“Who is she?” Ciara presses.
“You don’t know her.”
“So?”
“She’s just some girl from my class.”
“And?”
“And I fucked up, okay?” I spit bitterly.
Ciara studies me, her lips pressed into a firm line. “Damn. I always knew you’d settle down eventually, I just thought it would be long after college.” She chuckles softly, throwing me a sympathetic smile.
“Yeah, I get it, Bronx is pussy-whipped,” I mock self-deprecatingly, thinking she’s teasing me.
Ciara frowns. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m actually really happy you found someone you genuinely like. I wish I could do that,” she says, sinking back into the chair, making it groan.
I look at her quizzically. “But you’ve had boyfriends and girlfriends.”
A hint of a sad smile crosses her face. “Yeah, but they’ve never been anything serious. That’s the difference between you and me. I’m willing to ‘date,’ put a meaningless label on relationships I know won’t go anywhere, but at least you’re honest and let them know you’re only in it to fuck instead of desperately searching for something that isn’t there and stringing them along, like me.
“I know I won’t settle down anytime soon, not until I find ‘the one’ or whatever clichéd bullshit fairy tales make you believe. But, hey. If you really like this girl, go for it. No girl has ever left you like this.” She gestures at me up and down. “So she must be worth something. Maybe she’s your one.”
I swallow thickly, trying not to think about her words too hard.
She sits forward in her seat, taking a long drag from the joint and exhaling a large cloud of smoke. “My advice,” she says, standing and looking down at me. “If you really do like this girl, don’t let her go.”
Ciara flicks her joint to the ground, stubbing it out with the heel of her shoe before walking away, back inside the house.
Her words swirl around in my head until I’m restless enough to stand up, and I find myself crossing the lawn and leaving through the back gate.
I walk down the street, past all the cars lined down the block for the party, until I hit the main road. Campus is about three miles from here, so I can manage the walk back and hopefully use the time to clear my head. However, the farther I walk the more my thoughts land on Olivia, making my chest heavier and heavier.
As if the universe can detect my shitty mood, it begins to rain.
What kind of Steven Spielberg shit is this?
I cross my arms over my chest, the rain coming down heavier and hitting my skin like ice. My feet pick up the pace as I jog across a crosswalk, planning to duck into the next available store to seek shelter, but most of them are closed.
I groan in frustration, and out of the corner of my eye I see some activity on the other side of the street. Hopeful, I whip my head in the direction, ready to bolt across to the only store with some lights on, but I stop dead in my tracks.
Across the street is McCausland’s Sporting Goods, and my heart nearly tumbles out of my chest when I spot Olivia through the large glass windows. She’s inside, stocking shelves. I know she occasionally helps her dad out at the store, but I definitely wasn’t expecting to see her tonight.
Feet rooted to the ground, I stare at her like a total creep, unable to look away. As far as I can tell, Olivia is the only one inside, and in the dim lighting I can make out the sad look on her face. My stomach tightens at the thought that I’m the reason for it.
Her movements are slow, sluggish, as if she’s lost in her own thoughts. I continue to watch as she finishes stocking the shelf, then breaks down the empty cardboard box and disappears into the back. She reemerges with a large box in her arms, seemingly struggling with the weight of it as she stops halfway to her destination, balancing on one leg so that her other thigh can push up the box slipping from her arms. It takes everything inside of me not to run over to help her.
Once she reaches a nearly empty clothing rack she drops the box with a huff, resting her hands on her hips for a moment. When she catches her breath, she bends down to open the box and pulls out a maroon-colored T-shirt, my name and number printed on the back.
The beer in my stomach churns uncomfortably as I watch her slowly turn the shirt around to stare at my last name, an emotion crossing her face that I can’t quite gauge. She stares at it for several moments before grabbing a hanger and placing it on the rack. One by one she takes out each jersey, places them on hangers, and hooks them on the rack, that sad look on her face seemingly intensified.
As if to punish me, a strong burst of wind barrels down the street, a sheet of rain coming along with it, pelting me like a hundred tiny needles. I break out of my trance and hightail it to campus, forcing my clenched, frozen limbs to push forward.
Nineteen
Explain
Friday, I sit at my old wooden desk in English, anxiously toying with the stupid little teddy bear holding a heart in its paws that readsI’M SORRYin my hands.
