Shut Out (19 page)

I'd heard other guys talk about group sex. I'd fantasized about it. Every guy fantasizes about a threesome with two girls, or even the odd orgy. Here was my chance to actually experience it.

But deep inside me, I must have known it wasn't the right thing to do. She was eighteen years old and a little drunk and we were three big, strong guys. It was a crazy position to put herself in. I asked her if she was sure that was what she wanted and she laughed and said of course. Then I tried to tell the guys we shouldn't be doing it, but Brittany was already taking her clothes off and grabbing at Ace, and there was no stopping her. I'm now willing to admit I felt misgivings, which was why I left. And then she accused us all of raping her.

I guess I'll never know what really happened. Maybe she changed her mind and didn't want to go through with it, but if she had, I'd like to think my teammates would have stopped. I don't think they were so drunk that they wouldn't have realized she wanted to stop…were they? I'd also like to think they weren't such assholes that if she'd asked them to stop they wouldn't have. I asked them outright if she'd changed her mind, and they denied it, and I want to believe them, but I wasn't there so I'll never really know.

Guilt and doubts come crashing back on me, making my stomach roll, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

I'd been bitter because it was Ace and Crash who'd had sex with her, but I was punished along with them. I kept telling myself I was an innocent bystander, and because I'd gotten the hell out of there, it was nothing to do with me. But now the word “bystander” has a whole different meaning.

I shouldn't have left. I should've put a stop to it. I know that now.

I slump into my chair and lean my head back. I guess this is the moment I'm supposed to have. It's why I'm here. To fucking learn from my mistakes. And thanks to Skylar, I guess I have.

Skylar.

Her friend raped her. It makes me want to punch something. And now she and her best friend have had a huge fight over it. Skylar's been worried about Ella, about her emotional state, and wow, now we know Ella was secretly in love with Brendan—no wonder she was so devastated by his death. But it pisses me off that Ella blames Skylar for Brendan's death.
He
was the one who screwed up and probably—hopefully—felt guilty about it.
He
was the one who took his own life, perhaps because of it. But Ella doesn't know that.

What a mess.

I try once more to focus on Hooke's law, but a feeling of hot pressure is building inside me. Too much. Too much to do. Too much to think about. Too many emotions I don't want to feel.

I close my eyes and suck in a long breath. Having Skylar as my fake girlfriend was supposed to help so I'd be able to focus on hockey and school. It wasn't supposed to mess me up even more.

Skylar is right. This wasn't supposed to be part of the deal. I don't need all this. I need to be focused, most of all on my hockey so the scouts who are coming to games this year are taking notice of me, and for the right reasons. I have to get drafted this year, which means fulfilling my part of the deal with Bayard—staying out of trouble and getting decent grades.

A panicky pressure swells inside me. Yeah, I can't deal with this. I should throw up my hands and back off and let her deal with her problems. I recognize this is selfish…but Jesus, I've got my own problems and goals. I can't deal with all of her problems too.

It's definitely hard to focus at work. I screw up a couple orders, which probably loses me tips that I need. I can't stop thinking about it all—how upset Ella was this morning, how horrible that night with Brendan was, how sympathetic and understanding Jacob was.

I never wanted to tell him about that. I never wanted to tell
anyone
about it. I told Frances, the counselor I saw, and that was it. But now I realize this is a huge secret I've been carrying around, and it's been the wall between Ella and me all along.

And now she knows.

But she doesn't know all of it. Jacob thinks I should tell her the truth. I go back and forth over this in my mind, trying to figure out what to do. What the consequences of telling her would be, good or bad. What the consequences of
not
telling her would be.

Taisha nudges me. “Hey, girl, table twelve is trying to get your attention.”

“What? Huh?” I look around. “Oh!” Damn, I promised them their check ten minutes ago. I hurry over to leave it on the table, apologizing profusely. Their frowns tell me that's another tip lost.

I sigh and move to the next table to see if they need anything else. They ask for refills of ice water. “Sure thing.”

I walk back to the kitchen, but on the way I get stopped by another table, asking for more syrup for their pancakes, which I quickly get for them.

I lean against the counter, lost in my thoughts again. My stomach is a mass of twisted nerves. I pick at a hangnail on my thumb until it's bleeding. I thought I was getting past the guilt and grief, but it's all swelling up inside me, making me feel like I'm going to burst out of my skin. I can't stand feeling this way, but I don't know what to do about it.

