Five things, p.2
Five Things, page 2
Bad days are part of living with anxiety, depression, and PTSD, and struggling through those bad days under the watchful gaze of a roommate would only make things worse.
And after bumping into Nash today—and the way my heart still thumps in my chest, my anxiety gripping tight and refusing to ease, even with Mom chattering down the phone happily—I worry how many hard days are to come.
Maverick
Reeling my arm back, my fingers loosen and the ball leaves my hand, flying through the air before landing in Beck’s waiting palm. He quickens his pace, dodging and weaving through the crowd as he reaches the doors of our new apartment complex and makes a show of slamming the leather on the ground.
“Touchdown!” He drops his hands to his thighs, bending forward as he makes a show of trying to twerk for those watching his dramatics. Fucking show-off.
Chuckling to myself, I toss the strap of my duffel over my shoulder and slam the trunk closed before locking the car and heading over to him. The parking lot is littered with students unloading trucks and slinging bags over their arms while dragging suitcases across the asphalt.
With fall semester starting in just shy of a week and the football season getting ready to kick off, the air is light with palpable excitement flooding from the masses. New blood coming in, old, seasoned students coming back after summer break. There’s nothing quite like move-in day to get you in a good mood.
Beck shoves the door open when I reach him, pulling his keys from his pocket as he bypasses the lobby, moving straight for our apartment. Technically it’s on campus, but only a few students are lucky enough to snag them, and being on the football team, Coach Jenkins was happy to put our names forward.
A few kids nod their acknowledgments as we pass, others staring awestruck as two BU Bears players make their way through.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the attention and admiration, not after everything that happened two years ago.
Nobody thought I’d amount to much of anything when I first rocked up here this time last year. Fresh out of a year-long stint in prison, most people expected me to fail at the first hurdle, but I worked my ass off, proving them all wrong.
We all make mistakes—I just happened to make the worst fucking mistake of my life at eighteen. I trusted the wrong person, and it landed me in cuffs and a year of drinking stale coffee behind metal bars with a bunch of other men as my unhappy roommates.
I got off lucky, really lucky, in the grand scheme of things. Putting the governor’s son in the ICU should have ended all hopes I ever had of making something out of myself, but thankfully, my dad has some pull and got me a reduced sentence with the help of the best lawyers in town and a shit ton of money thrown around.
Then, when the time came that I was given back my freedom, Jenkins contacted my dad. He’d seen some of my old high school tapes and decided he wanted me for his team.
It took a lot of convincing to the dean of admissions to get me in, and a promise I would keep my grades in tip-top shape, and if I get into a single fight, I’ll be booted in a split second.
But making quarterback and captain of the football team and keeping a three-point-seven GPA in my first year of college, that’s all me, and nobody can take credit for that one. While I had a little help getting here, I’ve been watched closely since I arrived, and not a single thing has been handed to me in the last twelve months.
“Home, sweet, home,” Beck shouts out, pushing our door open and stepping into the open space. The scent of fresh chemicals is overwhelming, my eyes watering as I follow behind him, tossing my bag on the floor before diving onto the couch.
“Crack a window, dude,” I tell him as he saunters through the space, propping all the windows open before he flips the coffee machine on and grabs two navy mugs, complete with three bright-yellow bear paws stamped on the front.
When he shoves a mug into my hand a couple minutes later, I take a tentative sip, sighing happily when the vanilla floods my tastebuds. This is the shit you learn to be grateful for after a year of stale, bitter, black coffee.
Heavy footsteps follow the sound of a slamming door, our other two roommates bounding into the room, Gray harassing Nash with question after question, not caring to stop for air.
“Come on, dude,” he whines, whacking me around the head in greeting as he passes. He drops down into the leather armchair opposite, staring at Nash with wide eager eyes. “Who is she?”
“Who’s who?” I ask, my gaze flicking between the two. Gray looks excited, his eyes bright with amusement while Nash—my oldest and closest friend—looks close to having an aneurysm. He rubs his temples, his eyes closing as he blows out a slow breath.
“This hot-as-fuck chick I bumped into over at Havers. That fucker over there scared her away before I could get her number. She was a skittish little thing, didn’t say a word, but the minute he rocked up, calling her name, she bolted up the stairs like her ass was on fire.”
“Dude, did you bang and run or something?” I joke, knowing Nash doesn’t go back for seconds. He avoids my gaze, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. His dirty-blond hair falls into his face, his body taut with tension as I watch him. “Earth to Nash?”
He doesn’t answer, ignoring us as we call for him. “What’d you say her name was, Gray?” I ask, curious as to who the hell could have my best friend acting all weird. Nash is a one-and-done kind of guy, and never in my life have I seen him so tense over a girl.
It’s only when Gray says her name that my muscles coil tight, clarity coming in an instant. My hands curl into fists on my thighs, and my jaw tightens as he repeats himself, saying a name I haven’t heard spoken aloud over a year . . . a name I long to forget, but doubt I ever will.
“Beatrice something or other.”
