Everything That Makes You(39)

As she'd gotten ready that night, Fi had wondered why she was driving  over an hour to go to some parties where she wouldn't last twenty  minutes. But by the time everyone in Trent's common room started  grabbing their sweaters and keys to head out, it was almost ten. She'd  spent two hours having fun with strangers.                       
       
           



       

Chris, one of the lacrosse players Fi had met during her parking lot  freak-out, gave her a hand, pulling her up from the couch. "You coming?"  he asked with a smile.

"Oh. Um-" She paused, not actually sure what she wanted to happen next.

On the one hand, she was having fun. Trent's friends were nice; hanging  out with her best friend felt like the perfect kind of therapy.

On the other hand, as nice as this couple of hours had been, she felt . .  . out of shape for it. Like the day when she met Marcus, just hobbling  up the handicap ramp in a cast and standing for ten minutes had worn her  out.

"No," she said. "I should probably head out."

Before he could speak, Lindsey passed, and, with a look Fi could only  describe as feline, she idly dragged her fingers across Trent's chest  and asked, "You're coming though, right, Trent?"

Trent gave Fi what Ryan called "the look." Both had used it over the  years, and though it was just a glance, it communicated many things. Not  the least of which was You Drive Me Freaking Crazy. "Guess so," he  said.

"I'll get my stuff," Fi said.

Trent mumbled for them to go on ahead, he'd catch up. Trying his  doorknob with no luck, she waited for him to come up the hall. "It's  locked," she said.

Fishing keys from his pocket, he held open the door. "Looks like the roomie didn't need to clean his crap after all."

Fi decided not to point out that the room wasn't really clean-just mildly less disgusting. "I never promised I'd stay."

"Whatever."

She put on her jacket. "I was going to end up the third wheel anyway."

"Wonder what that's like." He took a sip from his plastic cup, watching  her over the rim. "What are you talking about? Third wheel to who?"

Fi walked up to him, dragging her fingers across Trent's chest just as  Lindsey had. Okay, it was snide. And her fingers lingered on the edge of  his muscles longer than necessary. She pulled her hand away. "Sprinkle  girl."

"I don't care about Lindsey." He watched her for a long, long moment. Fi  couldn't decipher his expression-even so, her heart beat faster.

"I should probably get going," she said, faking a lame yawn.

"Don't do that," he snapped. "Just go if you want to."

"It's not like I didn't have fun," she said, sounding whinier than she  meant to. While having the same best friend for nine years definitely  had perks, the "seeing right through you" part could be annoying. "It's  just, you know, I have to work up to it."

Suddenly, Trent's whole body tensed. He yelled-growled, something-and  threw his cup against the wall. Frothy liquid splashed upward,  splattering against the painted concrete blocks, before the cup fell to  the floor with a little tink. "That would have been more impressive with  a glass," he said, frowning.

Fi stared from Trent to the cup. "And just as crazy."

"Since when are you Queen of Sanity?"

"Yes, that's helpful," she snapped. "Tell me I'm crazy. Call me a hermit. Smugly look down your nose at me. While. I. Grieve."

"Are you kidding me? I have listened to you whine for almost a year!  Months longer than anyone else has been able to. Your own mother is sick  of it!"

"Oh no, Caroline Doyle is disappointed in me! What shall I do?"

"Right, because no one else's feelings matter anyway, do they?"

"No one else has a dead boyfriend in a jar!"

"I am sick of your dead boyfriend." Trent's nose flared at the corners  as he yelled. "And your crappy lacrosse team! And your stupid issues  with your brother!"

"Just say you're sick of me, Trent. It's all the same thing."

"Yeah, okay, sometimes I am sick of you. You're a hell of a lot of work, Fi."

"And you're a horrible best friend!"

"I never wanted to be your best friend." Scowling, he picked up the cup  and chucked it into the trash can. "And if this"-he gestured between the  two of them-"is what we are now, I'm not interested anymore."

Fi's head snapped back like he'd hit her. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"I already told you," he answered quietly. "You can't dump someone you never dated."

"We dated," Fi answered weakly, not sure what they were fighting about anymore.

"No we didn't-because you never let us. And you are always the one who  gets to decide." Trent watched her a long time, his chest pulling in  big, heavy breaths. "This is the last time though, Fi. Last chance. Tell  me what my role is here. Pick one."                       
       
           



       

"I can't." She wiped away the sudden tears with her fingers. "I can't."

"Pick," he demanded, his teeth biting down on each other.

Fi was full-out crying by this point. Mascara coated her fingers.  Grabbing her bag, she wrenched open the door. As it closed behind her,  she choked out, "Why bother? I never pick right."





FIONA


Fiona had not seen or heard from Jackson since he left her on the path.  She'd stood there, watching him slowly disappear, and hadn't had a call,  text, note on the door, or "accidental run-in" since. She'd brooded  about going to his room, but couldn't stomach all the potentially awful  outcomes. He might refuse to speak to her or slam the door in her face.  Or demand back what was his brother's.

Or might be his brother's.

They would never know. The big question-Did Fiona Doyle wear part of  Marcus King?-would never get answered. Even if she wanted to find out,  which she very much did not, the hospital wouldn't tell her. As she  heard over and over before the surgery, the anonymity of donor and  recipient was nonnegotiable.

She'd thought about calling her parents, just to double-check. But then  she'd have to deal with her mother, and she had enough major life crises  at the moment.

Because today was February 27-the day nothing good ever happened. The  day she would perform an original song in public for the first time  ever. The day she may or may not be going on a date with a boy who may  or may not despise her.

She procrastinated in bed as long as she could-counting the ceiling's  acoustic tiles, attempting to find a pattern in the floor's linoleum  speckles. Each minute wasted was one less to worry about.

When the phone rang with Ryan's programmed ringtone, Fiona hesitated. Of  course he'd pick today to finally call. After three rings, she  answered. "Hey."

"How you doing?"

Fiona stared at the ceiling.

Ryan tried again. "I got the message about the critique. I was calling to wish you good luck."

"That was days ago."

"Sorry. It's been busy."

She did not say We're all busy, Ryan or harass and scold him like their mom-she didn't reply at all.

Ryan sucked in a big gulp of air and exhaled the statement, "I'm dropping off the team."

Fiona shot upright. "What?"

"It's too much-my grades are mediocre, I'm constantly canceling on Gwen,  you're always mad at me. I never have time for anything."

"But you love soccer."

"I think I'd love it a lot more if I played club. Had some fun, you  know? Coach kids or something." He sighed. "Mom and Dad will probably  kill me. Walking away from the scholarship."

The scholarship reminder felt like a gut punch. One more reason to  stress out about the critique. "They'll understand," she said, hoping it  was true. "Mom wasn't big on you playing Division One anyway."

He said "yeah" noncommittally. "Enough about me. How are you?"

"I'm playing for a group of music and theater majors-who are quote,  encouraged to comment, unquote. Which is just code for ripping each  other to shreds."

"You'll do fine."

"I really don't think I will."

"Then you'll just do. And that's okay, too."

Despite herself, Fiona smiled. Then she looked at her watch. "Crap, I'm late!"

Ryan called "Good luck!" as she hung up. Grabbing her guitar and a stack  of Moleskines, she ran through campus. Mounds of dirty snow lined all  the paths.

At class with seconds to spare, she leafed through her books, still not  certain which song to perform. She'd rearranged five, not sure about any  of them.

Weitz consulted her list. "Are you ready, Jacob?"