“Hey, girls.” Chelsea juts one hip out, her hand on her hip and her smile Type 2 diabetes sweet as she snaps a picture of them with her phone. “Just wanted to stop by and let you know that by talking shit about the captain of the football team’s girlfriend, you pretty much killed every opportunity you’ve ever had to date a jock in this place. Just putting it out there. So, good luck and so forth.” My friend shrugs, strutting her way back to me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I blurt, but still squeeze her into an embrace, my arm wrapped around her shoulder. We walk out to the orange and pink fall, toward the students’ parking lot.
“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to. So, are you and Sage a thing, or what?” She stops by her sensible blue Buick and fishes out the keys from her back pocket.
“Um, no. I kind of got freaked out yesterday at the possibility of him leaving the state in May and basically told him I’m calling things off. It all started with him telling me that he wanted me to be his fake girlfriend until graduation. Something about a Christmas event in New York, or something, so I think his telling people that we’re an item is more because of his mysterious plan and less about a love declaration,” I sullenly admit. Chelsea whips her head and gives me her best are-you-a-complete-idiot expression. It’s a cross between puzzled and annoyed.
“You seriously think he’s playing a game? You don’t know that he likes you?”
I shake my head. I mean, I do. I know Sage likes me a lot as a friend. It’s hard not to see it. We do so much for each other. But more than that? Romantically other than a lay? Nah. He had countless chances to ask me out, to blur the lines, to take a chance. Literally, a decade of opportunities ticked by. He saw me with boyfriends. On dates. At prom with Clay Jacobs. He never gave me any indication that he was even remotely jealous. No reason he caught a bad case of the feels all of a sudden.
“Jolie, he is crazy about you.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Well, you should, because everyone else does.”
I bite my lower lip and ponder. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I’m just being a bit of a bitch. I mean, what exactly am I expecting from him right now? A declaration that he’ll always be mine? A goddamn ring? Who knows what’s going to happen in May? All we have is today, and today matters.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” I say. Chelsea nods.
“I’ll give you a ride to work.” She winks.
“You’re the best.” And for the millionth time since I met her here a couple of years ago, I thank the Lord that He gave me one best friend that I love like a drug, and another who takes care of me like a fairy.
I tie my yellow apron around my waist in the employees’ room of the Happy Bunny. Trisha, my fifty-something-year-old colleague, coughs in my face, cigarette smoke drifting from her breath.
“All I’m sayin’ is, don’t let a man fool ya. They’re all the same, hotcakes. They will use you and leave you if you let them. Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free? See what I mean?” She gathers phlegm and spits it into a trash can, her fire engine red curly hair littered with white cigarette ash. I pretend to fluff her mane when really, I’m just making sure she doesn’t lose all her tips and her job by sprinkling ash into people’s food like a Tinkerbell from hell.
“Yep.” I smile at her, not entirely sure why we’re talking about this. I haven’t told her a word about Sage. I was actually trying to strike up a conversation about the weather. Trish leaves the darkened room to yell at our manager-slash-diner-owner, Travis, and I immediately fish out my phone, texting my best friend. The one I left hanging.
Me: Let’s talk tonight?
He answers after less than five seconds.
Sage: Sure. Pick you up from work at eleven?
Me: Trish is giving me a ride back. She wants to talk about colleges bc her son is applying. I’ll see you at home?
Sage: K. Chilling at Barnie’s with the guys, but I’ll be there on time. Everything good?
Me: Yeah. I just think I owe you an apology for freaking out on you yesterday like that.
Sage: Honestly, the only thing I’m worried about is how it’s going to affect my relationship with your pussy, AKA my fiancée.
Me: So funny.
Sage: Also: so true.
Sage: But seriously, I don’t know what happened yesterday. Whatever it was, I want to get it fixed. You’re a part of my blood. I can’t change my DNA, but I sure as hell can change everything else to keep you close. Yeah?
