“It’s not mean. It’s a dude thing. Trust me, he hates it…but he also loves it,” Ty says, his attention back on his hand now, which is where my focus goes immediately when I feel the hem of my skirt start to move up.
“Owens. Nice practice today,” the voice pulls me out of my intimate bubble with Ty. It’s Chandra, dressed as Wonder Woman. I’m not surprised. And her compliment is not a compliment at all. I was cramping at practice and had to leave before it was over. She’s reveling in it. I hate her.
“Well, I thought I should give you a chance to work the ball,” I say, my smile as fake as the bile in my mouth is real. She bites her lower lip, and when she slides her teeth over it, some of the cherry-red lipstick wears off, leaving a red mark on her front teeth. It makes me happy.
She’s here with a few of the other girls, and some dude on the football team. I think he’s friends with the guy Paige has been seeing. This guy seems clueless, so I give him a pass on his poor taste in women. He walks down the porch steps and the other girls follow, but Chandra stays behind. She doesn’t like me having the last word, so I wait patiently for her to put an end to our conversation—happy to have Ty’s hand on my leg, and his lips on my neck. He couldn’t care less about her.
“I meant to ask you, Cass. How’s Paul Cotterman?” The second she finishes talking she knows she has me. She smiles with her red lips pushed together tightly, bothering to give me a wink before turning and leaving me alone to bleed out from her attack.
My body is instantly covered in sweat, and the ability to breathe leaves. I feel sick, and not from drinking too much, because I’ve hardly had anything to drink at all. How does she know about Paul Cotterman? What does she know? And does she know about Kyle? Why would she do this…say this?
I quickly stand from Ty’s lap, and he grabs my hand, turning me to look at him.
“What was that about?” He’s not asking like he’s angry. He’s genuinely concerned, but I can’t talk about it here. I’m not sure my brain has fully wrapped itself around what just happened. All I know is that I need to leave, and I’m probably going to vomit in the grass.
“I want to go. Now, Ty. Please? We need to go,” I say, holding my hand over my mouth just long enough to make it to the lawn. I let out the little bit of alcohol I’ve had, shutting my eyes as shivers take control of my arms and legs and spine. Ty is next to me quickly, and he’s holding my purse in his lap, over his tutu. The visual makes me smile through the tears that are already starting. This man loves me. I know he does. And I can trust him. Even with my ugliest parts.
“Not here. I’ll tell you everything. But just get me home,” I say, and he puts his hand on my lower back. We begin the long trip back to our dorm building.
We go to his room first, and I wait outside. Nate took Rowe home early; she was pretty blitzed. Ty whispers to me that she’s passed out. He slips in and out quickly without waking them, his sweatpants and T-shirt in his lap when he exits. Once we get to my room, he changes, and I’m glad to have my non-tutu boyfriend back.
“Wow, I’ve never seen someone look so turned on by sweatpants,” he teases.
“I was just getting worried that I’d never get that out of my head,” I say, waving my hand over the pile of sparkling pink mesh on the floor.
“Yeah, you and about a hundred dudes whose day I ruined in that outfit,” he laughs, picking the tutu up and straightening it out like he actually might save it to wear again. He finally tosses it back to the floor, and I’m relieved.
He’s lying on my bed, his neck bent against my rolled pillow stuffed in the corner by the wall. He pats the space next to him, and I crawl up, folding my legs so I can sit and face him. I play with his fingers in my hand, pretending they’re keys of a piano. I wish I knew how to play the piano. I wish for a lot of things.
“So…I think I should probably start with Kyle Loftman,” I say, keeping my focus on his fingers, my pretend piano. I play Mary Had a Little Lamb, or at least, what I think is that song. He lets me play, tilting his head to one side and looking up at me, my glance shifts from his fingers to his eyes and back again.
“Is this story going to piss me off?” he asks.
That’s a loaded question. I pause and cup his hand in both of mine, then lean forward to kiss it and press it on the side of my face while I look at him.
“Yes. No. Maybe,” I say, through a truly pathetic smile.
“Okay, that sounds fair. Bases are covered,” he says, wiggling his fingers again to let me play. I like that he does this, let’s me have an outlet for my nerves. Or maybe he just likes it when I rub his hands. Either way.