She wants me to give her time, wants me to wait. She wants more for herself than a selfish, contemptuous asshole…but there’s so damn much I have to say. If I don’t get this shit off my chest, eventually I’ll say fuck it and I’ll bottle it up inside like I do with everything else in my life.
The rejection will be unbearable.
So I go to my desk, pull out the chair, and root around for a pen. Paper.
Bow my head and do something I’ve never done in my entire fucking life:
Write a letter.
Dear Violet
I know you didn’t want to talk, but
I’m an idiot
Fuck
If it were anyone but you ignoring me I wouldn’t give a fuck
I cannot handle the silence.
Please talk to me.
Violet.
By now we all know I’m a fuck up an idiot when it comes to basically every single relationship I’ve ever had with anyone. My friends can’t stand me, my parents think I’m a handful, my teachers tolerate me.
I won’t admit outright to being a shitty human being, but I come close. I know what they say about me. That I’m unfeeling. Cold. A dick. Insensitive. All these words have been used to describe me by those I’ve pissed off in the past, including women I’ve slept with. Sorry, but it’s true.
I’m wasn’t sure how to start this letter—I’ve started it at least seven times, and nothing about it is right. I realize that if I wasn’t such a callous dick had stepped up and been the guy said what I was feeling when you walked up to our table in the library, I wouldn’t be groveling right now.
I’ve stared at this fucking sheet of paper for the past fifteen minutes knowing that nothing I write is going to undo the damage I’ve done to us.
I’ve never handwritten a letter before in my entire fucking life, and here I am writing one for all the wrong fucking reasons, pardon my French.
There is no excuse for how I behave.
No excuse for how I acted in the library, except the truth: I spooked when you came over. I’m such a dumbass, I get that now, and my immature sophomoric response to the situation is as embarrassing for me as it was for you. It even embarrassed my friends, and that’s saying a lot, because they’re mostly imbiciles imbeciles, too.
I am an asshole.
I am a prick.
I am a douchebag.
These are not badges of honor and I’m a dick for having ever worn these labels. A total and complete dick.
If you would have told me two months ago that I’d be hanging out with kids every week and having fun, I would have laughed in your face and called you a liar. The only person I thought about was myself, because growing up I had no one to tell me not to be a selfish prick. When you called me self-deprecating, you were right.
I am.
I had to google what it meant, but you were right. There are no other words for it. I don’t know what to fucking say to you right now other than I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.
I am a soulless asshole who doesn’t deserve to have you as a friend. Jesus Christ Violet, I wasn’t thinking of you at all when you walked up and I just sat there. Fuck! I know you’re hurting and upset but I was too worried about myself to see what was right in front of me. When even YOU won’t talk to me—one of the nicest people I KNOW won’t talk to me—that’s how I know I’ve got a fucking problem. Pardon my French.
I’ll be gone this week—we have a wrestling meet in Indiana at Purdue, and won’t be back until late on Friday—but if it’s okay, I’m going to try texting you from the bus. I miss you. I really freaking miss you.
Even if you aren’t ready to see me, I had to try.
I might be a douchebag, but I’m not a quitter.
Yours
Sincerely
Fuck
Talk soon,
Zeke.
Violet
On Friday night, I’ve sequestered myself in my bedroom. Mel and Winnie are both getting ready to hit the bars since it’s the weekend, but I’ve been in no mood to socialize.
With them, or anyone else.
My door is ajar, so I can hear them both laughing, and occasionally they stick their heads in to make sure I haven’t changed my mind about going out. Getting dressed up. Getting drunk.
Or, Zeke Wasted as Winnie so eloquently put it.
I know waiting around for a guy to text you is a dumb thing to do—sadistic, really, and a little pathetic—but unlike a lot of guys, he isn’t playing games. He said he’s going to text me and I believe him.
I think.
I showed his letter to my roommates—a huge mistake, because obviously they’re both outraged on my behalf, having found me crying in the living room the night I blindly walked myself home from the library, too upset and blinded by tears and mascara to drive.
The letter sits on my desk.
I’ve read it at least fifty times, fingers running over the hurried lines. The messy, hurried scrawl. Black ink. Black mood.