This man. This. Man. Maybe Chelsea is right. Maybe I’m not seeing what’s so obviously clear to everyone else. Maybe Sage does like me in the same way that I like him.
Me: I hope you mean it.
Sage: I hope you know it. Speak soon x
The shift passes by in a blur. I don’t think I’ve ever made such great tips, even though I pretty much work on autopilot. I don’t feel tired or stressed or anxious. I’m just excited to see Sage at the end of my shift. Or maybe things go smoothly because business is so slow. Five hours into my shift, Travis saunters across the checkered black and white linoleum floors, braces one forearm over a red-hot booth, and slaps Trish’s ass with a loud smack. “Trish, Jol, take the rest of the night off. Split the tips in the jar. This place is deader than my old man. And he’s dead, all right. Has been dead for twenty years now.”
Insert: awkward giggle.
We nearly jump up and down with excitement and jog our way to Trish’s piece-of-trash car (her words, not mine). She calls her old puke-green Ford Aerostar Bob after the asshole who ran away from her when she was eight months pregnant with his kid. Luckily, Bob’s son is now seventeen and applying to colleges. A very different guy from his deadbeat dad.
“Where to?” Trish asks me when she gets behind the wheel, immediately lighting up a cigarette. She fluffs her hair, staring at the rearview mirror, and between us is an ashtray with enough cigarette butts to fill a bucket. I start giving her my address before realizing that Sage is not going to be there yet. So I give her the address for Barnie’s, a converted barn turned into a sleazy bar all the jocks frequently hang out in.
“Aw, Barnie’s. I have so many memories from that place. Most of them consisting of broken condoms, but still.” Trish sighs, starts her car, and we’re on a roll.
All the way to Barnie’s, I’m answering questions about college when really, I’m an emotional, anxious mess. The idea that I might’ve pushed the one guy I wanted more than life itself away sits heavy in the back of my head and slowly opens a well of dark thoughts. Then I remember how sweet he was when we texted and take a deep breath.
By the time Trish’s car comes to a stop in front of the old red barn with the Arctic Monkey’s “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor” leaking from between the door and windows, I’m a sweaty mess.
“Go ahead. I have a phone call to make. I’ll wait for you in case he’s already left.” She cranes her neck, as if she’s trying to see Sage through the windows. Okay, weird, but also totally appreciated. I haven’t even mentioned I was meeting a guy here, though Trish is that kind of woman. One who can smell men from miles away.
“Thanks, Trish. You’re the best.” I squeeze her into a hug and hop out of the car. My knees are shaking as I make my way to the door. No one gets carded at Barnie’s, because the place is in the middle of nowhere. It’s almost underground. I could walk in there with a newborn and no one would bat an eye. No one would also try to rub themselves all over me, so maybe I should consider walking in with a baby if I ever feel like a drink but not like swatting off horny college boys.
“Jolie!” I spot Sage’s teammates in the corner of the bar. Michael is the one who perks up the most, removing his arms from the counter he was plastered over and waves for me to come close. “Over here, pretty lady.”
I also spot Tom, Mark, and Dre all sitting beside him, so I’m guessing the party is very much still alive and Sage should be nearby. I walk over to them, the smile on my face at odds with how I feel about wearing my
orange and yellow Happy Bunny uniform of buttoned-down mini-dress and black stockings. Tom whistles as I go, and Mark smacks the back of his neck. My smile fades as I realize Sage is nowhere to be seen. I stop by the bar, my shoulder almost brushing Mark’s, and he takes two large steps back and frowns. Weirdo. I know he’s with Chelsea. Does he really think I’m going to hit on him?
“Where’s Sage?” I ask in everyone’s general direction, parking my forearms on the counter. Michael raises his eyebrows silently, his lips pursed. Tom looks the other way, Dre actually whistles as he pretends to text, and Mark is the only person who clears his throat and has the decency to make eye contact with me.
