Chapter Eleven
The stupid music in the stupid bar is
thumping and bumping, the excitable underage patrons all in an
exceptionally celebratory mood. One more week of school and they
will all be free for the summer. And then free in earnest as
everyone starts at their respective colleges—the beginning of their
new, adult lives.
But none of it feels even
remotely freeing to me.
It's only been two weeks
but it feels like a lifetime. He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't
even look at me. He isn't unkind, he just no longer seems to care
about me either way. I know it's the right thing—that it's the only
way we can move on and hopefully find our way back to our
friendship… eventually. But that knowledge doesn't make it sting
any less.
I feel the weight of my
invisible chains in every aching cell of my body. Whoever said
that time heals all wounds
must have been on something. Because I know about
wounds, and healed or not, some wounds scar. Some wounds
kill.
One miserable day rolls
into the next and instead of gradually dulling, the hopelessness
just snowballs. Carl and Tina have been attentive, thoughtful
friends, but still, I couldn't feel more alone. It's not that I
don't appreciate them—I do.
But these past two weeks
have been miserable.
It is pitiful and it is
pathetic. I am that girl.
The one who is just utterly lost without the guy
she loves. It's shameful, but I can't find it in myself to
care.
But Sam is getting on with
his life. He's been completely avoiding me in the process, but this
is me not being selfish. This is me protecting someone I love. And
as much as it hurts, I can't regret that.
Robin's lawyer has made a
motion to dismiss the charges and the whole trial could be over
before it ever begins as a result. My mother has been working
closely with the prosecutor down in Miami, but I fear we will all
soon discover just how far small town politics can
reach.
I already know what to
expect.
It's not that I think
they'll dismiss all of the charges outright. There's too much
evidence for that to happen. But this is the beginning of the
negotiation. They will be at least partially successful, and it's
likely that it will be the lesser charges that will stick.
Surprisingly enough, it's the violation of my restraining order
that's most damning, so I can only hope that he doesn't weasel his
way out of that one. But whatever the outcome, the Forbeses will
use it to leverage a plea deal, and they'll come to some kind of
agreement. And it won't be anything near what he deserves, or
anything the legal resources at his disposal won't resolve with
some community service or probation.
I'm pretty sure Sam, as a
witness, and probably Tucker too, would have been contacted and
informed. But if either of them have, they haven't shown any signs
of it. The truth is, even now, even after he's made it clear where
we stand, I'm surprised Sam doesn't care. I get that he's angry
with me and that he's moving on and whatever. And as much as the
thought of it stings, I still believed that he at least cared about
me as a friend.
And as such, I'd have
thought that maybe he'd have some feelings on the matter. And maybe
say something. Or do something. But he hasn't. In fact, he wasn't
even in school today. According to Tuck, Sam came into the city
early to look at the apartment he and his cousin, Thea, will be
sharing come August.
And it's good that he's
looking forward to the future. I want that for him. And I wanted
him carefree and happy, removed from this bullshit with Robin and
my father. He's already gotten into it with each of them. So I
guess it's good that he's over it. Over me. I wince at the pain
slicing through my chest at the thought, but it's a sensation I've
become accustomed to. It's what I signed up for, after
all.
I follow Lily to the bar
where we order two vodka-sodas. I start sipping mine in big gulps,
wondering if, if I drink enough of it, it might dull some of this
perpetual ache gripping my chest.
And then I sense Sam. It
always happens. Like I've had a built-in radar for him from our
very first meeting. My gaze inexorably slides his way and zeroes in
on where he sits no more than ten feet away, in a corner booth,
with Dave, Marshall, Andrew, and two hot girls.
And they really are hot.
Not pretty really. Certainly not beautiful. But they're sexy. Curvier
than I could ever be in every place guys like their women curvy,
and dressed to show off those particular features, they're easily
keeping the attention of Dave, Marshall, and Sam. It seems like
he's engaged in conversation, though I can only see the back of his
head. And I'm grateful for that. Because I'm not sure I could bear
the sight of those midnight blues looking at either of those sexy
girls with any level of interest.
A swell of grief washes
over me. I hate feeling like this. Hate the idea of self-pity. It
seems so dramatic and all woe is
me. But I do feel bad for myself. I feel
bad period.
I slurp up the last of my
drink and order another. I glance back at the boys' table. Andy
sits on the aisle, his back to the group, making eyes at Tina, who
stands around with Carl, Lily and me.
