Page 24 of Blocked Score

I stop in my tracks. An ice-cold chill ripples from the soles of my feet up to the top of my head. My limbs feel frozen and rigid. A numbness sits heavy in my chest. I can’t seem to think or feel anything.

As the stun fades, the first sensation I register is outrage burning through my bloodstream.

Lane leaves me to wait for him for ages where we agreed to meet just yesterday, and all the while he’s got another girl in his lap, rubbing her ass against him?

The outrage quickly sharpens into anger.

If Lane was interested in still screwing around with other women, why the hell did he string me along for the whole damn summer? Why the hell did he lay that spiel about wanting to have an actual long-distance relationship on me?

Why the hell did he trick me into believing he cared more than he did?

More importantly, why did I let myself believe him? Why did I let myself think a summer fling born out of two coincidental meetings and physical attraction was anything but that?

Why did I let myself believe that I’d actually fallen in?—

No. I won’t even let myself think the word.

Beneath the anger, an undercurrent of heartbreak stirs, threatening to burst through to the surface.

I tense my muscles, feeling the temptation to give into the outrage, so that at least I can put off acknowledging the more painful feelings deeper in my chest. I think about stomping over to Lane and telling him off.

But what’s the point?

It would only be a pathetic display. A sad confirmation that I’d allowed Lane to mean so much more to me than I ever meant to him.

Instead, I turn around and go home.

The next day, I leave Chicago, back to my real life.

13

SCARLETT

Present day, beginning of spring semester …

Home, sweet home.

Okay, at first glance, maybe there’s not a whole lot “sweet” about this sparsely furnished basement efficiency apartment. But it’s mine.

More importantly, it’s a short walk from the campus of Brumehill College, where I start classes in two days.

After finally kicking my ass into gear, taking a heavy courseload at my community college back in Massachusetts and maintaining a 4.0 GPA for the last year and a half, and thanks to good letters of recommendation and my trusty old almost-perfect SAT score from my senior year of high school, I was accepted as a transfer student to one of the best colleges in the country.

I’m studying pre-law. Brumehill has a great program and a great track record of sending its graduates to top law schools.

Plus, they offered a great financial aid package so that I won’t even have to work a part-time job.

Choosing Brumehill out of all the places that I got accepted to was a no-brainer.

A no-brainer, but still, there was one tiny thing that had me hesitant.

Lane Larsen.

Just calling his name to mind does something to my body that’s hard to describe. A bizarre concoction of emotions swirls through my chest: nostalgia mixed with hurt mixed with warmth mixed with anger mixed with regret mixed with wistfulness. It’s a fucked-up stew.

And when that swirl settles down, it’s usuallyhurtthat lingers the longest, like a bitter aftertaste.

And when that washes away, a tiny tinge of shame remains.

---