Page 97 of The Trade

There’s a bitter sort of humor in the situation. All that time I spent wringing my hands, worrying that West could end things between us this summer. As though our relationship had any hope of surviving the long haul.

What a joke.

How could it have possibly withstood the lies? All this time, West has been bending the truth to suit his needs—to protect himself, his precious team, and their revolting little game. He chose to safeguard them over honesty with me.

I mean, who in their right mind invents a game like that? Trading girls around like pieces of meat? The audacity of it all makes me sick to my stomach. Fuck the football team. And most importantly, fuck West.

The banquet invitation wasn’t ever about wanting the company of a friend or worrying about jersey chasers. It was a carefully calculated move. And I only got swept up into it all because I’m Shannon’s roommate.

I was simply a pawn to West—a matter of convenience to win the prize he really wanted. But then he caught feelings, and that screwed over his game plan.

I just wish he had mustered the courage to come clean with me earlier. Of course, I would have been livid. Let’s not sugarcoat that. But I could have moved on, given enough time.

West wanted to be with Shannon before we got together. My roommate. My best friend. That’s a bitter pill to swallow, but back then, he and I were strangers. Honesty from the start could have smoothed things over, made me come to terms with his past choice. But now, it’s too little, too late.

He was given the chance to come clean, to reveal the truth of his own accord. Instead, he procrastinated, leaving it until I was on my knees begging for honesty. He waited until he had no other choice. And that sort of cowardice, it’s not something I can easily forgive.

West lost my trust tonight, and with it, he lost me.

So here I am, parked alone at a high stool in the middle of Lucky’s, a charming little bar nestled near campus. It’s usually a buzzing hive for student athletes, but tonight, the banquet has conveniently cleared the place out.

Seems like no one else cares to drink alone, no one but me. Because God knows, I need the dull numbing effect that comes with a stiff drink. I grimly swallow another shot, the gin burning a trail down my throat.

Stumbling slightly, I pay my tab and manage to call myself an Uber. If I drink any more, I’m going to start crying, and I’m not sure my fragile heart can handle any more emotional damage tonight.

Once I’m home, I clumsily unlock my front door, stumbling over an unruly pile of shoes in the darkness of the entryway. The noise seems to echo, far louder than I would like. A moment later, Shannon, her silhouette lit by the hallway light, appears.

She’s weary, her hair messy, and wrapped in a silky robe. Her sleep-dazed eyes land on me, and for a moment, there’s a painful silence between us.

“Jade, hi,” she says, her face flushing a soft pink.

“Oh, you’re home,” I mumble. My voice sounds small, shaky in the quiet of our apartment. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, you didn’t,” she assures me, eyes wide. “I heard you and West left the banquet early. I ... I thought you were spending the night at his place.”

A shaky breath escapes me as my eyes well up with tears. “Yeah, well, we broke up instead.”

“What?” she gasps, her expression a mix of shock and worry. “What happened?”

“God, Shan. He ...” My voice trails off, faltering as a sudden noise interrupts me from the hallway. My brow furrows. “Wait, is there someone here? In your room?”

She blushes deeply, the red creeping up her cheeks as she admits, “Um, yeah,” in a low voice. “Yes, someone’s here.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re hooking up with Cam. Because—”

“No, it’s not Cam,” she interrupts me, her voice hurried, gaze shifting nervously toward the living room.

I follow the direction of her stare, my eyes landing on a small duffel nestled against our worn-out couch. A large, familiar grey luggage tag sporting a bright purple lily sits on the front of it, almost taunting me.

“Shan,” I whisper, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. “Why is my brother’s bag here?”

She seems to shrink back, her eyes wide with panic. “Look,” she stammers, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I promise you ... we didn’t mean for this to happen.”

The room spins around me. “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, disbelief lacing my words.

Fueled by frustration, I stomp down the hallway and throw open her bedroom door. There he is—Mica, my half-naked brother, standing in the center of her room. His jeans hang low on his hips, his belt undone as he hastily pulls a shirt over his head, desperately trying to regain some sense of decency.

“Ace, what the fuck are you doing here?” I demand, my voice echoing off the walls.

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