Page 80 of Bro Smooth
I stay up way too late, but when I’m finally done, I know it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. I send it in early to my professor, then close the laptop and blink tears from my eyes. I’m going to get an A on this assignment, but I don’t even care.
There’s one last thing I need to do, and it hurts. My entire chest feels like my heart is being carved out of my body, but I force myself to climb out of bed and retrieve my phone from the drawer. I read back over my mom’s texts from last night and today, imagining myself in ten, fifteen, twenty years, sitting alone at the dining room table at the guys’ house, surrounded by congealing plates of pasta and garlic bread that I lovingly prepared for my cubers, who never bothered to tell me they wouldn’t be home for dinner. In my mind, I text them, asking where they are, but they don’t answer. Instead, I get a notification from my news app. A new article fromTheNew York Times, written by Brad, who in this imaginary future left theTribuneand became the biggest of big-shot reporters. His byline taunts me.That should have been me. I click off my phone and gather up the plates, scraping cold globs of lasagna into the trash, washing the dishes, putting away all remnants of the love and care the guys are ignoring, just like my father always has.
I blink back to reality, scrubbing my sleeve over the tears streaking my face. I can’t let that be my future. I won’t let it be.
I swipe my phone open and delete our group conversation. Then I block all four of their numbers.
This is for the best. I’m protecting all of us. The longer we keep doing this, the more they’ll expect me to put my life on hold to spend time with them, to skip class to go to watch them compete. If I don’t put an end to it now, I’ll eventuallyfind myself dropping out of school, leaving the newspaper, and becoming my mother all over again. I can’t let a few orgasms and a hook on the wall derail my life. My education and career have to come first.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Oh em gee, the most amazing thing happened!” squeals Ronnie, flinging open the door to our dorm room.
I just groan and roll over under my blankets. I should get up and show interest in whatever happened to her, but I’m pretty sure I’m sick. My entire body feels heavy and achy, and my eyes won’t stop watering. I didn’t go down to breakfast this morning because I don’t want to infect anyone in case it’s contagious. I’m not even hungry anyway.
“Oh no! Honey, what’s wrong?” Ronnie rushes over to my bedside and puts her hand on my forehead. “Are you not feeling okay? Your not-boyfriends brought you home like this?”
“I didn’t go over to their house.” It’s a lot of pressure looking Ronnie in the eye, so I look past her shoulder to the TV, where I’ve found the space show the guys and I have been watching at our movie nights. Now that I’m actually paying more attention to it, it’s not that bad. It’s actually kind of comforting to have it on, even though it also hurts to remember that time with them.
“I thought they were picking you up,” says Ronnie, confused. “They were texting you when I left yesterday.”
“They were, but I didn’t go over.” I roll away from her, not wanting to talk about it. Ronnie was so hoping I would makethem my real boyfriends, and I don’t want to see her look of disappointment when I tell her we’re done.
Ronnie sits back on her heels, aghast.
“Did they break up with you? I’ll kill them.” She looks around the room as if she’ll find a battleaxe in the corner to run off to bash in the guys’ front door with.
“You can’t dump someone you’re not dating.” Another tear drips down my cheek. I hate that I miss them and I hate being weak in front of my friend. This was the right choice for me. This was a clean break and we’re all going to be better for it in the end.
“Those assholes!” Ronnie stands and starts pacing the little floorspace we have, radiating rage and looking like she wants to hit something.
“They’re not assholes. They’re good guys.” For now, anyway. I don’t want to stick around and watch them change into assholes like they inevitably will, like all men do.
“No, they’re not,” she spits out. “Not if this is the way they’re treating you. They fucked you and left you, that makes them assholes.”
My phone vibrates on the nightstand with an incoming message.
“Is that them?” Ronnie grabs for my phone, but even sick, I’m able to get to it faster than she can.
“I blocked their numbers,” I say in a small voice as I turn over my phone. It’s Mom. My dad apparently didn’t come home last night. I click the phone off and stick it under my pillow, not able to deal with her drama right now.
“Good for you.” Ronnie still looks pissed, but like she’s trying to overcome it when she kneels down at my side again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you last night. You should have called me.”
“I didn’t want to ruin your good time.” And I wanted to be left alone. I need to be okay with being along if I’m going to buckle down and see my goals to fruition.
“I’m not having a good time if you’re at home crying.” She shucks off her shoes and then lifts the covers, forcing me to scoot over as she climbs into my bed.
“No,” I protest, “I’m sick, I might be contagious.”
She looks down at me with a mixture of pity and vague amusement. “Sweetie, you’re not sick, you’re heartbroken. Now, what is this terrible show that we’re watching?”
I’m not heartbroken, because I’m the one who cut things off with them, not the other way around. Besides, I can’t be heartbroken over the end of something that wasn’t even a relationship. But I know I won’t be able to convince her of that, and if she wants to risk getting sick, that’s her choice. I warned her. “It’s about a bunch of people living on a spaceship,” I mumble, curling up next to Ronnie. I can practice being alone later. Right now, it’s nice to have her snuggled up next to me.
“It sounds dumb. So catch me up. What’s everyone’s name?”
It’s been two weeks, and my brain still feels fuzzy and out of sorts. Could the guys have changed my brain chemistry when they fucked me so I’m no longer my focused, career-driven self? I shouldn’t miss them this much. I barely know them. It’s only been a few weeks.
My journalism professor praised my last speedcubing article, saying it’s the type of human interest-meets-sports story that more newspapers should be running.
