Fading Out (7 page)

V
ee’s asleep
. Zonked out to the world. Offering me the solitude I need to reflect. She talked non-stop about the game. Gavin making a touchdown after a fumble. Pointing to the stands and doing a victory dance…and then digging out his wedgie.

We almost died laughing, tears streaming down, the blistering cold freezing our faces stiff. We knew the Bobcats would be upset. Angry. Livid, even. Or maybe they wouldn’t get the joke at all…just toss the thongs away and run out onto the field to face the other team going commando.

We never imagined that our prank would go so far as to see our school football team out on the field walking like big, muscle-burdened ducks. Digging into their pants in-between plays. I mean, why the hell did they actually wear the thongs? Are jocks really that bone-headed?

Gavin even saluted the risers at one point, singling out the criminals—
us
—with a thumbs-up. Vee fantasizing he was talking directly to her. Which, I pointed out, he was. She was euphoric after that. And I was right there with her.

I’ve never been a part of anything like this. Just the heightened anticipation, the excitement, of walking with the whole school to the stadium. The roar or cheering, thunder of stomping, the sea of blue and white—it was overwhelming. So powerful. Granted, I was only going to gloat at the players, at Ryder—but sharing that with him, feeling how he must feel when he runs out onto the field, it was mind-blowing.

And I won’t feel guilty for indulging in the rare, carefree moment. I probably won’t get many of them later.

Now that I have some time to myself, I pull out my journals. The ones I kept during the four months at Stoney Creek. I stashed them in a box under my bed. Never really thought I’d look at them again, not wanting to read the many dark, twisted thoughts that cluttered my head during that time.

Right this second, though, I have this overwhelming need to write about today. Just put into words this feeling that I can’t otherwise express, explain.

Something altered this past week.

From the moment I was kicked out of school until now, I’ve been so focused on recovery. On fixing myself. On righting my relationship with Becca and my father, trying to repair the damage I caused. Though I honestly had no idea even how to go about it. Eat more? Exercise less? Go out with one of the guys my dad keeps pushing my way? Invest more time in studies? Get a freaking life?

To do anything
not
to obsess over me…and my imperfections.

For some reason, I have a burning need to write down this liberating feeling. It’s proof that I can laugh. That I can relax. And have a life outside my obsessive angsting. As stupid as these pranks have been and as annoyed as Ryder has made me, I sort of have to thank him. I haven’t been able to unwind and just exist in the moment for a long time.

So that’s what I do.

I sift through the journals, months of gloomy, lonely thoughts, where I burned Stephan on many pages, until I find a fresh, untouched notebook. Mel enters my thoughts, and I think about writing her an old-school letter. I was waiting until I didn’t feel so…lost. So dismal, before I contacted her. Maybe that time is now.

I write the first sentence that starts nothing like the one’s I’m so used to writing.

And surprisingly, it doesn’t start with “I”. Already it’s not as narcissistic as my former entries. There’s also a description of beautiful blue eyes I can’t quite get out of my mind.

W
hen the adrenaline wears off
, and I’m all out of words, I decide to head to the gym. I need to do something to tire myself out. I try not to feel bad about going to the gym twice today.

No small change is ever permanent. One thing I learned while in treatment? You have to repeatedly apply the change—over and over—until it decides to stick. Until you no longer have to remind yourself to do it.

Baby steps.

Exercise, though it’s not a bad thing in general, but rather the opposite, has at times gotten out of hand for me. To the point where I couldn’t walk the next day after a ruthless workout. A form of punishment if I’d indulged, or couldn’t suppress the need to binge eat. Exercise is supposed to be rewarding, giving you endorphins and energy, and helping you stay positive, creating a good, healthy self-image.

Well, anything good can become a vice. An addiction. Or even unhealthy.

But right now, I just need the rigorous routine to wipe me out so I can sleep. I don’t feel the need to punish, just deplete the excess, over stimulated energy.

