My giddiness lasts only a few minutes, and soon I’m walking back to my apartment, dreading the fact that I have a date with someone.
Handsome as he may be, Graham is not Andrew.
These butterflies are not the same.
* * *
Andrew
I don’t think I’ve ever spent the night in a girl’s bed without getting something out of it. Even in Iowa, when I hooked up with girls my senior year or at junior college, I never stayed at a chick’s place without at least a hand job.
I could have had anything I wanted last night—anything…but Emma. That’s the problem. This whole thing—coming back to their apartment again, hooking up with Lindsey—it was always really about Emma.
Punishing Emma—seeing Emma.
I guess in a way, I’m getting something out of this, but it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. There must be a shred of decency left inside me, because I made out with Lindsey until my lips were raw last night, and then we just went to sleep. In her bed. Fucking spooning like we were two kids sneaking off at camp. I bet she thinks I’m this big gentleman—either that, or an enormous pussy. She kept giving me these little signs, small tugs of her shirt, little exposures of her skin that signaled it was all clear for me to keep on moving.
But I couldn’t do it.
I started stroking her hair, putting her to sleep. I panicked, like I was babysitting an infant, and just trying to put it to sleep, the whole time feeling sick as fuck to my stomach. I lay there awake holding her, wishing she were Emma. Emma—who I hate. I hate Emma. I can’t even talk myself out of hating her. Yet…I keep fantasizing about touching her instead of Lindsey. That’s the only way I can make my affection feel like it’s real. My head gets cloudier with every minute that passes in this scenario I’ve trapped myself in.
I left their apartment when the sun came up, not able to take it any more. Lindsey woke up just enough to see I was leaving, but I kissed her back to bed and slipped out her door. I should have kept walking, but my eyes caught the sleeve of Emma’s shirt hanging from the side of the trashcan. It’s like she put it there to surrender—the only flag she has to wave.
It smelled like her. She still smells the same.
I should have left it in the trashcan where she put it. But I didn’t want her to surrender. I wanted her to keep playing, to have to hold on to this stupid piece of material that I now know reminds us both of before. I want her to have to look at it, too—even if she never wears it again.
If she surrenders, I win.
Then what?
I’m kind of impressed that she sent her roommate to me wearing it. Up until now, she’s been just taking my comments and dismissing them, even when I can tell they get to her. She’s been going along with this pretense that we don’t know each other. I have been giving her nothing but shit, and she’s just been taking it.
Until now.
“Didn’t your roommate wear that yesterday?” I say in an offhanded manner as I step out into the hallway from the locker room where Lindsey’s been waiting for me. I saw her in the sweatshirt during the goddamned game, and it was the only thing I could concentrate on. I blew a major play. All I want in the world is for her to take it off, to get rid of it. I feel a little bad about my comment, though, because I see her face fall as she looks down and pulls the bottom of the sweatshirt out to look at it.
Shit…this part of my plan doesn’t feel good. Lindsey isn’t the one I mean to be provoking.
“Oh, I…yeah, I guess she did. I just like it, so she said I could borrow it,” she says. I can tell she’s lying because she’s embarrassed. Emma probably fed her some bullshit to make her feel pretty in that sweatshirt just so she’d wear it here, and I just crapped all over her. She pulls it off and folds it over her arm, though, and I smile to myself at how easy it was to take away Emma’s power.
Lindsey’s still pouting a little when I turn around. I grab my equipment bag and jerk it up higher on my shoulder, then lean into her, kissing her neck. “I like you better in your things,” I say, which makes her blush. She’s already forgotten about the sweatshirt.
“Harper, you still have to talk with coach. He’s pissed, dude,” Trent says as he comes out of the locker room, his eyes quickly noticing my date. He smirks and winks at me in front of her, which irritates me. He’s doing that eyebrow waggle too, which is only going to make Lindsey think I talk about her to Trent. I don’t. In fact, Trent doesn’t even know her name.
“I have a 4.0. There is literally nothing for me to study, so why should I waste time sitting there in the study lab,” I sigh, ready to get back to the fact that I blew my study hall hours, which I don’t need, and coach wants to bench me for it. Some system—the guy with the highest GPA gets the smack down, but Tony Agaluta, our goalie who’s flunking basic algebra, gets stickers on his goddamned helmet because he shows up at four o’clock every day for tutoring—and still fails!