For him to write that?
My stomach flutters thinking about it, thinking about those words. All the words, spewed onto that abused sheet of paper, ineloquent and unplanned.
The least I can do is be present when he texts, and I can’t do that unless I’m home.
I want to be home when he texts.
So I lie in my room on a Friday night, googling televised college wrestling. Find the schedule for Iowa. Find the network. Sprawled across my bed, remote in hand, flip through the TV menu until I find what I’m looking for.
Iowa versus Purdue.
I study the screen, transfixed. Study the sidelines and wrestlers as the camera pans the stadium.
I’ve never seen wrestling before, not in person and not on TV. Didn’t realize it was even a big deal until coming to Iowa, where wrestling reigns and the boys here are bred for it.
The stadium is massive; I don’t know what I was expecting, probably something comparable to a high school gym. This? Whole different level. The arena is massive.
The blue mats are huge.
There are wrestlers on my screen who are fast on their feet, stalking each other in the center of the mat, grappling for the upper hand. The guy in black suddenly has his opponent in a headlock, and I realize with a gasp that I recognize him.
Sebastian Osborne, Zeke’s roommate. It takes him two rounds to win his match.
The next Iowa wrestler is Patrick Pitwell; he wins as well.
Followed by Jonathon Powell, who takes three rounds.
Sophomore Diego Rodriguez takes just one—and loses.
Zeke Daniels walks onto the screen, his stats displayed on the bottom of the screen. He begins stretching his thick quads on the sidelines, removes his pants, sliding them down over his muscular thighs.
I feel my cheeks turn bright red, furiously blushing crimson despite being in the house alone. Those thighs in his wrestling uniform are firm and hard.
His very visible bulge lies flat against his lower stomach.
I know what both feel like between my legs; that spot gets hot and wet and blushes, too.
Overheated, I whip off my bedspread, flipping onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Catching my breath. Salvaging what’s left of my composure when it comes to this boy. Trying to get my temperature to drop and get a grip on the reality of what’s happening with us here.
Trying to focus on my screen.
I’ve never paid attention to wrestling, have no idea what those leotards they’re wearing are called. Leotards? No, that can’t be right.
I grab my laptop, flip it open, and search wrestling one-piece.
Wrestling singlet, noun. The uniform is tight-fitting so as not to get grasped by one’s opponent, allowing referees to see each wrestler’s body clearly when awarding points. Underneath the singlet, wrestlers can choose to wear nothing.
I get it now; I get why the girls on campus go crazy for these guys. Even jerks like Zeke Daniels.
Strong, powerful, and larger than life, he moves into the center of the ring. Grips his opponent’s hand to shake it. His pouty lips are set in a grim line, eyes bearing down on the wrestler from Purdue.
I’ve seen that look of determination in person. That formidable, unsmiling face. Felt his potency firsthand.
The announcer begins his commentary; the two wrestlers circle and lower their levels, blocking each other. Zeke’s opponent—a junior named Hassan—circles away, removing his hands so Zeke can’t get control of them.
Both wrestlers are grappling, bodies hunched, hands extended, both immobile for only a split second before Zeke makes his move. Striking fast.
He flies into action, grabbing Hassan by the inner thighs, hauling him up. Lifting. Hefting him up and over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Hassan is suspended in the air while Zeke gets into position to drop him to the mat so he’s flat on his back.
Zeke’s biceps and thighs ripple. Glisten.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, he’s going to drop him and break the poor kid’s back!
I can’t watch. I’m horrified.
I hold my breath, covering my gasp with the palm of my hand. Release it when Zeke slowly lowers his torso and adversary with steady, skilled precision to the mat without hurting him or losing control. Unbelievable strength.
The tattoo on his back strains with every shift, every calculated movement of his muscular, tight body. Sweat dampens his furrowed brow. His black hair. Perspiration beads on his back and chest.
Within seconds, he has Hassan pinned to that blue mat.
Seconds.
I stare, eyes wide when the referee counts out the win. Pounds the mat. Watch when both wrestlers rise to their feet, the referee taking Zeke’s wrist and raising it above his head, declaring him the victor of that match.