Maybe I need to make another appointment with Frances.

Or maybe I need to take a few minutes and remember some of the strategies she taught me, about controlling my breathing, controlling my thoughts, my self-talk.

Taisha stops in front of me, frowning. “Table ten is still waiting for water.”

“Shit.” I close my eyes and jump forward to get a pitcher. “I forgot.”

“You okay, hon?” Taisha eyes me, her forehead wrinkled. “You don't look so good, actually. Late night last night?”

It
was
a late night, by the time Jacob and I fell asleep after trying out numerous positions and I had three orgasms. But that's not what the problem is. “Sort of.” I rush over to pour ice water into glasses, once more apologizing.

I seriously need to focus here. I'm being paid to do a job, and screwing up isn't good for my tips or for the diner. I dig deep for the strength I need to shut my mind off to my problems and concentrate on work.

By the end of my shift, I'm drained. I walk slowly to my car. The cold air chills my face and the pale sky looks like it's ready to release snowflakes.

I start the engine and let it idle for a minute. Now I have to admit I'm afraid to go home. Because Ella will be there.

She said she's done with me, and I'm dead to her. I rub my chest where it burns. She can't mean that. We've been best friends since middle school. Yes, there's been this divide between us since Brendan died, and it's only now becoming clear to me why that is. I thought it was her behavior that was driving the wedge between us, but now I can see it's more than that. It's the huge secret I've been keeping from her.

I don't know how to fix this.

I lean my head on the steering wheel, my eyes burning, my throat aching. Then I pull in a shaky breath and lift my head. I have to try to talk to Ella.

In the house, I knock on her closed bedroom door. I lean my forehead against it and wait, but there's no answer. She doesn't usually keep her door closed if she's not in there. Paranoia grabs hold of me. She was really upset this morning, and after what happened with Brendan…I open the door and peek in.

Nope. The room is empty.

I quietly close the door and walk into my own room. I can hear music from behind Natalie's closed bedroom door, but it doesn't seem likely Ella's in there with her. Looks like Brooklyn is out too. In my room I sink down onto my unmade bed and stare at the floor, not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed that Ella's not here to talk things out.

Ella doesn't come home all night. That's not exactly unusual for her lately.

I don't hear from Jacob either. That
is
unusual for a Saturday night. He almost always has games Saturday nights, and he likes when I go to them, but tonight I have no one to go with and I'm not going alone. And Jacob hasn't texted to see if I'll be there. I kind of thought I might hear from him, even if only to see if I was okay after that scene this morning. Whatever.

I don't sleep well, listening for Ella to come home. I guess I'm still affected by what happened with Brendan and it's making me worry about her. I keep telling myself she's not going to do anything extreme.

I'm in the kitchen Sunday morning making myself coffee when she arrives home. She passes by the kitchen door on her way upstairs. Her makeup is smudged, her hair a mess, and she's still wearing a tight, short red dress. My stomach tightens, but I call out, “Ella!”

She ignores me.

I move to the bottom of the stairs. “Ella, we need to talk.”

“Nope. We really don't.”

She doesn't even look at me and disappears into her room.

Great. Is this what it's going to be like for the rest of the school year? It's only November.

I haven't felt such a sense of bleak desolation since Brendan died. With heavy steps I climb the stairs to my room and shut myself in there.

I have lots to do. I have homework and some research, and tasks for the pizza fundraiser, as well as the frat chat we're planning for January.

But I find myself lying on my bed staring at the ceiling.

I roll off my bed and sit at my desk in front of my computer. I check the hockey team website to see how the game went last night. They lost, five-three. Ugh.

I send Jacob a text message.
Hey, sorry about the loss.

It takes him a while to reply.
Yeah, it sucks, but oh well.

I wait awhile longer, debating what else to say to him. Should I ask him what he's doing today? Or is that weird? We've been spending a lot of time together and I've been thinking that things are changing between us. We keep talking about our deal and how this isn't anything real, but I have to admit, it feels real to me.

I care about him.

I might even…love him.

Then he messages,
How are you? Doing okay?

I stare at my phone, smoothing my thumb across the screen as I again deliberate over how to respond. In the end, I lie.
Yeah, I'm okay.

Good.

And that's the end of our conversation.

I sit there for a long time holding the phone. Then I rise and walk over to the dresser to plug it in to charge. I stand there with my hands gripping the edge of the dresser, staring at myself in the mirror.

