I want to argue. I want to tell him that if we practice before, I run the risk of being late again. I want to tell him that I can’t show up tired and in a bad mood. But one look at the seriousness on his face, and all I can do is nod.
17
savannah
My legs bouncebeneath me as I pretend to read through some more interview questions. My now fully cooled blueberry muffin sits untouched on the coffee table in front of me as I continue to wait for Noah. I was hoping to get the awkward conversation over with before class this morning, but he never showed. He didn’t say anything about needing to reschedule today though, so I check the time on my phone again and decide to wait another fifteen minutes.
The last time he was late, I was bored and annoyed that he had kept me waiting. Today, I’m shifting side to side, picking the black paint of my nails, and chewing the inside of my cheek raw. I should have made one of his stupid bets, at least then I would gain something out of his tardiness.
I don’t know what I was thinking, showing up to that game last night. I was lying in bed with a bag of hot Cheetos, attempting to burn away the memory of his lips on mine, and when I couldn’t stop the thoughts of wanting to finish what he had started, I ripped my sheets off and drove myself down to the Redline area.
The smell of cold, plastic, and stale air smacked me across the face the second I opened the door. Most people think thesmell is athlete sweat, but it’s actually from the bacteria that eats the sweat. It’s foul, but at the same time, I found the familiar scent oddly comforting.
In hindsight, I probably should have told Noah who my dad is, rather than blindside him like I accidentally did last night. It was a fool’s mistake to think it would never come up, and I have no one to blame but myself. Now, I’m left stressed, wondering if the guy I hadn’t wanted to talk to in the first place is pissed and blowing me off.
The sofa beneath me feels scratchy and uncomfortable. I toss my papers on the coffee table, not caring that they miss, and fall to the ground. I throw my head back, letting out an aggravated grunt.
“You good?”
“Huh?” I look up, startled to see Noah. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He falls down on the couch across from me. His lack of response shakes the nerves right out of my system—and just like that—I’m annoyed again.
“You’re late.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He doesn’t look at me, which only further pisses me off.
Half a minute passes without any explanation. Instead, he sits across from me, typing on his phone. My jaw hurts where I’m grinding my molars down, and I’m going to need my first Botox injection by twenty-one from the deep scowl I’m sporting. Not that he notices. I shouldn’t be surprised and I definitely shouldn’t be this disappointed.
I grab my paper, officially done waiting for him to engage in small talk. I’m ready to get this project over with. I open my mouth to start, but he stands abruptly.
“I need a coffee. You good?”
The fucking nerve of this guy. I’ve been sitting here, worried about him, and he’s looking at me bored out of his skull, like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.
I shake my head and watch him drag himself to thecounter. I’d like to believe that he got what he wanted from me Friday night and is now allowing his true colors to show, but somehow, rubbing himself between my legs and a few kisses hardly feels like some grand prize. I’m not oblivious to the fact that before my dad came out of the arena, Noah seemed genuinely excited that I was there. That leaves only one possible reason for his change in attitude—finding out that my dad and his coach are the same person.
And isn’t it ironic that the reason I didn’t want to tell him in the first place was for fear that it would change things between us?
Noah walks back with the lid off of his full cup, blowing into the steaming black liquid. He sips his coffee, holding it in one hand, and picks up his phone with the other.
Right. Let’s get this show on the road.
I clear my throat. “If you had twenty-five hours in a day, what would you do with the extra hour?”
“Sleep.”
My fist clenches around my paper, and my lip curls up, but I shove down my frustration. “Care to elaborate?”
He finally drops his phone to the side, but he still doesn’t look at me. Instead, his head falls back to the couch cushion behind him.
“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” he mumbles.
I stare at him and wonder if he can feel the steam radiating from me. I feel like a cartoon character, shooting lasers at him with my eyes. I might not be a very tolerant person, but I do feel like I’ve tried here. Now, I just don’t give a fuck anymore. Someone else might let this slide. A better person than me, perhaps. But, unfortunately for Noah, I’ve cut people off for a lot less than a shit attitude. I boycotted Snapple when they changed their bottles from glass to plastic, for fuck’s sake. One bad taste in my mouth is all it takes to ruin something for me forever. I slam my notebook closed and grab my bag, before standing up and charging towardsthe door. Out of my peripheral, I notice his head snap in my direction, but I don’t stop.
He has the nerve to groan as ifI’minconveniencinghimright now. I vaguely register him calling my name, but I continue to ignore him. We can email these answers to each other for all I care. Fuck, I’ll take an F on this project if I have to.
“Savannah, wait.”
