Chapter 13
JO
I dreamed of Nico.
We were in a fancy hotel but, like, one hundred years ago.
At least, that’s what it appeared to be.
And we were drinking coffee in the little sitting area with high-backed chairs that had rolled arms and buttons on the cushions that were uncomfortable.
When I told Nico I didn’t like the chair, he took hold of my hand and pulled me into his lap.
“This better?” he asked and kissed my neck.
Then suddenly, we were walking along a river. The Eiffel Tower and Big Ben were in the back, so I don’t actually know where my brain took us—France or England, but either way, it was a perfect night with twinkling stars and warm air.
“You like it here?” Nico asked, swinging our interlocked hands back and forth.
I did. I loved it. I loved spending time with him. I loved sight-seeing and wearing a long, sparkly gown that he’d bought for me. That I’d been wearing as we strolled in the grass. I was in heels too, but they didn’t sink into the ground.
Still, I took them off, tired, and Nico bent to give me a piggyback ride, and suddenly, we were in the hockey arena.
He jogged down the stands to the rink, where he magically changed into his gear, skates on his feet.
With me on his back, my legs around his waist, and my arms around his neck, he skated me all over, making shapes on the ice, sprinting until I shrieked, playing so much I couldn’t help but laugh.
That was when he stopped and put me down. I was still in the gown, and when he told me how much he loved seeing me in it, that was when I told him that I loved being with him.
“I love you,” I said, and he smiled. Except it wasn’t his usual smile. Not his happy grin or arrogant smirk. It wasn’t even the half smile that always accompanied a wink.
It was a smile like he felt bad for me. He pitied me.
Like Waylon.
And then, he was Waylon.
I fell backward on the ice and hit my head.
That’s when I wake up with a gasp, pressing my fingers against my scalp and over the healed skin by my temple.
It takes a moment for my heart rate to slow and the fog of sleep to clear from my mind.
I grab my cell phone from the charger, the home screen flickering with alerts. So many, I can’t even read them all.
I always silence my phone while I sleep, and all the notifications racked up overnight.
Messages on my social media, emails through my website, and multiple texts and calls from my mother and sister.
Slack-jawed, I start with Instagram, where I find my followers have jumped from a few hundred to a few thousand overnight.
There are so many DMs, I don’t even bother opening them.
The first email I read is asking me if I’ve ever taken pictures of Nico naked, and did I know how much I could make from selling them.
I immediately delete and close out of my email app before stupidly clicking on my sister’s texts.
There are dozens, screenshots she’d taken of photos Iron fans posted last night.
Pictures of Nico picking me up and swinging me around, my face almost unrecognizable because I’m smiling so widely.
There is a photo of him kissing me and then another of his hand on my butt, both of us looking at each other.
Nico’s face tipped down, and mine up toward him.
To a stranger, it might look like we’re in love.
I find myself studying that photo, searching for insincerity, a sign that it’s fake. That Nico’s smile isn’t real or that my cheeks aren’t really blushing. That I’m not freely smiling, not covering up my teeth, as I normally would.
After the game last night, Nico took a couple of questions at the press call then drove me home.
We made out in his car for a while and then again when he walked me inside, but I refused to let him into my apartment.
He kept asking, but I’d heard Cubby hassling him to go out and celebrate since the team had the day off tomorrow before they would be gone for a week of road games.
No matter how much Nico promised he didn’t want to go out, I gave him no other choice, because even if we were really together, I wouldn’t want him to give up time with his teammates for me.
And this wasn’t a real relationship.
“One orgasm?” Nico had asked, and I shook my head. “Then just more kissing?” Again, I said no, and he pressed his hands together, batting his eyelashes. “A sweet treat and streaming movie?”
I laughed and kissed his cheek before sending him on his way, his words from weeks ago ringing in my ears.
The season’s long, but I promise, when I’m home, I’m home.
As nice as that sounded, I wasn’t going to give in to this fantasy that Nico Tremblay could ever actually be mine. I couldn’t get lost in his gifts or charm. Sure, in the moment, it feels amazing to be fawned over, but it isn’t real.
At most, we were friends.
Who sometimes kissed.
And…did more than that…
But, again, I made that deal because I’m tired of being a twenty-five-year-old virgin.
He’s doing me a favor. Flirting and hooking up with me—Bucky Beaver.
Which is reinforced when I scroll through the screenshots Lizzie sent, so many strangers posting comments and insults.
About me.
She looks like Wednesday Addams and Lurch had a baby.
He’s so hot, why is he with her?
be so ffr. her?!?
So you’re telling me I have a chance?
She’s a Philly 3 but a swamp 10.
looks like a dude in a wig i always knew Tremblay was gay
Dizzy and sweating, I swipe out of the text thread only for my phone to buzz in my hand. It’s my mother.
I’m tempted not to answer, but I know she won’t leave me alone until she hears from me, so I try to clear the lump in my throat. Still, my voice cracks. “Hi, Mom.”
“Josephine! There you are! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning. I’m sittin’ here with your sister, and she showed me all this stuff about you online. Did you see it?”
I swipe a clammy palm over my forehead. “I just woke up.”
