Damn it.I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to forcethoughts about football to tame my inconvenient arousal.But then,of course, football makes me think of her all over again.
Whatdoesn'tmake me think abouther?
Since I met the girl myhormones have been out of fucking control.It's like I'm thirteenagain.
I slip her note from mypocket and read it over for the millionth time.I search for sometruth.But, again, all I see is her trying to take the blame foreverything.Everything that was my fault.Because, yeah, Ipulledthat motherfucking bastardoff of her, but I also let him drag her into thatalley in the first place.
And yeah, she ended it,because she couldn't "handle it".But who would expect her tohandle a relationship with a guy that puts her in danger ofviolence and then becomes violent himself?Against her own father.Even if the asshole fucking deserved it.I choke on a bitter laughwhen I reread the part where she tells me to try not to worry abouther—where she tells me to go out and have fun, and quickly disguiseit into a cough when the stranger next to me gives me alook.
I run my fingers over theonly three words that make any sense.Ilove you.I ignore their context.I don'tcare if she loves me for being a good friend, or any other reason.The fact is, she loves me.She said it and then she wrote it.So ifthe right thing is to back off and just be her friend, then I cando that, for her, and I'll be okay, because one way or another, shedoes love me.
Chapter Two
Two weeks have passed since spring break and things have goneback to normal.Well, normal for me, anyway.Mom goes to work, I goto school, and Sam and I try to pretend like we didn't have a sexmarathon and profess our undying love for one another just fourteendays ago.
Yep.Normal.
I didn't know how thingswould be when we got back to school, but Sam came by my house theday after he got home, and though we didn't actually talk aboutanything that happened between us, I knew he was setting the tonefor how things would be.Making sure it wasn't awkward.And theweird part is he was so good at it that I actually started towonder if he was ever really in love with me at all.The only thingthat was different from before was how careful he was not to touchme.
And has been eversince.
In fact, it's the onlyindication that there evenisabeforeandafter, because everything else isexactly the same as it was.We still walk together to class aftercalculus, but there's no hand holding or playful elbowing.We stillsit next to each other at lunch most days, but no hand squeezing orsoothing circles.It's almost like when he first started tutoringme—when we were already becoming friends, but before I began totrust him enough to tolerate his touch.To relish his touch.
To freaking craveit.
And I think it's probably agood thing that Sam no longer wants any physical contact.Becauseit's hard enough for me to be so close to him and so far away atthe same time.Hard enough to endure the constant state of longing.We definitely don't need to add to the complication of oursituation with physical contact.I don't need the tingles, thegoose bumps, the shivering, the unbridled attraction, or any of myother pathetic reactions to his touch constantly reminding me whatI gave up.
Because the truth is Ineed no reminder.The perpetual unsettled ache in my chest iseffective enough.
But Sam is okay.He issafe.
If Robin finds some way tostalk me again, to come after me, Sam won't be a target the way hewould if he was my boyfriend.He won't get into fights because ofme, won't end up in fuckinghandcuffs, won't risk his life orfuture.No, he will continue to lead the carefree life he ledbefore I showed up and complicated everything.He'll graduate inJune and then go off to Columbia two months after that, and themost I can hope for is to remain his friend.Only time will tell ifI can handle being as close friends as we were before.If he evenwants to be.
For now, Sam still seemsserious about going back to our friendship.He even sent Kendall,his former “regular” hook-up and current “good friend”, to check onme after he got my note saying I'd gone back home.
Talk aboutawkward.
Even more awkward—Chelseaapologized to me on our first day back to school.I just rolled myeyes and walked away.I realize it wasn't exactly gracious of me,or even mature, but I never claimed to be either.I really don'tcare if she's sorry or not.And it's not even that I'm holding agrudge, I just don't want anything to do with her.I don't want toforgive or forget, and I don't want to punish her either.I justwant to get on with my life, and I'd simply prefer not to have herin it.I have enough issues to deal with without another fakefriend I can't trust.
But, of course, our groupsof friends are comingled to the point of freaking incest.Sowhether I forgive her or not, she still ends up at my lunch tablefrom time to time, and she was of course present at the singleparty I dragged myself to attend since we all got back.She andLily made up too, and though Carl and Tina still aren't her biggestfans, they are all technically friends.
But the worst part is thatI'm not the only one she apologized to.Apparently, after our trip,Chelsea's mom hosted the Caplans for brunch and Chelsea and Sammade up.She's sorry, or so she says.She was only trying toprotect her life-long friend, though she admits she was misguidedin doing so.She claims her feelings for Sam were meaningless—justa silly childhood crush, and she's over it.Sam has forgiven her,and why wouldn't he?She didn't really do anything to him, heractions were againstme, and since she's apologized, Sam really has no reason toremain angry with her.After all, they've been friends a hell oflot longer than he and I have.
I rush around theperimeter of the school to the student lot and hop in my jeep.It'salways a nightmare navigating the end of day campus traffic, andI'm always stuck smack dab in the middle of it since I have nochoice but to take my detour to avoid passing the locker rooms.Butthat's one trigger I'm certain still wields power over me, andprobably always will, and so I still take this precautiondaily.
I glance nervously betweenthe gridlock in front of me and the clock on the dashboard, sureI'm going to be late to my appointment.I've never been anespecially punctual person, but as a fun extra side effect of myfun new anxiety disorder, every time I'm late for something, itmakes me crazy.Like the world is going to end if the light doesn'tfreaking change, or that asshat in front of me doesn't just drivefaster.Rationally I know it's ridiculous, but that doesn't changethe physical reaction.The racing pulse, the shortness of breath,or the irritability.
I know Dr.Schall won'tgive me a hard time for being a little late, but I know once it'spast ten minutes into the session, Kathy, the receptionist, willcall and ask to reschedule for tomorrow.But tomorrow's Thursday,and I have calculus tutoring with Sam.
The relief I'd felt whenSam didn't discontinue our tutoring sessions after Miami was trulypitiful, but he's trying to act like everything is the same asbefore and I'm not going to stop him.Truthfully, I'm just gratefulthat he doesn't hate me for leading him on and then ending thingsso abruptly.
And so, despite the factthat I'm little more than an exhausted, depressed zombie thesedays, calculus is one class I'm still doing okay in.My statehasn't quite affected my grades that much just yet—tests are seldomgiven now that graduation approaches.But finals get closer everyday, and it would suck to ruin my GPA because of the last few weeksof high school.
I know, of course, that itwon't really affect anything.NYU isn't going to withdraw myacceptance because of it, surely.But I worked so hard to get myscores back after I'd fallen behind last year.My mother did, too,as she was the one homeschooling me.And it would just feel like animmense failure to screw it all up now.So I'm grateful to Sam.Butif that jerk in the Porsche in front of me doesn't speed the hellup, Kathy is going to push my appointment and then I'll have toreschedule my tutoring session andI can'tfreaking deal with this right now!
At the next red light, Iclose my eyes and count backwards from ten, knowing that I'm tooclose to losing it.But it doesn't matter if I'm aware that myreaction doesn't match the situation.Self-awareness is a uselesstool when my anxiety is in control.
When I finally arrive atthe medical office complex, I'm no more than three minutes late,and I have to sit for an additional few minutes in my car, takingdeep, even breaths, forcibly calming myself, making me even later.It's not something I ever could have imagined before.Not havingcontrol over my physiological reactions to everyday situations.Andit makes me resent myself that much more.And then I resent my ownself-loathing, perpetuating the vicious cycle.
