Page 101 of Lovesick
My jaw hits the ground.
A lady in a red, skin-tight dress challenges the price with blaring confidence. “Two hundred and twenty dollars!”
“Three hundred dollars!”
“Four hundred and fifty dollars!”
It’s absolute artillery fire as each woman one-ups the other without any guidance from yours truly. Knox is still showing offthe goods like hepredictedthis outcome, and I can hear Mrs. Burke squawking in my ear about how unprofessional this is.
Finally, the first bidder stakes her claim, proclaiming an astonishing “Eight hundred dollars!”
Kicking back into presenter mode, I try to pretend like my eyes haven’t been violated by the sight of Knox’s thrusting crotch region. “Eight hundred dollars. Going once, going twice…sold to the lovely lady in the back!”
Mrs. Burke makes an unexpected appearance as she escorts Knox off the stage, and the bidding procession continues without a hitch.
By the time we’re halfway through the team, we’ve raised over five thousand dollars, latent blisters have formed on the soles of my feet, my stomach is eating itself from hunger, and I’m still replaying the disaster from earlier.
When I flip to my next card, Crew’s name is written in big, bold letters.
My voice, candied in guilt, cracks. “And next up, center and captain, Crew Calloway.”
The moment he steps on stage, the world stops.
I blanch as a second heartbeat manifests in my temples, my chest convulsing on an intake of recycled air. The starchy, dog-eared pages of our past flit before my eyes at a speed I can’t keep up with, flipping to a blank plane of parchment that holds our nonexistent future.
He stares at me—eyes bluer than a stovetop flame—and shades of sadness maim his handsome features. In a split second, our halcyon exchange is over, and Crew resumes his trek down the catwalk, nowhere near as theatrical as his other teammates.
I hate that I brought him into my mess. I want to cry and break down, but I can’t.
“Hockey enthusiast at a young age, Crew has dedicated his life to making a name for himself on the ice. He’s a hugehorror fanatic, he’s a sucker for good food, and he’s a great listener if you’re ever tight on money and need a qualified therapist.”
Oh, God. He is. He’s all of those things. And here I am, about to give him away on a date to someone who will probably treat him better than I ever could. I don’t want to. I know it’s just for the fundraiser, but something tells me that if I let go of him, he’ll never come back. I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not waking up next to him or falling asleep in his arms—where he’s not silencing my worries or doing outlandish things to get my attention.
I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not…loved…by him.
I blink away the wetness in my eyes. “Starting bid: ten dollars.”
An older gentleman raises his paddle politely. “Thirty dollars.”
Then a younger-looking woman with big hoops and a classic red lip. “Seventy dollars.”
Another voice slices through the chaos like a scythe mowing through limber stalks of wheat. “Two hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred and fifty!”
“Eight hundred!”
I can’t keep track of how many people are bidding. There are so many conflicting tenors competing with one another, and my booming pulse has now infiltrated the mix.
Crew is as still as an obelisk. I know he doesn’t want to be here. I wish I could just run away with him.
Run away from the crowd, my dad, thenoise.
“One thousand dollars!” someone screams, instigating a susurrus throughout the disorderly mob.
I’m losing control over the auction.
And then, to hammer the final nail in the coffin, a woman who can’t be much older than me stands up in the mostbreathtaking, glittery minidress, flourishing her paddle with a coy smirk draped over her lips. “Three thousand dollars.”