They are being
considerate. Because if everything was normal, we would all be
sitting together in the same booth, but because of me, my girl
friends aren't sitting with their boyfriends out of
solidarity.
Sam and I have complicated
everything.
But honestly, it doesn't
even help. The bar is small enough that I can still see him, can
hear the louder parts of his conversation with those girls. And I
can hear in the slurry lilt of Sam's voice that he seems to have
resorted to the same crutch as I have in my vodka sodas.
One of the hot girls
giggles uncontrollably at something Sam said that I couldn't make
out. It sends a swarm of red fire ants through my bloodstream. The
alcohol is making its way through me, but instead of dulling the
edge, it's doing the opposite.
"Oh yeah?" Sam's low,
slow, inebriated timbre reaches my searching ears. I detect his
flirtatious tone and it boils my blood, agitating the fire ants
even more.
He knows I'm
right here. He can't go
find some girl to pick up after I leave?
I'm surprised at his gall
and my breathing becomes fast and shallow in my growing anger. I am
not panicking and I am not afraid, but I'm not exactly in control
of myself either.
That slurping sound returns
and I realize my glass is once again empty. The bartender is
already serving me another before I can even ask for it. He shoots
me an amused smile and I blink at him for a moment. Is my seething
that obvious?
"You might wanna slow
down," bartender says, "whoever pissed you off, you're not gonna
get revenge by drinking yourself sick."
Lily, the only one not too
engrossed in their own conversation or distant flirting with their
boyfriend to have even noticed the bartender's observation, starts
laughing. I glance at her and recognize the distinct signs of her
flirtatious interest. She bats her eyelashes then flips her hair. I
look back at the bartender.
He's good looking. I
hadn't even noticed that he's good looking. I was too caught up in
Sam and what he's doing.
"I can handle it," I reply
with far more confidence than I actually feel. I hope I'm right.
But I haven't taken a pill, so even if I get a little more drunk
than I should, I doubt I'll get sick.
The bartender flashes me a
wide, white smile. "I'm sure you can," he replies, but I can tell
he's just humoring me, "but maybe let's throw in a glass of water
before your next, huh? It's on the house," he jokes.
I force a halfhearted
smile and grumble a cursory "thanks". Somewhere in my fuming, fuzzy
mind I know he's just being responsible and kind, but I can't help
but feel like he's mocking me. Like I'm just a stupid little girl
who can't handle her liquor, who doesn't belong.
The shrill, tinny voice of
the girl who obviously has her slutty, hot-girl sights on Sam could
probably be heard by dogs blocks away. "I bet I know how to cheer
you up," she says, her words crawling with suggestion. She doesn't
even bother being coy. She just serves herself up to him. Not that
I can really blame her.
At least I know that Sam
is better than all of this. A guy like him doesn't have to settle
for some easy girl coming onto him like a skanky predator. He could
have any girl in the bar, in any bar really.
And then Sam's voice rings
out again over the din. "I don't know, honey, it'd be a lot of
work, I don't know if you're up for it." But there's a challenge in
his words. He isn't discouraging her—he's doing the exact
opposite.
And it's more than I can
take.
What kind of insensitive
asshole is he?! He knows I'm right here! He knows how I feel about
him!
Surely Cap has no trouble getting laid, so
why the fuck can't he wait until the girl who is utterly
heartbroken over him isn't standing within fucking
earshot?!
I'm vaguely aware of Carl
and Tina exchanging a nervous glance and it reminds me that I'm not
exactly being coy either, what with my deep scowl and the steam
that is probably shooting out of my freaking ears.
"Oh I'm up for it, and I'm
pretty sure I can get you, um, up
for it," the shrill, slutty, voice
replies.
I cringe.
But Sam chuckles.
Fucking chuckles!
And it's my chuckle--the one he used to give me when I said something he found
cute or funny.
I actually, literally,
growl.
I've covered the space
between the bar and their table without ever having made a
conscious decision to confront him. I'm only vaguely aware that all
six pairs of eyes are on me as my own eyes shoot daggers at the
source of my pain.
Sam.
"If you're gonna go
fuck her, then just go fuck her already!" My voice is a bitter
screech that I barely even recognize. The shocked expression on
Sam's face quickly morphs to consternation, but I can't stop my