Chapter 2 #3
I stare at it. Back then, I had nothing to say to that.
I didn’t have anything to say to any of them.
Then I think better of it. That’s a lie I used to tell myself.
Actually, I had a lot to say to every single one of these texts.
I had a response every single time. I clearly didn’t even have the heart to delete the damn texts, and these are from high school.
I let out a half-breath, mostly in disbelief.
The anxiety of what it would catapult into is what stopped me every time.
I put the phone down on the nightstand, and the room falls dark.
Speaking of high school, there are some things that’ll just never leave my head.
I was at a friend’s house at the beginning of the hockey season.
We were seventeen, drinking alcohol we got from someone’s older brother.
My captain threw the party, so I couldn’t say no.
I called it an early night, and someone pointed at one of the doors and said, “Melly’s in there.
” I couldn’t believe my ears. I didn’t even know Melly was at the party, but it turned out she wasn’t.
Mila was hooking up with one of the guys, and Melly was left to sleep in one of the empty rooms.
When I walked in, the lights were off. I shut the door behind me and fell onto the first bed I saw.
I didn’t trust that the guys weren’t playing a prank on me, so I whispered, “Who’s there?
” The body didn’t say anything, so I said, “Psst. Who are you?” She lifted her head, and her eyes lit like wildfire when she saw me.
“Thank God,” she muttered. “It’s just you.
I was scared.” When I realized it was her, I got up and sat on the edge of the bed she was in.
I didn’t know I was going to lie down until I did.
I didn’t know I was going to put my arm around her until I did.
She fit against me like she belonged there, and for a minute, I let myself believe she could.
That night, we talked about everything. About hockey.
About Camden. About my mother. About my dad.
About what I wanted. About what she wanted.
About the way she’d been looking at me since the sixth grade and the way I pretended not to see it.
She didn’t ask me why or why I was there.
She just lay there with her hand on my chest and her hair on my shoulder.
She laughed, and she let me feel, for the first time in my life, what it was like to be in a room with Melly Sorcha and not be running.
I kissed her. In fact, she dodged my lips, and I grabbed her chin to ask.
She hesitated for a long minute, and I was flustered as fuck.
The girl that had been throwing herself at me didn’t want me after all, but I asked her again, and she nodded.
It was after three a.m. in the morning, and she tasted like the gum she had been chewing. Mint. Warmth.
She fell asleep with her hand on my chest. I didn’t move for an hour, replaying the kiss on repeat while I listened to her breathe.
I let myself think that I liked this, that I could be the kind of guy who had a girlfriend, that I could figure out how to keep her.
She was so pretty, with the most outrageous eyes, a good smile, and nice to talk to.
Then I left at five in the morning before she woke up because all the bad shit that could go wrong popped in my head, and I knew that letting this happen meant that I had a lot to lose. I couldn’t be the guy she needed in the daylight, and it wasn’t fair for her.
So, I didn’t text her. I didn’t text her the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after.
Then I fucked up so bad when I had a few shots at another party and could not take my eyes off her.
She wasn’t wearing anything revealing. I remember it was a baggy shirt with oversized jeans, and I peeled those clothes off the first second I had a chance.
She wore a pink bra and snowflake underwear.
And this time, I didn’t stop until I had her. We both lost our virginity that night.
I told myself it was hockey. I told myself it was the program.
I told myself I was doing her a favor — that being with me would have made her smaller, kept her tethered to a guy who was always going to be on the go, cost her things she could not afford to spend in a life she was already too generous with.
I told myself a lot of things for a lot of years.
The truth is, I was seventeen, and a girl had loved me, and I had not known what to do with it, so I had done nothing.
I roll onto my back and sigh. That’s all in the past. It’s history, and there’s no sense in overthinking about it now, but she kept her word.
She’s here at Camden. But she has a boyfriend.
And I realize that I probably misunderstood her all those years ago.
I thought she said she wanted to come here because she knew that’s where I was going.
But she’s here, and she can’t even look at me. She wasn’t waiting for me.
I got what I prayed for all those years ago.
I cannot stop the feeling in my chest.
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
I’ve been lying in the dark for five minutes, maybe ten, when my bedroom door bangs open and the overhead light flips on.
I get flash-banged.
“Jesus, fuck —”
I shut my eyes, roll onto my side, and shove my face into the pillow.
“There you are!”
I would know that voice anywhere. Stanley Ermington. He has come to ruin my night.
“Turn off the fucking light, Stan.”
The light stays on.
My bed dips at the edge.
“The fuck do you want?” I seethe, keeping my eyes shut.
“Why are you going to sleep?” he says, way too close to my face. “The night’s just getting started.”
He smells like vodka. And a lot of it. He puts a hand on my shoulder — the shoulder, the one the trainer iced after the second period, the one I just paid for going up the stairs two at a time — and I shove his hand off so hard the movement grabs all the way up into my neck.
“Fuck.”
“Whoa,” Stanley says, in the voice of a man who is delighted to have caused something. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Touchy.”
I open my eyes. The ceiling is too bright. I force them to adjust and look down at him.
“What do you want, Stan?”
“I just told you. I wanna know why the hell you’re in bed right now when there’s a party downstairs. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
I close my eyes again. “I’m tired.”
“Bro.” Pause. “Bro. You never go to bed this early.”