Chapter Two
Maverick
“Someone want to fill me in on why the room just went about fifty degrees below freezing, and why Mav looks as if he wants to strangle me? Who the fuck is this chick?” Gray demands, his eyes moving frantically between Nash and me. “Seriously, what the hell, guys? You both fuck her? She get in the way of your precious little bromance?”
“Gray, stop talking,” Nash grits, rubbing his temples before he turns to me. His face is blank, but his eyes glimmer with a boatload of emotions I don’t understand—I don’t want to understand. “I would have told you, Mav.”
“When? When I bumped into her in the commons? When she walked into the cafeteria? When were you going to tell me that the girl who ruined my life just happened to show up at the same college we go to? Did you know that she was coming here?”
Nash tries to speak, assuring me he didn’t know, not until just now. But I can’t take in any of his words.
Shoving off the couch, I pace back and forth across the floor. My fingers itch at my sides with the need to throw something, to hit something, to do something.
My anger management counselor would be so disappointed, but that thought isn’t enough to tamper the rage burning through my body at her name.
Beck shoves an open beer in my hand, forcing me back to the couch. The cushion bows under my weight as I tip back, the liquid sliding down my throat as I swallow generous amounts.
The moment the bottle is empty, my hand flies back and glass shatters, falling to the ground in shards when it bounces off the wall.
“Shit,” Beck hisses, wide eyes moving between the glass and me. “I’m with Gray. One of you two is going to have to fess up. What the hell is going on?”
Raising a brow at Nash, I know he gets what I’m silently asking him. You wanna tell them, or should I? He sighs, rolling his head back onto the couch, and his stare lands on the ceiling.
There’s a difference between Nash and me when it comes to Beatrice. He struggles to understand my anger, to understand why I need to hate her with every fiber of my being. For him, she’s still that girl we met back in elementary school. The same sweet, innocent, and kind Bea.
For me, though . . . “Beatrice is the reason I got sent to jail.”
Gray shoots up, his mouth gaping as he stares at me. Beck squeaks behind the sofa, his legs carrying him until he slumps against the arm, his eyes wide.
“She was Sebastian’s girlfriend,” I continue, my throat heavy as I recall the night everything changed—the night I chose her over everything. “He’d been to a party that night. Got nice and wasted before crawling through her bedroom window. Or at least that’s what she told me. They got into it, apparently. Honestly, I don’t know. But she called looking for Willow and got me instead. So, I went to pick her up, and she was a fucking mess.
“There was a cut on her head, and a bruise forming on her jaw, and I just saw red. I went after him, not thinking that my life would change the very next day. See, the thing about Beatrice Fletcher, she somehow fucking worms herself into every single part of you.”
“He beat her?” Beck asks quietly, his hands clenched at his sides.
I shrug, twisting my fingers in my lap. “Dunno. That’s what she told me that night. He always was an angry little prick.”
“But?” Gray pipes up, reading between the lines of things I haven’t said.
A lump gets lodged in my throat, and I struggle to swallow it down. Nash reads my expression, his eyes dipping as he answers for me, “She pulled her statement. Everything was going well in court, and it looked like he’d get off with just some community service, based on the fact that everyone was pretty much on board with Sebastian deserving that shit.
But the last day, before the verdict, she went to the cops, got a signed affidavit and hand delivered it to Sebastian’s lawyers, telling them Mav did it unprovoked. She said she’d had an argument with Seb, but he’d never hit her. Told them she faked it ’cause she was pissed at him.”
“Can you even fake that shit?” Beck asks, his brow furrowed. “For someone to do that, that’s fucking messed up. You really think she’d have done that to you?”
“Truth? I have no fucking idea. I never thought she’d turn her back on me, that’s for sure, so who knows,” I tell them, shoving off the couch and grabbing another beer.
“You never thought to reach out to her?” Gray asks.
Sighing, I tear the cap off my bottle, tipping half the contents down my throat before glancing at the ceiling. “I tried, I rang her so many times when I was inside, but she never answered. Then when I spoke to my parents, they said she changed her number. She wanted nothing to do with me, or my family.”
My fingers tap around the bottle. “She moved on and was happy, all while I got stuck dealing with the consequences of a pile of shit. Beatrice Fletcher ruined my life once, and that’s not something I’m willing to let happen again, so she can’t be here.”
Beatrice
For two days I stay cooped up in my room, hiding from the world. The emergency stash of ramen I packed in my duffel has long since depleted, and my eyes are blurring from watching too much CSI in an effort to escape reality.
When my eyes do close, all I see is Nash’s wide hazel eyes staring at me from a foot away, shock so stark on his tan face, and it sends me back to that courtroom two years ago.
Never did I think I’d have to see that same look again. Only this time, it was paired with confusion. I haven’t kept up with what any of my old friends have done for the last two years, instead choosing to live in ignorance. If I don’t know, it can’t hurt that they’re living a life without me, a life I once thought I’d very much be a part of.
My own naivety is to blame. One mistake, a mistake at the time I could never have understood the repercussions of. My therapist says I’m not to blame, that I’m not the first to have made the choices I did, nor will I be the last, but I’ve gone over that day a thousand times in my mind, wondering if the outcome would have been different if I’d stuck to my story . . . but it’s something I’ll never know.