My eyes are still bloodshot and swollen, my nose is still pink. My hair's in a lank ponytail from work.

I feel so alone. Tears spring to my eyes again.

How did my world get so fucked-up in the space of a day? And what do I do about it?

This week is Thanksgiving and I've planned to go home for the long weekend. I don't know whether this is fortuitous or crappy timing.

When I still haven't heard from Jacob by Tuesday night, I know I have to call him. I get his voicemail and leave a message. “Hey. It's me. I, uh, haven't heard from you all week, and I just wanted to let you know I'm going home tomorrow night. For Thanksgiving. Not sure what your plans are…” I have this crazy impulse to invite him to come home with me, but that's…crazy. He doesn't have family here though, and campus will be largely deserted over the long weekend, and I hate the thought of him feeling alone. But I don't say this because I'm filled with uncertainty about what's going on with us.

Of course I've wondered if this is because he found out I slept with Brendan. Or because Brendan raped me, if we're going to be perfectly honest about what happened. Has this changed how Jacob sees me? How he feels about me?

That makes me want to throw up.

I went for the counseling. I know what happened doesn't change who I am. I know it wasn't my fault. I know I'm still a good person.

But I'd be lying if I said I'm sure Jacob knows this.

I finish my voicemail message. “Anyway, I won't be around. Give me a call if you want.”

I end the call and distract myself by starting to pack a few things in a suitcase. I discover I desperately need to do laundry, so I gather up some things and trudge downstairs to the small laundry room off the kitchen.

Doing laundry reminds me of Jacob's laundry lessons and his pride in knowing to separate whites from darks, and I smile.

My phone chimes in my bra as I'm dumping clothes into the washing machine. I fish it out and see it's Jacob. “Hi!”

“Hey, Sky. How's it going?”

Once again, I have to pause before I can answer. The truth is, things are shitty. Ella's avoiding me, Natalie and Brooklyn are acting weird, which makes me think Ella has talked to them and poisoned them against me, and he hasn't called for days. Finally I say, “Kind of crappy, actually.”

“Oh.”

This doesn't sound good. Like, maybe he wanted to hear that everything was all sunshine and lollipops and fucking rainbow-colored unicorns or something. Well, it's not.

“Sorry to hear that,” he says.

I don't even know what to say to that. “Have you been busy this week?”

“I'm always busy.” He sighs.

This is the truth. I know how intense his schedule is. “What are you doing for the long weekend?” I gather up my courage. “If you're not doing anything, you could come home with me.”

Dense silence fills my ear. Finally he says, “Hey, no need for that. I'm good here. It's not Thanksgiving for us Canucks, so I'm going to hang out with Barks and Butch.” The other Canadians on the team—Adam Barker and Pascal Bouchard.

“Ah.”

“But thanks for the invitation. You have fun visiting your family.”

Have fun
? Uh, not likely. “Thanks, I will.”

I slide my phone back into my bra. My stomach cramps up and I stare into space.

No need for that.

Right. Because he wanted to show his parents he was happy and settling in fine here with a girlfriend, but there's no need to impress my parents. And that's what this is all about—a fake girlfriend to keep the puck bunnies away and keep his parents from worrying about him far from home at a new school.

He just very effectively reminded me of that. God, I was so stupid to issue that invitation, as if we were really dating or something. What an idiot.

I need to add detergent to the machine. I do that mindlessly, then wander out to the living room, sink down onto the couch, and cover my face with my hands.

I can't stop the tears that flow.

I've started to have real feelings for Jacob. And I was stupid enough to think he might feel the same. I'm more than an idiot. I'm delusional.

My throat burns and my chest aches.

The front door opens and I quickly swipe away tears as Ella and Nat walk in.

“Hi, Skylar.” Natalie gives me an offhand greeting. Ella deliberately turns away and walks into the kitchen. Even though I'm sitting there crying. She doesn't care.

Nat pauses awkwardly, glances at Ella, then walks upstairs.

I sit there alone, clutching soggy, crumpled Kleenex.

I haven't felt this horrible since right after Brendan died, when I was so sunk into helpless despair. There's no worse feeling in the world than being alone like this. Feeling like I've lost every friend, that they're excluding me and avoiding me, and that includes Jacob.

So yeah, going home to see my parents seems like a great idea right now.