“Did he know you were coming?”
“No, why would he…” I begin to ask, when a high-pitched voice pierces through the air, that’s heavy with warm, stinky alcohol and men’s aftershave. A girly voice. I swivel my head on an instinct and watch Sage standing in front of one of the sorority girls Chelsea approached earlier this afternoon at the library.
The blondest one.
The prettiest one.
The one with the whitest, silkiest cardigan.
The one who called me a slut.
I want to see him tell her that this can’t happen. That it will never happen. I want him to turn his back to her and walk over to me, like in the movies. I want her to chase him, and I want him to block her. These thoughts are not kind or noble, but they’re coming from my deepest, most intimate part. The part who’s seen him playing around with so many girls from the sidelines, wishing he’d just give me a chance. But, to my horror, he doesn’t do any of those things. She’s the one running away toward the door, and he’s the one chasing after her.
“Amber, no, please!” he calls.
Amber.
No.
Please.
Sage never begs. Sage never pleads. Not to me and not to anyone.
He chases after her. I stay rooted to the floor. I watch the door swinging back and forth with the force of Amber’s push. He’s trailing behind.
He catches her.
He’s holding her.
He’s hugging her.
Their images are blurry through the dirty, cloudy windows. I see their shapes dancing together through the dull glass and the mist of tears on my eyeballs. The way Amber pushes him away. The way he keeps on moving toward her. The sheer desperation in his body language. And that’s when I feel Mark’s hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” he says, his voice quivering slightly, “but give him the benefit of the doubt.”
A lonely tear escapes my right eye and runs down my cheek, free-falling into its end and splashing on the tip of my Chucks. I hear the guys shuffling and talking behind me, but can’t distinguish what they’re saying. My legs carry me to Amber and Sage. To the girl who called me a slut and to the guy who said I was in his blood but ran after someone else.
They’re standing outside the barn. She’s yelling at him. He looks miserable. The only good thing about this shitshow of a situation? Trish’s car is still parked at the non-existent curb near the hay, the engine purring, as she talks on the phone, smoking a cigarette and staring at herself through the rearview mirror.
“Oh, great. Now your new girlfriend is here!” Amber shrieks, throwing her arms in the air on an eye roll. Then she huffs. I think I made my opinion about huffing clear. I narrow my eyes at the not-so-happy couple. Sage turns around instantly, his eyes growing wide.
“What are you doing here, JoJo?” The words struggle out of his mouth.
“Standing in your way, obviously. Don’t worry, Sage. I’ll make myself scarce so you can go back to your…” I frown at both of them, standing so close to each other, “business.”
“No, wait. There’s no business with Amber. No business at all. You don’t understand…” He charges after me, but I take hurried steps toward Trish’s car, swing the passenger door open, slide in, and nudge her to start driving. She does. She throws the lit cigarette out the window and pushes the gas pedal like we’re on a police chase. I’m not sure I want to know how she mastered these escaping skills.
“Trouble with the boy?” Her voice is exceptionally cheerful, like she just proved a point. I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. I want to move out. I need to move out. I hate him. I want to kill him. I want to kiss him. I love him. I don’t know what I’m feeling. Everything is wrong and twisted and final. Or maybe nothing happened at all and this has a very simple, logical explanation. I’m confused. I need to drink. I have to think about this sober.
Goddammit.
My phone starts pinging with messages as I see Sage’s burgundy truck careening after us. Well, that’s just dandy.
Sage: Where are you going? Who is in the car with you?
Sage: You can’t just leave. I didn’t know you were coming. I can explain.
Sage: I know it looks bad.
Sage: You need to answer me, JoJo.
Sage: FUCK JOJO FUCK.
“Where to?” Trish asks, lighting her four-hundredth cigarette for the day as we speed toward an intersection. She nonchalantly passes a stop sign and I’m about to pee my pants—yeah, despite all the Pilates.
“Slow down, Trish.”
