Page 102 of The Way I Am Now
Because his touch . . . his mouth on my skin, his hands. I couldn’t remember the last time it felt easy like this. To just give in and let go and get lost. I reached down to touch him too, wanted him to feel as good as he was making me feel. But he took my hand and brought my arm up over my head, held it there, gently, for only a second.
“I feel greedy,” I explained.
“Greedy?” he mumbled as he laughed with his mouth against my stomach. “Oh, if you had any idea how much I’m enjoying this, you would think I’m the greedy one. Besides, no pregaming for me.”
“Oh, is that a rule?”
He nods. “Kinda.”
“And I know you’d never break a rule.”
“Well, there’s no rule about after a game, though.”
I got in trouble for being fifteen minutes late to work, but nothing could ruin my high. Not my asshole manager, not the rude businessmen or the distracted soccer moms, not even spilling an espresso all over a customer’s shirt. Because I could just close my eyes, feel my heart racing again, and remember how unimportant everything else is.
I hold out my phone now and take a few selfies with the crowd in the background: one with a thumbs-up, another with a wink, another with a huge cheesy smile, and one of me blowing him a kiss. He hearts them all immediately and writes:
I’ve been thinking about this morning all day
long
“What are you smiling about?” Parker asks as she squeezes in next to me.
“Just a little pregame encouragement. What do you say before a game? Not break a leg?”
“God no, please don’t say that! How about a simple ‘good luck,’” she suggests, watching as I text him. “I’m glad you guys are doing better,” she says, and gives my shoulder a little shake—she’s been so supportive ever since I filled her in on everything, kind of like the sister I never had. I’m about to tell her that, when the cheerleaders come out and everyone around us gets on their feet, starts clapping and yelling.
They’re all so pretty in their sparkly makeup and hair all done up and their perfect bodies. I find myself wondering if any of Josh’s teammates saw the selfies I’d just sent him. Would they say,Huh, well, she doesn’t look like much? Not compared to these girls. Jocks can be ruthless. But then, all guys can be ruthless.
When the teams come out, everyone stands up again and cheers. I spot Josh. His jersey is number 12, just like it was in high school.How did I not know that?
I can’t take my eyes off him the whole time. It’s like I’m experiencing this entirely different version of him. He looks so graceful, moving quickly and jumping and passing the ball like it’s nothing. I’m sort of in awe, how he can just show himself like this, put himself out there, in front of all these people.
He looks up at me when they’re in the middle of a huddle and smiles. I feel flattered, then giddy. But there’s something else following right behind. It’s a sinking feeling that settles into my stomach in the place where those butterflies were fluttering earlier, like someone just threw a bunch of gravel on top of them, smothering out their fire, destroying their wings. And with that image, I name the feeling: unworthy. I’m strangely, suddenly, acutely unworthy.
I close my eyes, trying to summon that light, airy, throbbing, aching release I’d felt just this morning. But it’s gone now. I try to tell myself it’s probably just the anxiety meds kicking in.
Afterward, Parker and I hang out by the locker room, waiting for Josh and Dominic. And as they come out, there are girls—and guys—waiting here too, ready to gush all over them. I stand back and wait for him to come to me. He kisses me right there in front of everyone, jostling that heavy stone of unworthiness around in my stomach. Part of me wants to stop him, say,Josh, wait, what will they think of you—being with me? I’m nothing. And you’re . . .
I look down for a moment, and when I look back up, he’s got this amused sort of grin on his face. “What?” I ask.
“Shy girl night?” he asks quietly, knowing me so well. “We don’t have to go out with them. It’s okay.”
“No, let’s go. I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, besides, we should celebrate.”
He shakes his head and laughs. “We lost.”
“Oh, right.” I knew that, but I guess my brain sort of misplaced the importance of the whole winning-losing concept in its attempt to make me stay present through the whole thing. “Well, so what? All the more reason to celebrate.”
“Hey, I agree with your girlfriend, Miller,” says a guy I know must’ve been playing just now, but I didn’t really register anyone but Josh. He introduces himself and is friendly enough, but I forget his name immediately.
We walk to the restaurant, arm in arm, lagging behind the rest of the group. It’s the kind of perfectly chilled yet not too cold early-November night that makes me love that my birthday is coming in just a few days.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
