17. Maya
Maya
December
The next few days pass in somewhat of a blur. I go to class, go to work. All the while trying to keep Jameson Booker and his beautiful body out of my head.
He hasn’t texted, but I don’t take it personally; that boy’s emotions are locked up tighter than Fort Knox, and I wouldn’t expect him to cave so easily.
In fact, I’m surprised he caved enough in the locker room to go as far as he did. But, I guess between everything that happened with his teammate, and the fight he had with my father, Jamie just needed a release.
And I’m not upset that I was in the right place at the right time, so to speak. I have no doubt he probably would’ve found someone else to sleep with eventually, and the thought makes my blood heat, especially after he told me he could never just be my friend.
He’s got feelings for me. Bottled-up, suffocated feelings for me, and I’ll be damned if he keeps trying to push me away forever. I’m not going down without a fight.
He deserves to be happy, and maybe it’s slightly egotistical of me to think this way, but I think he could be happy with me, if he could let go of the past.
My father calls me as I’m walking into work Wednesday afternoon.
“Hey, Dad,” I greet.
“Hey, Bug. How was school today?”
“You know, you’ve been asking me that same question every day since I was, like, five years old?” I say, laughing.
“And I’m going to keep asking until you graduate,” he retorts. “Now answer the question.”
“Class was fine. I’m ready to get finals over with next week. Christmas break can’t come soon enough.”
“I’ll bet. So, listen, I was wondering if you have to work tomorrow night?” Dad asks.
“No, I think I’m off tomorrow; don’t have any clients booked. Why?”
I put my dad on speaker while I get my station set up for the client I have arriving in twenty minutes.
“Well, I told the boys we were going to have a team dinner at the house. I should’ve checked with you first, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay. I’ll just stay upstairs studying, it’s no big deal.”
“Thanks for understanding, Bug. I just feel like the guys need to know that I’ve got their backs through all this stuff with Crosby, and inviting them to the house felt like a good way to do that.”
“Yeah, Dad, that’s sweet. I get it. Do you need any help cooking anything?” I ask.
“I think I’m going to cater tacos or something, but thanks for offering. I’ll let you go. Love you,” he says.
“Love you, too,” I return, hanging up the phone.
Later that night, laying in bed, I try to sketch some designs for my final art project with no luck. Everything I come up with, I hate. Crumbling up another sheet of paper, I toss it on the floor.
If I could pick my dream job, I’d be doing exactly what I’m doing now. I love the shop, and I love tattooing. I get odd looks when people asking me what I’m getting my degree in, and I have to explain that I don’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer.
In a perfect world, I’d be famous for my designs and have commissions from all over the world, maybe even start my own shop—though I love working for Derrick.
Realistically, I should’ve gotten a degree in business rather than art, but that’s so boring, and I’ve learned a lot about artistic styles and techniques from the classes I’ve taken over the last couple of year.
My phone lights up with a new message from my mom, asking which days I’m coming down for Christmas with her. I’d rather not go at all, but I tell her I’ll be there the week before the twenty-fifth.
That way, at least I can spend the actual holiday with my dad.
Eventually, I get fed up with trying to come up with a design for my project. Besides, I’ve got another week before it’s due, and I decide to spend a few minutes doom-scrolling before bed.
There are numerous videos posted of the clip from last weekend’s game—of Colton’s graphic injury. I watch it once, and the one of his girlfriend, Stella, crying in the stands before I have to swipe away. I don’t know what I would’ve done in that situation. Poor girl. Poor Colt.
A few more swipes brings me across a true crime theorist account. I almost swipe past the video when the narration causes me to pause in my tracks.
“Located in Hanover, Pennsylvania, we’ve uncovered a gruesome pattern of events.” The narrator uses a voice-modification, deep and robotic. “Over the last ten years, young women in the age range of late teens to early twenties have been going missing.”
Pausing the video, I take a sharp inhale of breathe, startled by this. I recall what Chloe had said about the girl who went missing after the Halloween party. And Dani had said her step-father, the FBI agent, was moving here for work.
I hit play, scared that this video might have some merit and wondering where it’s getting it’s sources.
“However, when examined further, the radius of missing girls expands well passed the Hanover border, into surrounding counties.
Authorities, for years, have been saying the disappearances are unrelated, that these girls get drunk or run away, and when a body surfaces, chalk it up to an unfortunate accident.
“But are they neglecting to accept the facts, or is someone on the inside trying to cover up a more sinister scheme?”
The video restarts, having relayed all the information it was going to share. I click over to the account, but the only video posted is the one I just watched. Odd.
The username is also unhelpful in identifying who owns the account. It just says PAUnsolved.
I send the video to Dani and Chloe individually before deciding I’ve had enough of the Internet and go to sleep.