Instead, for two years, I’ve lived with the guilt of that mistake.
Sebastian Marks took everything from me back then, and now I’m stuck in an endless cycle of what-ifs. What if I spoke up sooner? What if I’d told somebody the truth the first time he ever laid a hand on me? What if I hadn’t met with him the night before the last day of the trial?
My phone vibrates from the kitchen counter, my dad’s ringtone blaring through the empty space. With a sigh, I pull myself off the couch, tossing my blanket over the back before grabbing my phone and silencing the ringer.
Mom and Dad have checked in countless times already, ringing almost every other hour between them. While I appreciate their unwavering support, it’s overwhelming.
Typing out a text in reply, I let him know I’m fine, just busy with new friends—it’s a lie, but they’ll buy it. At least for now, because they want so badly for it to be true.
Watching your child wither away for two years, only leaving the house for therapy or to grocery shop with you has been hard on them. It’s the reason I finally forced myself to apply to BU, to try and gain some control over my life again.
They gave up almost everything for me—their friends, their social lives—to be there when I needed them, but now I need to do this for them . . . for me. To prove I can do this—I can survive on my own, and we can all move on—and I’m okay.
My eyes catch on the pile of trash building on my coffee table, then the pillows from where I’ve made a bed on the couch, only falling asleep when my eyes couldn’t stay open any longer.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, I guess, and learning to survive without my parents holding me upright will take a little time, by the looks of things.
Sighing, I gather up a garbage bag from the box of kitchen supplies on my table and get to work cleaning up the dorm. Today is the day I will make a difference. It doesn’t matter that Nash is here, and I might bump into him on occasion.
Two years is a long time, and while he may never forgive me, Nash never seemed to have the same issues. In fact, he reached out to me a few times after the trial, texting and calling to check in.
I never responded, eventually changing my number when it all became too much, but at least he doesn’t seem to hate me. Not like the others, so I can deal.
A knock comes at my door, pulling me from my thoughts. Dropping the bag on the floor, I glance down at myself, grimacing at the two-day old white t-shirt I’m wearing, stained with noodle spatters, and the far-too-short purple cycling shorts that might as well be underwear the way they’re riding up my ass crack.
I flick my gaze to my suitcases sitting in the corner untouched, but another knock comes, more forcefully this time. With a sigh, I head to the door, wincing when a loud voice echoes through the dorm the moment I pull it open.
“Finally, I thought you were never going to answer.” A small body pushes past me, shorter than that of my five-foot-three. Her chocolate-brown hair falls below her shoulder blades in spiral curls, and her light-brown skin glistens under the fluorescent lights.
She spins, her hands propped on her hips as she takes in my space, her nose wrinkling at the empty ramen packets left on the kitchen side before she faces me. “Okay, friend, we need to sort this mess out and then I’m taking you out for some real food.”
“Err—” My mouth gapes, unable to form any real words as I stare at her. She narrows hazel eyes in my direction, a pout forming on her lips.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” she asks, shaking her head and sighing.
“That would be a negative,” I answer, closing the door behind me and grabbing the bag from where I dropped it. She follows me into the kitchen, making herself at home as she rifles through my cupboards and fridge. “Am I supposed to?”
“Apparently,” she says, rolling her eyes before hopping up onto the counter and swinging her legs back and forth. “I’m Maisie, and you’re Beatrice? Right? I do have the right room?”
“Yup, but I’m still at a loss as to what is happening right now,”
“Ugh, I’m gonna kill my mom,” she grumbles before holding her hand out to me. She must notice the confusion on my face, as she laughs. “You’re supposed to shake it. You know, do the introduction, right?”
“Rightttt.”
“I’m Maisie,” she says again when I grip her hand, she shakes them up and down, and a nervous giggle slips past my lips. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Err, Beatrice. Well, I guess you know that.” I wince, pulling my hand free. “But you can call me Bea, I guess.”
“Our moms met through a virtual book club,” she explains.
I step back with a nod, though I still have no idea what she’s talking about. My mom even reading books is brand-new information. Not that I think she can’t read, I just never knew it was something she had any interest in.
That thought has my lips turning down. Have I been so lost in my head that I don’t even know my parents’ interests anymore? That I haven’t bothered to ask them?
“Helloooo … Beatrice!”
Blinking against the emotions that threaten to spill over my lashes, I look back to Maisie. “Sorry, I, er, yeah, sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” She frowns, tilting her head as she assesses me.
“Force of habit,” I mutter, chewing the inside of my lip for a beat before moving the conversation along. “So our moms know each other?”
“Yep. They met through their love of reading naughty books, if you know what I mean . . .” She winks at me before wagging her eyebrows up and down. My brows furrow for a moment but then her meaning clicks into place.
“No freakin’ way,” I gape, my nose wrinkling. “My mom reads porn?”
A laugh bursts from Maisie as she bends over, slapping her thigh. “Yeah, she does. And let me tell you, some of the stuff they read? Ten out of ten on the spice scale.”
