Page 9 of Dirty Chorus

“I’m fine.”

“I know what’s wrong... You blocked Brody and then unblocked him, didn’t you?” Payton asks as she sits on the edge of my mattress, rubbing her feet.

Last night we had a long conversation about Brody not being right for me. It seems to be the only topic that comes out of her mouth these days.

“I should've kept him blocked, and maybe I wouldn’t sound so desperate, telling him I wanted him to show up.” I plop down onto the mattress with the desire to shower and reapply my makeup taking a backseat to my exhaustion, even though my skin feels sticky and gross.

“When has he ever shown up for you? Especially when you needed him to?”

“I already feel like shit, Payt.”

“Do you feel butterflies with him? Hmm...” She’s glaring right into my soul.

“This isn’t a cheesy third-grade crush.”

“Then keep him blocked and break it off with him. He’s never respected your boundaries, and you only graduate high school once, and he didn’t show.”

“Just put yourself in my shoes.”

“I have, and it’s painful! Your Instagram is pathetic. You post all the pictures of the two of you, and he posts none. He even untags himself. He’s never acknowledged you were exclusive.”

I cough up a laugh just to drown out the words I’m not sure I want to hear. Especially from her. It’s like swallowing glass, but insisting it was sugar.

“I’m going to shower.” I snatch my phone and push myself off the bed, grabbing the towel I hung over the vanity stool, and head out into the hallway.

Within seconds, I shut the bathroom door and lock it behind me. It sucks staring at myself in a toothpaste-stained mirror, wondering what’s so bad about me that I can’t find a guy who wants more than just to claim my underwear.

What does Payton know about dating? She hasn’t had one boyfriend, and that’s not going to change unless she gets over her little crush on my brother. He’s so invested playing college football he doesn’t even see it. But whatever, she wants to lecture me.

Brody chased me around to get my attention when we met. He would drop everything he was doing just to talk to me on the phone, even if it was only for five minutes.

Months ago, he was the kind of guy who drove to my house at midnight with an old-school stereo, and he’d blast some cheesy love song. He’d take me out to eat. He’d tell me the funniest jokes. We’d go swimming at the beach, and he’d sneak me out of my room in the middle of the night to smoke cigarettes and look at the stars.

I haven’t been able to get the guy I met before back. There are no more butterflies in my stomach, but a million razor blades I somehow ingested. The sweet cheerleader-quarterback romance morphed into a horror movie I can’t escape. I’m always crying and staring out the window on the journey home with him because something I said upset him, or I embarrassed him, or I’m just too clingy and jealous.

I stare at the time on my phone and swipe a thumb across the screen. I lean against the counter and call Brody, listening to the persistent ringing. Come on. I tap my fingers on the phone, and just when I think it’s the voicemail picking up, I hear some shuffling on the other end.

“Baby?” he asks, out of breath. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“Yeah... I’m going to shower and get ready,” I say and turn around where I’m facing the dirty mirror. “You didn’t answer me earlier...”

“Oh, yeah, I got caught up with something...” he pants on the other end of the phone. “...fuck yeah... you know, just drinking some beers with the team... oh fuck, you like that.”

My heart heats up, but it doesn’t speed up. It just sinks so low into my stomach it might never find its way back up. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“We’ll talk later...” He groans. “Oh, fuck...” the phone call drops.

Chapter 7

Noah

Why did I agree to come here again? Right, Tony. I could be at home munching on a banana and posting blurry pictures of Pat Morita telling people he’s my dad. Maybe I’ll sprinkle in that he just left to go get some milk – he’ll be back. My followers would eat that shit up. But nope, I gotta spend the evening with Amy, and have a ten foot pole between us. Knowing her though, she’s gonna force herself on me.

I barely squeeze through the front door of a classic house party. Tightly packed bodies dance with red cups held in the air. The bass of the music shakes the floor, and neon lights flash along the walls. It doesn’t take two seconds before I get a whiff of body odor, and someone in desperate need of deodorant.

It’s hard to move. This is just as bad as getting in front of the stage before the main gig is about to play, and I’m someone who likes to watch the wall of death at a distance.

With every step I take, I’m bumping into someone else. Drinks slosh, guys lift their chins up at the pretty blondes in tight, skimpy dresses. The girls are no better, they eat up that attention. The people here aren't my type of crowd.