Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Pen
After our guys lost—by one stinking point via field goal—Monica had left, subdued and agitated. The game had ended late on the East Coast, and I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to August aside from a text he sent, telling me he’d be back tonight.
I go to class and find myself in the fishbowl of attention.
The loss seems to have the effect of amplifying the usual stares.
It’s just a small part of being his girl.
I repeat this to myself as I walk across campus and am subjected to the occasional catcall or stares.
I can handle it. I’ve spent my whole life building walls around myself and being content as a party of one.
Whenever it feels like too much, I simply recede into my imagination. It’s as easy as breathing.
It’s a bright and clear autumn day, something to appreciate. I drift in my own little world where I contemplate the lecture I just heard in class, what I want to make for dinner, the way August’s toned belly bunches just so when I nibble on his . . .
“Penelope!” A finger taps at my shoulder just hard enough to really feel.
I blink out of my fog and see Jessica from one of my classes. “Sorry?”
She makes a face but pushes a smile. “I’d been calling your name forever.”
“I was drifting.”
“Clearly.”
We walk together for a few paces before she speaks again. “You done with classes for the day?”
“Yes.”
“You’re on your way home?” She leaves the question sort of dangling in the air.
I realize I have to catch on here, but I’m fairly terrible at knowing how to act when people pop up without warning.
“That’s the plan . . . Did you need something?”
Her golden hair sways as she shakes her head. I can see the exasperation in her eyes. But it’s equally clear she doesn’t want it to show. “I was wondering if you wanted to go over to Ackerman and get something to eat?”
Oh. She wants to be friends.
Discomfort wars with soft, floating hope.
I find I like having friends. But I’m also wary.
If Jessica hadn’t brought up August when we first met or questioned how he was in bed, I might be a little less cagey.
But now I can’t help worrying if this is about getting to know me, or August. After all, we’ve been in classes together for going on four years and have never spoken. But maybe she’s shy like me and . . .
“Penelope?” She frowns, and it’s obvious I’ve taken too long to respond. “I mean, it’s cool if you have to go. If I had August Luck waiting for me at home, I’d be booking it too.”
“He isn’t waiting at home. He’s at an away game.”
She brightens. “That’s right, he is. Tough loss. How is it? Having to share him with the public?”
I don’t want to talk about August. We’re almost at my bike. It’s just around the next corner. If I can get there, it will be easy to ride away—
The blow hits me with the force of a punch on my lower right shoulder. It’s so hard and fast, I stumble forward, a guttural cry tearing from me as I fall. My knees hit the pavement with bone-jarring pain, hands slapping on the rough surface to brace myself.
Dimly, I hear Jessica’s shout, but my ears are ringing, my body throbbing with a sort of muffled horror. I’ve been hit. Something hit me. I don’t even know what. My shoulder pulses in pain.
Jessica is at my side, blue eyes wide and shocked. “Oh, my God, are you okay?”
“What . . .” I lick my dry lips. They’re trembling so badly I can’t coordinate them enough to form words.
“Some dickhead threw a sub at you.” She’s awkwardly petting my other shoulder, her gaze darting from me to just behind.
What?
I’m shaking now, hard, then soft, like my body can’t decide what to do.
My hair hangs over my face, obscuring my vision.
But then my focus comes back online, and I see the slimy remnants of what looks like a cold-cut sub scattered on the ground and, just underneath, the wrapper of the sandwich shop August promoted in a commercial last night.
A slab of limp pickle rests near my knee.
The ignominious sight tears a sob from deep within my chest.
Shaking, I press a hand to my mouth, and Jessica gingerly helps me up. A crowd has gathered, not many but enough. People look around confused or stare with pity.
Someone’s asking who did it. Others are baffled. Jessica says something about it coming out of nowhere. No one saw anything but me fall.
Slowly I straighten and then wince as the pain in my shoulder throbs. The violence of it. The ugliness. Bits of sandwich, mayo, and lettuce cling to my hair. I feel sick.
“You should file a report.” Jessica bends down and picks up something from the debris. It’s a hand-size slab of greasy granite. “They put a fucking rock in it!”
I swallow with difficulty. “Just get me to my bike.”
“Sure.” She’s surprisingly gentle now, holding my helmet for me as I grab my pack.
It takes effort but I keep my head high and focus straight ahead. A few phones are out and pointed my way. Fuck them.
I’ll get to my bike, get home. I don’t know if I can ride. My shoulder hurts. I have my leather riding jacket on, which padded some of the blow. How bad would it have been if I hadn’t?
My questions scatter like leaves when we round the corner and I spot my bike.
“Oh, no.” Jessica’s horrified whisper has the clarity of crystal.
Shock has me halting. My body locks up, skin prickling, heart squeezing so hard it hurts. The nausea I’ve been holding in surges thick and oily up my throat.
In the shadows near the hedge wall where I’d left it parked is my bike, lying on its side like a corpse.
It’s trashed. Tires punctured and flat, leather seat slashed with the stuffing coming out in yellow white clumps.
Glass glitters on the ground, remnants from the smashed instrument panel and headlight. The fenders and tailpipe are dented.
But what really gets my attention. What makes the blood drain from my face and has me weaving with the urge to collapse and cry, is the message scrawled across the fuel tank cover in ugly neon spray paint: Luck Sucks!