His Plaything(31)
My stomach roiled and an aching knot built in my throat. With sudden horror, I realized that I was on the verge of crying in front of Pam. The woman—no, one of the many women—who Nixon had chosen over me.
“I … I have to go,” I choked out, my voice cracking, and fled back upstairs without even waiting for the elevator.
Six flights later, I was sobbing with more than exertion. No way could I handle going to class today; I was too wrung out to leave the apartment again. But at the same time, it was too painful to stay. Every square inch of this place reminded me of Nixon. The kitchen where he'd cooked for me, the couch where we'd cuddled and made out on sleepy afternoons. The shower where he'd banished the last of my fears. The beds where he'd made me scream in ecstasy—even my own room was tainted. His scent in the air and the constant press of memories left me with a hollow nausea. And because we were technically related, I couldn't even call my friends and commiserate properly. Had Nixon been counting on that fact to keep my mouth shut?
Trying not to waste the entire day, I opened my Market Analysis textbook, but the words and figures swam on the page. Not even TV could distract me. I felt too drained to focus and too riled up to sit still. For hours I slumped restlessly around the apartment, my stomach twisted around my heart, until a loud knock startled me. I hurried to wipe away my tears and went to the door, hoping I didn't look as horrible as I felt.
“Hey!” Fox said as soon as I opened up. “How’s it going, babe?”
From where he stood behind Fox, Logan nodded a hello. He was holding what looked like three large Domino's boxes.
I stared at them blankly. “What are you guys doing here?”
If Fox thought I was being rude, he didn't show it. “Nixon texted us to come over and keep you company while he's gone.”
“We didn't know what you liked, so we got one extra cheese, one pepperoni, and one veggie supreme,” Logan added.
My stomach growled at the delicious smell, and I realized I'd never gotten around to eating anything. Had I been moping and sniveling all day? I really wasn't feeling up for social interaction, but on the other hand, I'd need dinner no matter what. And I probably couldn't shoo these guys away without going into details I'd rather not talk about. Finally I stepped back and opened the door, trying not to sound too bleak as I said, “Come on in.”
Fox set the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and opened the liquor cabinet. “What's your poison, Avery? Rum and coke? That'd go good with pizza.”
“Sure, whatever.” Getting shitfaced sounded like an excellent way to take my mind off Nixon, the douchebag; I didn't really care how I did it. But some sad, masochistic part of me was still hungry for the sound of his name. While Fox mixed drinks and Logan transferred slices of pizza onto plates, I asked as casually as possible, “So … what's Nixon up to, anyway?”
The two guys paused to share a brief look. Logan fidgeted with the pizza cutter. Fox shrugged and went back to pouring soda, saying, “We probably know about as much as you do.”
I glared at the back of Fox's head. Yeah, I fucking bet. You'd be surprised what I know. But what had I expected? Of course his best friends would keep his dirty little secrets for him—it was probably rule number one of the Guy Code. Or maybe even they didn't know what Nixon was up to. Either way, all my suspicions were confirmed. The awful dark weight that had been crushing me all day pressed down again. But by now, my feelings of betrayal had matured from helpless grief into anger.
We sat down with our pizza and drinks on the couch, and after a brief debate, the guys chose some mindless action movie. Within five minutes, Fox had started cracking jokes over it. Soon I joined the peanut gallery, too, bitterly criticizing every male character in place of who I really wanted to complain about. How dare Nixon treat me like this? Sure, a leopard couldn't change its spots, but that didn't make him innocent or his victims guilty. None of this was my fault. Any woman would have been blinded by his bullshit. With every gulp of alcohol, I felt a little bolder and talked a little louder.
“Why are most men such … horrible, lying pigs?” I finally asked in the middle of a tense interrogation scene. “Why do women put up with their shit? Why do I keep doing this to myself? I should just give up on 'em. Go be a lesbian, or a nun, or … or something.”
“I think I speak for all non-gay men when I say we're sorry to see you go,” Fox teased. Unlike Logan, who seemed either bored or uncomfortable, he thought my slightly slurred fuming was hilarious. “But if you're gonna start playing for the other team, can I at least watch?”