“Well, you better go wash your face because you need to see this!”
I squeeze my eyes shut at the sting. I don’t need to see it. I don’t want to. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t want to see what people are saying.”
She makes a sound of apology but then goes and digs the knife in deeper. “Well, I mean, you can’t be that surprised, can you?”
No, I’m not surprised, but it doesn’t hurt any less.
“I need to go, Mom.”
“Josephine, are you crying?”
I can’t answer because, yes, I am crying, and my mother clucks her tongue. “Oh, honey, don’t cry.”
Except, why shouldn’t I? My face has been put out there for the whole world to see, and they all collectively hate it.
“I can’t…” I sniffle and swipe a tissue from the box. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Listen, Buck,” Mom starts seriously. “If you’re going to marry someone like Nico, you need to be stronger than this. You can’t let this crap get to you.”
I laugh, watery and heartbroken, as memories of being told to “shake it off” and “they didn’t really mean it” when these same comments and insults were hurled my way from my siblings.
I simply had to toughen up. “Everyone has something they need to overcome, but the Lord never gives us more than we can handle,” she once told me, and that’s about the time I’d stopped believing in the Lord.
Because how could the creator of heaven and earth and all that is good create me with the sole purpose to be bullied by those around me.
“Besides, it’s what’s on the inside that counts,” Mom says, and I swipe the back of my hand over my face, desperate to be done with this conversation.
Desperate to be done with all of this. “I have to go.”
“But—”
“Bye, Mom.” I end the call and shuffle to the bathroom, where I spend a long time on the floor by the toilet, feeling like I might vomit.
When the nausea eventually passes, and I’ve stopped crying enough to stand, I wash my face and brush my teeth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, reverting right back to my teenage self.
I spent years avoiding mirrors unless it was to apply creams and lotions and ointments. To get rid of the acne, try to remove the mole, make my nose look smaller, cut bangs to cover my forehead, pluck my unibrow, pray my teeth would somehow magically fix themselves overnight.
Some of it worked, and some of it didn’t. My skin eventually cleared up, and I’ve learned how to use makeup, but no matter what I do, I can never outrun my past. I can never erase the emotional scars.
Being pushed to the ground by Laura Lyn Huber when I was eight so I skinned both of my knees and then she made fun of me for crying.
Billy Dixon talking about my body in middle school when I’d developed before all the other girls, so they started calling me a slut.
Walking in on Lizzie and Waylon together.
Being so depressed that I sometimes imagined what it would be like to take a bottle of pills and close my eyes. Simply slip away.
I’d come so far from that girl.
I met Mrs. Chambers, I found photography, and I mustered up the courage to move here to Philadelphia, where I learned to love myself.
But how easily it fades.
How quickly I can become her again.
My fingers tremble as I reach for my cell phone again, scrolling to find Nico’s name.
I don’t know what I was thinking, agreeing to this stupid idea. I knew it wouldn’t work. I knew we didn’t make sense, and yet I wanted the slipper to fit. For once, I wanted to be the beautiful princess in the fairy tale.
I wanted the charming prince for myself.
But I was stupid, and calling off this fake engagement is my only option. I can’t go backward. I can’t dig myself out of that dark space again. I don’t have it in me. The first time was hard enough, and I would like to leave the little bit of dignity I have left intact.
I lick my dry lips and press the button to call him. He picks up almost immediately, his sunshine voice filling my ear. “Hey, mama. I know you were all about me not coming to your place last night, but I was thinking I could deliver your breakfast this morning. We could—”
“I can’t do this, Nico,” I say, cutting him off before I can give in to him.
“What?”
“I thought I could, but I can’t pretend anymore. It’s not worth it.”
“Jo, what are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter what I do; it’ll never change anything.” The ball of anxiety in my chest grows again, and it’s impossible to get my words out. “Being with you is only making it worse. It’s—” I hiccup a breath, tears gathering in my eyes, and I hear rustling on the other end of the phone call.
“Don’t move, Josephine. I’m coming over.”
I don’t hear the rest of his instructions because I let my phone slip to the floor, and I curl up into a ball, my mind scattered with memories of my childhood and more recent ones with Nico.
Standing next to my sister for pictures and being told to smile like Lizzie.
Being in the hospital room with Nico next to me on the bed, watching a video about pandas on his phone.
Sitting at home alone on the night of my senior prom.
Feeling Nico’s callused palm against mine when he holds my hand.
Hearing Waylon’s apology when he said he didn’t love me back.
Hearing Nico proudly proclaim to the world I was his fiancée.
Before I know it, he’s here.
Banging on my door, calling my name, but my eyes are so swollen and I’m so tired, I can barely stand.
“Jo! Are you there, Jo?”
Every step feels like a mile. Every breath stinging my lungs.
“I’m gonna bust down the door! Jo? Can you hear me? Stand back!”
I unlock it just in time and open the door to find Nico obviously about to ram the door, his hands up in fists, face determined. But as soon as he sees me, his features contort into pain.
Then his arms are around me, cradling me to him, kissing my head over and over as I cry. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry. I’m here.”