20. Cassie
CASSIE
“Okay,” I announce, finally. “I respect you and your career as an athlete and all, but I draw the line at listening to the cricket on the radio.”
It’s been over an hour since I fled the party like a runaway bride.
We went back in for a while, and I left my phone in my handbag, probably burning a hole in the leather.
I let myself be entertained by my friends and a super squishy baby, ignoring the fact that I was about to flee into the night like a criminal.
When it was time to go, I barely stopped to say goodbye, instead I just grabbed my handbag and sent Pip a text explaining on my way out the door.
I didn’t let myself think about what I was doing and whether or not it was an insane thing to do, but I also didn’t have time for any regret at the thought of disappointing my parents.
I just needed to get out, and now Robbie is driving my getaway car.
Even if all I’m listening to is the sound of the world's most boring sport imaginable.
Robbie splays his fingers in the air on the top of the wheel, keeping control with his thumb and wrist. It should not be sexy. “We’re up five-two.”
I shoot him a deadpan look. He keeps his eyes on the road, but I can see the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
He leans forward into the dash and hands me his phone. “Pick something else then.”
I take his phone with glee and open his music app. “Robbie King’s phone,” I muse. “I wonder how many ladies are dying for this opportunity.”
He rests his hand on the gear stick. “As long as you don’t look for my nudes.”
I snort. “The only nudes you’ve taken are gym selfies flexing in the mirror.”
“Oh, so you’ve already looked?”
I bite my lip at the thought of those pictures and distract myself thumbing through his many, many playlists. “Why are all your playlists named B-B-M, fire emoji, arm emoji, weight emoji?”
“I group them based on the beats per minute and use them when I’m in the gym.”
My jaw drops slightly. “That is…intense.”
“It’s fun,” he defends.
“We’ve already discussed we have different definitions of ‘fun’.” I gesture to the radio and the faint sound of a cricket bat whacking a ball. I look back to his phone. “There are so many songs on here.”
“I have long workouts.”
“Okay,” I announce, shifting in my seat to face him, one knee resting on the leather. “Let’s play a game.”
“What kind of game?”
“A fun one. I’ve just thought it up.” I scroll further through his playlists. “I’ll play a song and you have to tell me what playlist it’s on.”
“Easy,” Robbie scoffs.
“And tell me the workout.”
“Hit me, trouble. I’m ready.”
Biting my lip, I let the opening chords of Foundations by Kate Nash play through the car.
He holds his hand up, long fingers forming a loose finger gun. “Triceps, and the playlist is BBM 84, weight emoji and this one.” He flexes his bicep, the material of his t-shirt stretching around the muscle.
I can’t help but giggle. “Foundations?”
“Oh yeah, listen.” He tilts his head towards the radio. “Here.” He curls his bicep as if he’s got a weight in his palm, moving in time with each beat of the song.
“Okay, okay, next one.” I skip through before Kate has the chance to hold onto anything.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Robbie reaches his hand for his phone, but I tuck it towards the window. “Why are you skipping before the chorus, you nutter?”
“It’s the game, Robbie. Keep up.”
His attention is back on the road as he indicates and pulls into the next lane. “Fine, keep going.”
“Pass Out, Tinie Tempah.”
“BBM 91, press ups.” Skip. “Will you stop skipping?”
I let out a gleeful laugh at the next song. “Whipped Into Shape from The Legally Blonde Musical.”
He chuckles as he checks his mirrors. “BBM 119, blonde woman emoji and skipping. Obviously.”
“Why do you even know this song?”
“It’s a banger, Cass. Would you please stop skipping? This is literally a nightmare.”
My fingers freeze on the next playlist, and I nearly swallow my tongue. I was looking for it, but now that I’ve found it, I don’t know what to do with myself. I uncross my legs and straighten my spine.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I skip to the next playlist and the opening chords of my song play through the speakers.
His head snaps to look at me instantly, and I know he’s busted.
“What about this one?” I ask him, tilting my head and widening my eyes innocently.
It’s a slow song, a jazzy number from my last album that I worked really hard on.
I had always wanted to play with my vocals, letting myself run on words with a sax and cello beat underneath.
I was proud of it— it’s one of my favorites from the album—and here it is on his phone.
“We can skip this one.” Robbie stretches his hand over again, but I press his phone to my chest.
“No chance.” I don’t cackle but it’s close. “Come on, what workout is this one?”
He shifts in his seat. He changed into shorts before getting in the car and his hand rests on his bare thigh, slightly hitching the material further up his leg.
“It’s uh… it’s for a cool down,” he admits finally, cheeks pink. The way he says it tells me he’s lying, I glance back at the playlist and it doesn’t have any emoji’s nor a beats per minute number. Instead it’s a simple fire emoji.
Wait…is this his sex playlist? The song is sexy even for me. It always makes me want to pull my hair in my hands and sway my hips to the rhythm. If I’m on his sex playlist, what do I do with that information?
For the first time, I let the whole song play through. My mind whirls as the air in the car pulses. I bring my feet back to the floor. I don’t know how to recover from this.
“You hungry?” Robbie asks, looking over his shoulder as he indicates. “Services up ahead.”
“Uh…” The song continues playing in the car, my own voice echoing through the speakers crooning thinly veiled metaphors about orgasms. God, how I long for the cricket. “Yeah, sure.”
For the first time in my life, I’m not hungry.
At least, not for food.
We’ve pulled into the services before the song has even finished, and he’s out of the car before I can say anything, the sudden rush of evening air filling the car and snapping me out of whatever that was.
He opens the back door, making me jump a mile out of my skin, and grabs his hat from the back seat. “What do you want?”
I blink. I don’t even know where we are. “Anything, I’m easy.”
“Stay in the car,” he tells me, pulling his hat low on his head.
I say okay, but I don’t know if he hears it as the door closes behind him.
He walks off in the direction of the entrance, and I can’t help but watch him out the side mirror as he goes.
He’s pulled into the far corner of the lot, facing a hilly bank, the lights of the freeway visible through the copse of trees.
It’s pretty empty, with only a few cars parked near the entrance, so I take the risk to climb out of the car, desperate for fresh air to hit my heated skin.
I did not expect my silly game to take such a… turn.
So he listens to my song while he…
Does he listen to it with women? Does he listen to it when he’s by himself? What man in the world listens to music when he masturbates?
I try not to think about the faceless women he spends his time with. He’s not a monk. He’s a successful athlete, surely he’s had many women in his bed.
But the thought of him with those other women, listening to my voice...
I can’t tell if the heat in my stomach is jealousy or something else.
I pull my hair off my neck and hold it in a loose bun against the top of my head, too lazy to reach in my bag for a scrunchie.
The parking lot is quiet, the rush of the road and the occasional chirp of a bird in the bushes the only noise. It’s peaceful, calm. Unlike the blood rushing through my veins as the enormity of what I’ve done hits me.
I know Pip said she’ll speak to my parents, but is that really going to make a difference? I either turn around now or go home in a few days, but the outcome will be the same.
Meetings and interviews and flights and appointments, but this time with some lovely added admonishment sprinkled on top. I can just imagine my mother pacing around her apartment in New York, shouting at my father on the phone before he hangs up on her to have another round of golf.
I’ve been trapped between them for nearly twenty years, pulled and pushed like an inflatable punching bag they use to get their hits in. I just need to let a little air out. I just need some space to breathe.
I take a deep inhale into my lungs and let my hair fall back around my shoulders.