understand this. He was supposed to act like he cared.
“I don’t care that you were drunk! If I was drunk, I would not be out kissing someone and getting my picture taken. That has never happened to me in all my years here at Western, in all my years of drinking.” I fling my arm out. “Even the night I drank so much my freshman year that Sutton had to call 911 because I went into a coma, that didn’t happen. I danced. I drank. I passed out. I didn’t press my lips against some random person!”
“I didn’t ask for her to kiss me. I didn’t want her to kiss me,” he insists. He swings his long, powerful legs over the side of the mattress and for a moment I’m distracted. His shirt is still askew, framing his defined abs like a half-drawn curtain. My eyes are drawn to the light dusting of hair that arrows from his belly button into his groin.
My mouth becomes dry for another reason.
He’s so damned sexy, and for a moment, my resolve wavers. I cover my eyes so I can’t be tempted anymore. A spot of self-loathing gets mixed into the cocktail of churning emotions, and suddenly, I’m just so tired. I want to be done here. I push to my feet and force my explanation out.
“I know you didn’t, but the point of the matter, Matt, is that your lifestyle is only going to get worse when you go to the NFL. There’s only going to be more women, more road games, more time for me to worry. Every sports blog, every forum, every newspaper is full of stories of pro athletes screwing around on their wives and their girlfriends. I don’t want that to be my life, and, really, you deserve someone who’s stronger than me—who isn’t as afraid of risks as I am,” I finish drearily. I’m disgusted at myself. At Matty. At Ace. It’s an ugly reality that I’m facing. I don’t like myself much right now, but at some point, I’ve got to protect myself.
“So you’re doing this for my own good is what you’re saying?” Matty’s own anger is beginning to fire.
I’ve burned through anger and now I’m swimming in regret.
“You can take it whatever way you want.”
“How big of you,” he growls. “This stuff you’re spewing is some of the worst bullshit I’ve ever heard. If you don’t want to be with me, then have the balls to say it outright. Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
I can barely get the words out, but I say them. “I don’t want to be with you.”
Matty stands up then—a giant in his room towering over me. Angry is too soft of a word for what’s on his face. I’ve never seen him like this.
His words come out sharp, like a knife, and ice cold. “Get the hell out of my room.”
Unlike Ace, I don’t have to be told twice. I race out of there so fast that I’m sprinting by the time I hit the main floor. Hammer’s standing at the base of the stairs, but I can’t muster up even a polite goodbye.
33
Lucy
It feels like my insides have been scooped out by a melon baller and filled with acid. I go home and cry my head off.
“This calls for real ice cream,” Sutton says darkly.
Charity holds my head against her chest as I give myself two shots of insulin. That’s bad, I know, but I’m a mess.
Neither of them judge me. Neither of them tell me I’m a fool for breaking up with Matty, no matter that I cry so hard I become dehydrated. Sutton even runs to the store and buys some water they give babies because it has extra electrolytes.
Two weeks pass, but my phone remains silent. I have no idea if Ace is still calling or texting because I’ve blocked his number. I don’t block Matty’s because I still want him to call me and convince me I was wrong in my risk assessment, but he never does.
It’s hard to believe that in two short months, Matty made such an impact on my life. He was like a meteor, a hot flash of delight followed by a huge crater of destruction.
I throw myself into mock trial, but it doesn’t consume me the way it has in the past. Every time I enter the practice room, I can still feel Matty in the back, his eyes glowing with pride.
Heather’s reverted to sucking, but I can’t summon the energy to correct her even though we have only two practices before regionals.
When she stands for the third time and approaches Emily on the witness stand without permission, I fear Randall’s head will come off.
I try to prevent the impending explosion.
“This is like a game of Randall Says but instead of ‘Captain, may I,’ you say, ‘May it please the court.’” I stand up and demonstrate. “May it please the court.”
Randall nods smugly from his position on the makeshift bench.
Heather rolls her eyes. “May it please the court,” she repeats.
“You may proceed, Ms. Bell,” Randall intones. He’s enjoying this far too much. I flick a glance to Heather, who’s rolling her eyes. That’s better than her itching to hit Randall, so I lean back.