“Did he cheat?” She ignores me, getting all worked up. “It looks like he’s been cheatin’ on ya. This kinda thing doesn’t fly with me. Bob cheated.”
“It’s complicated, but…” I don’t want to die. Not even over Sage.
“Bastard!” She hits the accelerator so hard my head swings back. Meanwhile, the texts flow like cheap alcohol at a frat party.
Sage: Tell her to stop the goddamn vehicle or I swear I’ll slam into you from the side to pull you over.
Sage: Bitch is crazy, JoJo. She’ll get both of you killed.
Sage: IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK.
“You have to stop.” I swivel my whole body toward Trish.
“Like hell I will!” she exclaims with an evil laugh. Dude. Okay. Trish might be a little on the psychotic side. Plus, she is plucking out another cigarette from her magical, never-ending pack. I grab her shoulder and squeeze lightly so she doesn’t do something reckless in an attempt to gain her full attention.
“Trish, you’re spinning. Stop the car or I’ll take all your tips,” I threaten, and the car pulls over so fast my head is swimming again. We’re on the shoulder of the highway, in the pitch-black, and Trish leans over my body, throws my door open, and points outside.
“Get the hell outta my car, girl. If you’re taking this cheating bastard back, I don’t want to hang out with you no more.”
That escalated quickly. I grab my stuff and hop out, Sage already pulling behind her with his truck. No matter what happened between him and me, I still trust him more to get me home safe. Wherever home may be. He gets out of his truck and walks toward me, chest puffed up, eyes ablaze, just when Trish hits the gas pedal again and leaves us in a thick cloud of exhaust smoke. We’re standing one in front of another. I don’t say a thing. Neither does he.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and texts me. I stare at him like he’s an absolute lunatic.
Sage: If we talk about it right now, we’ll fight again. Come home with me and I’ll explain everything.
I don’t budge. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to fight. But I don’t want to be a doormat, either. He’s got plenty of girls who’d be happy to play that role for him. But not me. He sighs, texting me again.
Sage: OUR home, JoJo. Don’t throw away all these years for a misunderstanding. Pls?
The drive back is soul crushing, no less. The silence hangs in the air like a stench. When we get to the apartment, I kick my Chucks against the wall and walk over to my room. A big hand grabs me by the waist and spins me around. I swat it away, feeling all the humiliation, anger, and sadness I’d felt at Barnie’s returning, burning in me like a red-hot wrath.
“What the hell, Sage. Get off me! All this bullshit about me being in your blood didn’t feel so tr
ue when you ran after Amber, begging.”
“You are in my blood!” he screams in my face, raking his fingers along his thick, lush blond hair. I look away so he won’t see the tears. My cheeks are wet, and my heart is pounding loud enough to hear from across the room. “You’re in my blood, in my veins, in my fucking soul. You’re in my heart and in my fingertips and on my fucking lips like a prayer. You’re fucking everywhere, Jolie Louis. Always will be.” He pushes me to the wall. My back slams against it. I growl, pushing him away. He lets me. We’re angry. We’re desperate. We’re frustrated.
“That Amber chick called me a slut today! And you ran after her! Pleaded for her to stay when you thought I wasn’t there!”
“I don’t want Amber,” he says, his lips pursing and his eyes thinning into slits. “I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” I huff—oh, God, since when did I become a huffer?—turning my back to him and walking toward the hallway. He pins me against the wall again, this time bracing his arms above my head and locking me in. I can’t run. I can’t hide. I have to stay here and see this through. His eyes are burning. My body is heaving. There’s an impending storm between us and we’re both exposed.
“She just had a miscarriage,” he growls into my face, his breath laced with beer and cinnamon gum. “We hooked up a few months ago. The condom broke. She wanted to keep it, and I couldn’t exactly tell her not to. She found out last month, and she is a mess about it. That’s why I was running after her. She just found out about us at the library.”