Page 15 of Love in Pieces

?CHAPTER 5

Abby

“That’s what you’rewearing?” Sam asks, crudely.

“Not a fan?” I ask, already heading back into the bedroom to change.

“We’re going to a party. An oversized sweatshirt and jeans aren’t exactly party attire.” He continues shouting from the living room. “Wear that black crop top that laces up the front. The ripped jeans are fine. Besides, I leave for my work trip tomorrow. I’d like to enjoy the sight of you.”

Ouch.The top he’s talking about is cute, but there’s a problem. It doesn’t have sleeves. That’s what I was hoping to get away with today. “Sam, the bruises on my wrist aren’t gone yet.”

“Throw some makeup on them. Change your shirt. Let’s go. We’re going to be late.” The annoyance is clear in his voice.

Late? To a house party? Is that even possible? Doing as I’m told, I change my shirt, keep the ripped black skinny jeans on, and slip into my white Vans. I grab some foundation before turning the corner out of the bedroom. “Better?” I ask as I head straight for the door, grabbing my black leather purse from the hook.

A firm grip on my forearm halts me before I open the front door. “You can lose the attitude,” he snaps.

He doesn’t let go, signaling he’s waiting for an apology. “Sorry,” I say, looking to the floor to hide my eye roll.

“That’s better. Let’s go.” He lets go of my arm and opens the door waiting for me to go through first. “That kind of attitude will not be tolerated at the party. I will not hesitate to take you home,” he says quietly as we make our way to the elevator.

Children get spoken to like that. Not adults. I hate it when he treats me like a child. It didn’t use to be like this. He used to treat me like a goddess like I was the best damn thing to ever happen to him. We used to go on cute dates and fancy dinners. Now, I don’t remember the last time we went on a proper date. Most things we do now revolve around what Sam wants to do, and what Sam’s friends want to do. I feel more like a status symbol than a girlfriend. I was excited about the bike meet last weekend, but it quickly turned into the same old game. We show up, he holds me at his hip as if I’m going to run away, and then exclusively talks to his friends. I don’t exactly fit in with the people he hangs out with. Being the only female biker in the group doesn’t help my case.

The car rolls to a stop about a block from the party Sam was invited to. We make our way up the sidewalk past the sprouting grass and weeds that sat dormant all winter. Unruly bushes at the front of the house are slowly coming alive with spring buds. I can already hear the loud thumps from the bass of the music spilling from the open windows and doors. I can only imagine how much the neighbors hate whoever lives here.

The senior tradition of having parties every night for two weeks before graduation has been going on for years. I don’t know who organizes them, but they always happen. My dad went to Oxly for his undergrad degree, and he assured me that these parties were a big deal. I still remember him warning me the day I got my acceptance letter, “Just be careful with the jungle juice. If it’s anything like they made when I was there, it doesn’t take much to get fucked up.”

Last year I got hammered on it with Meredith. This was before everything started going downhill between Sam and me, so he drove us home as we giggled in the back seat the entire drive. I proceeded to throw up when we made it home, Meredith following soon after. I chuckle a little under my breath as the memory plays in my head.

We climb the rickety front stairs of the tall brick house. White paint is peeling off the front door that sits propped open by a case of beer already missing a few cans. Classy. The living room and hallway are so full that walking through is almost impossible, but I can still make out a couch and chair to the left. Sam grabs my hand, leads the way to the staircase on the right, and shoves his way through the couple kissing at the bottom.

“Get a room,” he asserts as the girl falls forward onto the guy’s chest. I don’t know how she could have gotten much closer, but she managed.

When we reach the third floor, somehow, even louder music plays on the large black speakers hanging on the walls.

“Hey, man!” a guy in a black muscle tank yells from the far corner. He holds up a red plastic cup full of God knows what.

“Shane!” Sam yells back, pulling me along with him. They fist bump before Sam grabs a plastic cup and fills it from the sweaty keg in the corner. I don’t want to know how they got that thing up the stairs. Luck is the only thing keeping it from falling through the floor of this old house. Unless they’re a fan of the extremely scuffed-up look, the thin wooden slats could use a refinish. I follow behind as he shifts from place to place. “You remember my girl, Abby, right?”

“Oh, you bet I do. Hot stuff right there.” The look Shane gives me as he eyes me up and down makes the dinner in my stomach threaten to come up.

Sam smiles with that knowing look like he won an unspoken competition. Sometimes I think this is the only reason he brings me to these things. Because he likes to show me off. That should make me feel good. Right? But it doesn’t. I feel exploited like a degraded, overused trophy.

“Sorry, man. I don’t share,” Sam says, suddenly defending his property.

“Oh, come on. Not even once?” Shane asks, cocking his head to the side, gaze trained on me, but not my eyes.

“No can do. I’m not even sure she’d let you if you tried. She’s a bit feisty.”

“The feisty ones are always the good ones,” Shane says, winking at me.

Puke.I just might. I roll my eyes, making sure he sees before looking around the room to find an escape. They talk about me like I’m not standing right here.

“Eye roll and everything,” Shane announces to Sam.

“It’s her best trick. Like I said, feisty.” Sam shoots me a warning glare, silently telling me to behave. He turns away, starting a new topic of conversation with Shane, leaving me behind him. Quickly forgotten. Not unusual. He used me, now he’s done with me.

Shane nods to somewhere behind us. “Six o’clock.”

---