Track 13 All of the Girls You Loved Before
TAYLOR
Stacey swerved her car along the backroad like a madwoman, headlights slicing through the trees as gravel spat against the windows.
Her nails drummed the steering wheel in rhythm with whatever pop song blared from the radio, but her jaw was locked tight, her mood miles away from the melody.
I was seconds away from taking the wheel.
As promised, I’d set aside one night a week for a private date while I was here—to show her that I could juggle the program, football, and her at the same time.
Honestly, though, with the season starting three weeks from now, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Pshhh! Our leftovers from dinner slid across the backseat as she finally pulled the car in front of the graduate residence.
“I had a good time tonight,” I said to her.
“I didn’t.”
“What?” I looked over at her. “Why not?”
“Because you spent most of dinner on your phone with your agent,” she said. “And when you weren’t doing that, you were reading lines aloud about Audrey.”
“About someone who hurt me in the past.”
“Whatever.” She let out a breath. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think she’s attractive?”
I arched a brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you harboring any feelings for her?”
“Hatred and regret maybe.”
“Regret for what?”
“Not getting everything I need to say off my chest.”
“Like mean stuff?”
“Yes,” I said, even though I wouldn’t quite put it that way. “Very mean stuff.”
“Well, maybe I can help you write that next time we go out.”
“It’s not worth my time.”
“Can you look into getting another roommate or having them make an exception for you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I don’t like Audrey.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I don’t like that she’s so close to you.”
“Stacey…”
“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t ‘Stacey’ me. Before this program, she was just a figment of your past that came up in conversations here and there—someone you alluded to whenever we brought up high school memories—but…”
She took a deep breath. “I didn’t realize just how often those figments occurred until I really thought about it. And then the fact that when I helped you move, you refused to let me burn all the letters she ever sent you.”
“And I went through your storage last week, and I don’t see the box anymore. I doubt you got rid of them, or did you?”
Silence.
“I feel like seeing her now has triggered something, and she has a hold on you.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Like, there’s nothing there?”
“No.”
“Has anything ever been there?”
“No, Stacey.” I shook my head. “She’s never meant anything to me.”
She stared at me long and hard, looking into my eyes as if they held a more reliable answer than my lips.
“Okay, I’ll take your word for it.” She kissed my cheek, and I leaned over the console to hug her.
I smiled at her and waited for her to pull out of the parking lot before heading inside.
When I hit the lights in the living room, Audrey was glaring at me from the kitchen.
“Why the hell have you been sitting in the dark?” I asked.
“Maybe I’m trying to find the light setting that matches my soul,” she said. “Apparently, that’s what you wrote about me.”
I shut the door, confused.
“‘Shades of midnight,’ right?” She stood up from the chair. “Blood on my hands for crimes you were sent away for? How pretty and fucking dramatic.”
“You went through my shit and read my work?”
“You’re not supposed to write about me,” she said. “We agreed.”
“Would you rather I make something up?” I glared at her. “Surely your essay wasn’t about anyone other than me for that topic, right?”
“There’s a smoker who’s requesting a new roommate,” she said. “I think I’ll be giving her a trade.”
“You’re allergic to cigarette smoke.”
“I was allergic to you, and yet I survived.” She shrugged.
“So, you read my work?”
“Every fucking word.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you’re about to say sorry.”
“Not at all.” I picked up my laptop and notebooks, vowing to never leave them out again. “I do hope you got inspired, though. Perhaps you can finally accept that I’ve always been a better writer than you.”
“Too bad you never bragged about that to your football friends.” She hissed. “You could never let them know what you really wanted to do with your life, or else they’d call you—”
Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. The part of me that once agreed with her wanted to speak—but pride got there first.
“Shut up.” I dared her to finish, but she bit her lip. “Stay out of my shit like I stay out of yours.”
“Or else what?” She crossed her arms. “You’ll make my life a living hell again?”
I walked away from her and shut my door, my pulse still hammering.
But even as I leaned against the wood, I could still see her silhouette in my mind—her arms crossed, her jaw set, the soft rise and fall of her chest.
And for a second too long, I wanted to go back.
I can’t do this shit…