Page 21 of Lovesick
Crew’s words are a goddamn record scratch in the barren wasteland of my mind. Barren in the sense that all my thinking capabilities have taken a temporary leave of absence due to my mortal enemy’s act of heroism. Nothing makes sense. I thought Crew Calloway was your cookie-cutter, commitment-phobicplayboy, but for once in my life, I think I might actually be wrong. Or maybe there’s a surface-level explanation for all of this. I mean, it’s clear he respects my father. He was probably just trying to suck up to my dad…right? But he could’ve said sayonara to his career if his legs had gotten crushed under a three-thousand-pound car.
As much as I try to distract myself with schoolwork, my body yearns for his arms around me in the same way wickedness yearns for a soul to corrupt. There was something so peaceful about listening to his heart and his breathing despite the situation we were in. That same feeling terrorized me months ago, at the hands of another hockey player—a feeling that lulled me into a false sense of security.
And it was then that I realized I was nothing but sitting prey, waiting to be devoured completely. Not out of suicidal tendencies, but because of something so inherent that it’s been transcribed into the very strands of my DNA. Like a rabbit consciously lodging its head in the watering maw of a starving wolf.
My heart says one thing, but my head says another. I can’t win by only listening to one, and I certainly can’t win by disregarding them both.
I pop an amiodarone, chasing it with a sip from my water bottle. I have to take one every day to regulate my heartbeat.
Along with my atrial septal defect came the side effect of a heart murmur. My blood doesn’t move like it’s supposed to across my heart valves—in fact, when the doctors discovered my condition, the typicallub-dubsound my heartshould’vemade was accompanied by a concerningswish.
Even though my heart surgery was a success, little did I realize that a simple operation wasn’t going to be the magical fix to all my problems. Because my heart was more susceptible to sustaining health issues, I developed bigeminy in my early teens, which meant that extra or premature beats between myheart’s rhythm came in quick succession. There are some cases where bigeminy is benign and doesn’t require treatment, but I wasn’t one of those lucky individuals.
I would often experience intense episodes of heart palpitations and dizziness. Big triggers included caffeine or energy drinks, drugs, and high blood pressure. So far, though, it’s been manageable. I’ve been taking beta-blockers ever since the diagnosis, which reduces my symptoms. If I had a more aggressive case of bigeminy, I’d have to undergo another surgical procedure. My doctor said I’d be fine as long as I monitored my exercise, what I put in my body, and most importantly, my stress levels.
Which, clearly, I have not been doing a great job at.
“CREW CALLOWAY SAVED YOUR LIFE?!” Irelyn shouts, disrupting the tranquility of the classroom and garnering some curious side-eyes from our peers. Thankfully, the teacher seems too engrossed in her schedule plan to pay any notice.
I splutter a bit, wrenching the rim of the bottle away from my mouth.
“Keep your voice down!” I whisper-hiss.
“Sorry!”
Sighing, I stash my drink and reroute my gaze to the blank piece of paper in my journal where my previous, neatly organized note-taking has piggybacked on my nonexistent sensibility.
Marketing is one of my favorite classes this semester. I love the prospect of planning events and helping out the community. But most importantly, it gives me something to focus on other than Crew.
Reber Hall is one of the biggest lecture halls on campus. Just like the neighboring buildings, it’s created from elaborate stonework and tall, narrow panes of glass. The inside has two floors—the main one half-overtaken by rows upon rows of mahogany seating, and the upper one on a tier-like balconythat’s barred off by classic balusters. At the front of the room is a massive chalkboard and retractable projector screen, illuminated by an elegant empire chandelier.
Irelyn’s fashionable heels tap-dance against the floor, and she’s one squeal away from alerting everyone in a ten-mile radius of my pitiful love life. “Merit, this is crazy. First, he’s your dad’s star player. Second, he’s totally got the hots for you.”
“No. No, he does not. And might I remind you thatyou’rethe reason I’m in this mess in the first place.”
“Hey, I didn’t force you two to bump uglies!”
My God, this girl doesn’t know how to use her inside voice. My leg bounces restlessly underneath the table as I twitter my pen against my notebook. Nerves froth in my belly, and my heart is a mallet oscillating against my ribs like a one-person demolition team.
“Okay, but you told him to talk to me!”
My argument is weak, I’m aware.
“Oh, love. Crew would’ve come over to talk to you regardless.”
Ugh, she’s right. It’s becoming more apparent that when Mr. Hockey wants something, he gets it.
A sigh trickles passed my lips. “What am I supposed to do? My dad treats him like the son he never had.”
Irelyn chews the inside of her cheek in contemplation. “What’s so wrong about giving in? I mean, it’s clear y’all have some unresolved sexual tension.”
UM? EXCUSE ME? That’s…that’s ridiculous. There’s no unresolved sexual tension whatsoever. I’ve stomped every last cinder out before it could transform into a raging inferno. Like Smokey Bear said, “Onlyyoucan prevent wildfires.” And here I am! Preventing! Preserving God’s green earth from the conventional attractiveness of hockey players.
Deadpanning, I flick her on the side of her head.
“Ow!” she yelps, cradling her hair-sprayed curls.
“Do I have to remind you of the shitshow that was Felix’s Reign of Terror?” I ask, having memorized Act One, Act Two, and Act Three of his heart-wrenching betrayal. Act One: Leaving me to die in my hospital bed. Act Two: Cheating on me. Act Three: Telling me how damaging I was to his reputation. Yeah, talk about a depressing rerun.
