protectiveness that keeps me from letting it go, the fact remains that I have no business with either.
I force the thought from my mind and go make sure the kegs are tapped and the punch is mixed, ignoring a bad joke by one of the second stringers about mixing in something extra to “make the girls better company.” Fucking asshat . I kick him off of punch duty and decide to keep an eye on him.
A few hours later the house is alive with bodies and music, slurring words and staggering steps.
I can’t help but wonder if Carl will have the nerve to show up at a party at the house I live in, knowing she wouldn’t hesitate if it were anywhere else.
“Hi, Tucker.” Some girl bats her eyelashes at me and smiles suggestively.
“I know you?” I ask, the slight gruffness in my drawl hinting that I’m drunker than I realized.
Her smile grows. “Ben told me you’re the new starting defender.”
I find Ben across the room, and he holds up his beer in a gesture of cheers—like he’s giving me a gift. Like I need his fucking help to pick up a girl.
I’m probably the only guy in the house who hasn’t bagged anyone since school started just over a week ago, but that isn’t because I haven’t had the opportunity. And for fuck’s sake, it’s only been a goddamn week.
I make myself check out the girl in front of me, but she does nothing for me. She’s cute, sure, but I just can’t get myself interested.
And then I zero in on Carl. She’s across the room with that same girl she was at the bar with, and I guess that the two are roommates. I can’t believe she had the gall to show up here. She at least has the decency to look nervous, and her eyes dart around anxiously as she clings to her beer.
“Hello?”
I realize that this girl has been talking to me for the last minute and I haven’t registered a word. “Huh?”
“You know her?”
Shit. She’s followed my line of sight, and I pry my gaze away. “Who?” I play dumb.
The girl—a very unnatural redhead wearing way too much makeup—rolls her eyes. She shakes her cup. “Want to get me another beer?”
Not really . My gaze meanders back to Carl, and this time she’s spotted me. She stares at me first with fear, and then with something that looks suspiciously like jealousy when she takes in Red. Interesting . “Sure,” I lie, and then follow Red back to the kitchen.
First Carl has the balls to show up at my house, and then she thinks she has a right to be jealous that I’m talking to a girl? Especially when she so clearly reminded me she’s single the last time we spoke. Sure, I’m the one that ended us, but she’s the one who lied from our first fucking kiss. From even before then. Carl’s been lying since we were fucking kids.
* * *
Everyone in my seventh-grade art class is hard at work on their Father’s Day cards, and though Mrs. Finch suggested I make a card for my mother instead, I don’t see the point. I gave her one on Mother’s Day.
I don’t know why this week has sucked even more than usual. My father is no more or less dead just because Sunday is some arbitrary holiday invented by big corporations to drive consumerism. Or at least that’s what my father used to say. Though he still happily participated, acting thrilled by the ridiculous macaroni picture frames and other hideous art projects I made him when I was little. When he was still himself.
I try to remember what I got him last year, and it makes me incredibly sad that I can’t. Things were already bad by then. He was already sick, and he didn’t want to barbecue or see family or go to the beach. We just stayed home, and I know I got him something, I just can’t remember what.
The funny thing is I can remember the things I didn’t get him. The things I considered before deciding against them. I remember thinking there was no point in getting him a tie, since he was in no condition to work, or the Omaha steaks we got him a year or two before, because he was in
I force the thought from my mind and go make sure the kegs are tapped and the punch is mixed, ignoring a bad joke by one of the second stringers about mixing in something extra to “make the girls better company.” Fucking asshat . I kick him off of punch duty and decide to keep an eye on him.
A few hours later the house is alive with bodies and music, slurring words and staggering steps.
I can’t help but wonder if Carl will have the nerve to show up at a party at the house I live in, knowing she wouldn’t hesitate if it were anywhere else.
“Hi, Tucker.” Some girl bats her eyelashes at me and smiles suggestively.
“I know you?” I ask, the slight gruffness in my drawl hinting that I’m drunker than I realized.
Her smile grows. “Ben told me you’re the new starting defender.”
I find Ben across the room, and he holds up his beer in a gesture of cheers—like he’s giving me a gift. Like I need his fucking help to pick up a girl.
I’m probably the only guy in the house who hasn’t bagged anyone since school started just over a week ago, but that isn’t because I haven’t had the opportunity. And for fuck’s sake, it’s only been a goddamn week.
I make myself check out the girl in front of me, but she does nothing for me. She’s cute, sure, but I just can’t get myself interested.
And then I zero in on Carl. She’s across the room with that same girl she was at the bar with, and I guess that the two are roommates. I can’t believe she had the gall to show up here. She at least has the decency to look nervous, and her eyes dart around anxiously as she clings to her beer.
“Hello?”
I realize that this girl has been talking to me for the last minute and I haven’t registered a word. “Huh?”
“You know her?”
Shit. She’s followed my line of sight, and I pry my gaze away. “Who?” I play dumb.
The girl—a very unnatural redhead wearing way too much makeup—rolls her eyes. She shakes her cup. “Want to get me another beer?”
Not really . My gaze meanders back to Carl, and this time she’s spotted me. She stares at me first with fear, and then with something that looks suspiciously like jealousy when she takes in Red. Interesting . “Sure,” I lie, and then follow Red back to the kitchen.
First Carl has the balls to show up at my house, and then she thinks she has a right to be jealous that I’m talking to a girl? Especially when she so clearly reminded me she’s single the last time we spoke. Sure, I’m the one that ended us, but she’s the one who lied from our first fucking kiss. From even before then. Carl’s been lying since we were fucking kids.
* * *
Everyone in my seventh-grade art class is hard at work on their Father’s Day cards, and though Mrs. Finch suggested I make a card for my mother instead, I don’t see the point. I gave her one on Mother’s Day.
I don’t know why this week has sucked even more than usual. My father is no more or less dead just because Sunday is some arbitrary holiday invented by big corporations to drive consumerism. Or at least that’s what my father used to say. Though he still happily participated, acting thrilled by the ridiculous macaroni picture frames and other hideous art projects I made him when I was little. When he was still himself.
I try to remember what I got him last year, and it makes me incredibly sad that I can’t. Things were already bad by then. He was already sick, and he didn’t want to barbecue or see family or go to the beach. We just stayed home, and I know I got him something, I just can’t remember what.
The funny thing is I can remember the things I didn’t get him. The things I considered before deciding against them. I remember thinking there was no point in getting him a tie, since he was in no condition to work, or the Omaha steaks we got him a year or two before, because he was in
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