He takes my cup and puts it on the counter before he grabs both of my hands and pulls me onto the dance floor. For such a big guy he's a surprisingly good dancer, and for such a drunk girl I'm staying surprisingly upright. I don't really object to the way our dance turns into more of a grind within a song or two. It's not like everyone else on the dance floor-which is actually just someone's living room-isn't doing the same thing.
And then I'm knocked backward, falling into other dancers, and Landon is on top of Jason. I regain my balance and stand there, surprised and mildly amused, watching Landon and the other idiot beat the shit out of each other.
"Do you always start this much trouble?" says the guy behind me. He's hot. Way hotter than either Landon or Justin.
I grin at him over my shoulder. "Always."
"C'mon," he says, pressing his hand to the small of my back. He leads me into the yard, grabbing us more beer on the way.
His name is Evan, and I find something about him specifically appealing. He's tall and well-built-too muscular to run track but too lean to play football. Sort of like Will.
One minute we're in the backyard talking and the next we're in someone's room. I guess I've had more to drink than I thought, but that's okay. There's a very specific memory I need to rid myself of, a specific memory that won't go away no matter what I do to excise it, so my aim now is to replace. Evan kisses me and I feel nothing. His hand slides under my shirt, into my bra, and I wait for it to end, like sitting through a movie you really aren't enjoying. My satisfaction only comes from how much progress we've made, how close it is to being over. And then his hand moves to my jeans and I fly off the bed, panicked.
"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes wide with surprise. "I thought it was okay."
"I can't," I gasp. "I'm sorry. I thought I could, but I can't."
He was nice about it. Far nicer than Mark Bell would have been under the same circumstances. But then Mark didn't ask.
And he didn't stop until I made him.
29
Will
I can't shake what Olivia told me after the meet. How could her parents have done that to a six-year-old? I'm furious at people I've never met because they created the mess she's in now. It's their fault she's having these nightmares, that she's putting her life at risk when she has one. It's their fault she's forced to survive off stipends and loans, hoping to God she can hold on to her scholarship.
Jessica and I go out to dinner then watch TV after. "You're distracted," she says. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lie. "Just a long day."
But that's not really it. I'm pissed off on Olivia's behalf, but it's more than that. I feel oddly unsatisfied tonight. Jessica and I ate at a restaurant I chose and are now watching a movie I've been wanting to see, but it feels empty, like a meal that can't satisfy me no matter how much I consume.
///
And it wasn't like that last night.
I bickered with Olivia while we watched a TV show I didn't want to watch in the first place, and when it was time to go to sleep, I wished it wasn't. But right now, with my girlfriend, I just want the night to be over.
Later we're in bed and Jessica's beneath me. I'm trying to focus on her but every time I close my eyes all I see is Olivia, asleep face down in my bed, the sheet twisted around her waist, her hair spread over my pillow, her back bare.
The moment she sat up and the sheet slid away.
That last image appears unbidden and I finish with a hoarse cry of surprise, ashamed of myself even as it happens.
Jessica curls up against my side, but it's Olivia in my head once more as I remember last night, the way it felt to have her tucked in my arms. I stayed with her until her tears stopped, and it seemed like the right thing to do even though, at the very same moment, it seemed as wrong as anything I'd ever done in my life.
Because I liked it.
Because I wanted to stay.
And right now, with Jessica, I'm counting the seconds until I can leave. The same way I always do.
After practice on Monday, I get a text from Jeff Jordan, one of the assistant football coaches. He needs to "chat". Fuck. A meeting with one of the football coaches is never good. They never want to give you anything, and they're often looking to take something away. And the sad truth is that at this school-at almost any school-football trumps track every time.
"We had a fight this weekend," he tells me instead. "Two players. Our defensive end is out the rest of the season with a broken hand."
"Yeah?" I'm still not seeing what this could possibly have to do with me, which of our meager resources he's going to ask us to give up to fix this.
"Apparently it was over one of your girls."
Before he's said another word, I know exactly which girl he's talking about.
He tells me the version he's heard from members of the team: Olivia, bouncing back and forth between a running back and a defensive end, laughing when they got mad at each other, dirty dancing with the one who wasn't her date. Sure, the story is one-sided. Sure, I should hear Olivia's version. Except it's so goddamn easy to imagine her laughing about it, to imagine her knowing good and well she was causing a problem and giving them both that insouciant little smirk she gives when she wants you to understand you're not the boss of her.
And none of it is nearly as infuriating as the story's conclusion, in which Olivia takes off with some other guy at the end. For some reason, it's this that truly has me seeing red. She left with one of them? What the hell is she thinking? Did she even know the guy?
"Now I've got one guy out, and half the team taking sides. It's a complete clusterfuck."
As is everything involving Olivia Finnegan. Everything.
"I'm sorry, Jeff," I say through gritted teeth, "but there's not much I can do about it at this point."
"Just keep her away from my team, okay? I have no idea who this girl is or what's so magical about her, but I don't need any more of my guys on the bench this season."
If this were about any other girl on the team I'd be pissed at him for pinning the blame on her. I'd point out that maybe he should be discussing this with the drunk assholes who did the fighting. But instead I'm fucking enraged at Olivia myself, and I'm pretty sure it's not for the right reasons.
30
Olivia
I'm summoned to Will's office on Monday afternoon, which can't possibly be a good thing.
"I've been hearing some stories," he begins, leaning back in his chair. "Big fight this weekend. Over a girl."
I roll my eyes. "I wasn't fighting over a girl if that's what you're accusing me of. I don't swing that way."
"I'm glad you find this so amusing, Olivia," he says, his eyes narrowed. "Because the story I'm hearing is this girl at the party was another athlete, and she was kind of encouraging both of these guys, kind of egging them on. And they're getting drunker and drunker, and so is she, and she just thinks the whole thing is funny, the way these two guys clearly want to beat the shit out of each other. And she just keeps encouraging it until it finally happens. And then she leaves with someone else. So I hear this story and the first thing I think-the very first thing-is 'please don't let Olivia be the girl.'"
"Seems sort of unfair, the way you assume the girl was me."
"The girl was you, Olivia."
"Okay, fine. So what? They weren't on the track team."
///
"Because we are all part of a larger team! What don't you get about that? We all work on behalf of the school, so when you mess with one part of that, it has repercussions everywhere. And now I've got the football coaches breathing down my neck because one of their guys has to sit on the bench all season with a busted hand."
I slouch in my seat. "I didn't tell them to fight," I mutter. "And if you ask me, this is all pretty misogynistic on your part. Two grown men decide to pummel the shit out of each over some girl who isn't interested in either of them and she's the one at fault?"
"I'm not saying you're at fault, but you sure weren't trying to help the situation either, were you?"
"Oh my God. Big fucking deal," I say with an exaggerated exhale. "I'd just had too much to drink."
"And that's the other thing. You weigh next-to-nothing soaking wet. So don't you think it's maybe not the greatest idea to get completely trashed at a party with a bunch of testosterone-fueled guys who are more than twice your weight?"
"I can take care of myself."