The steady chirr of crickets greets me along the winding path toward the campus gym. It’s almost eerie, this still quiet that is usually so full of hustle and swarm. The chilly wind stirs the elm branches, adding to the effect with a hushed rustling.

I glance behind me, totally creeped out. This is the first time I’ve been to the gym at night, and I’m wondering if I should just head back before I’m featured in some slasher flick.

But the drive to get my workout in overpowers my rational thoughts. Of course. So I powerwalk. And I’m already to the gym doors by the time I think of turning around again.

The building is empty. Which, despite the earlier creep out, is nice and convenient. No one to worry about hitting on you or judging you. I don’t really enjoy gyms in general, but there’s no way to fit exercise equipment in our small dorm room. This is when I miss living with my parents. Wherever their current home may be.

Although the tradeoff of not having to deal with their constant analysis of me is a huge benefit in favor of living on campus.

I set my water bottle and gym bag on the floor in the corner, then set the speed and pace for the treadmill. I plug my ear buds in and scroll through my playlist on my phone until I find
Adagio for Strings, Op. 11a
. One of my favorite classical pieces performed by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. I need the soothing help of classical right now.

Which is just odd, I know. Most people want an upbeat, motivational tempo, with lyrics to help them kick ass during their workout. But I’m always wound tight. My heart rate feeling as if it’s forever climbing with the ever-pressing anxiety. When I get my twenty minutes to myself to just be
me
, I want to float away. Walk my mind completely away from my own thoughts.

As I walk, I let my mind drift, lost in the orchestra. Relaxing. My heartbeat ramps as the stress melts away like hot butter through my pores. Sweat drips down my back, and I imagine every disgusting thing I’ve eaten today liquefying and being purged from my system.

Something touches my arm, and I yelp. Then my legs go weak and my feet no longer keep tread on the walker. I land on my butt and am pushed right off the machine. One ear bud is lost, and I quickly move the wire from the track so it doesn’t get sucked under.

“Jesus, Arian.”

I know that smooth voice. My head whips up. Ryder stands above me, his dark hair falling forward over his creased forehead, eyes squinted in laughter, and his hand extended.

“Give me your hand,” he says, wriggling his fingers. When I don’t move, my heart still knocking hard against my chest—whether from the scare or his presence, I’m not sure—he groans and reaches down to grab my arm.

“I got it.” I yank my arm free and push myself up. Then I look at him while I pat my aching butt. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

His features change instantly. From concern to amusement. He shakes his head and begins walking toward one of the weight sets. “I don’t know, Arian. Probably the same thing you’re doing here.” He looks back at me and raises his eyebrows challengingly.

Yeah, well. Okay. I get a grip on myself, putting my fingers to my neck to check my pulse. Then I climb back on the machine and set it to a slower speed so I can bring my heart rate down properly.

“Damn. You were really giving that machine a workout,” he says as he lifts a weight from the stand. He adds it to the bar. “Like it had wronged you in some way. I have to admit, I feel a little better knowing it’s not just me that gets your wrath. Inanimate objects be damned, huh? We all pay for the ire of Arian.”

Ugh. This guy. God, but he’s so cute in his dumb sweatpants and tank. I divert my gaze and look down at the monitor of the treadmill. “Ari,” I say. “That’s what I go by.”

Despite my attempt not to look at him, I still witness his head jerk in my direction. “Ari.”

I release a heavy breath through my nose, calming. Centering. “Yeah, well, if you’ve finally decided to address me properly, and not like I’m something to be devoured…” I cringe. Did I really just say that? I should have clarified the
carrot cake
. I absolutely do not look at him. “Then, I guess you can call me what everyone else does.” I shrug.

A small smile hikes one corner of his mouth. “I like it. I like it even more that you’re the one offering it to me.”

“It’s just a name.”

He laughs. “It’s a great name. Beautiful, and fitting. I mean, it’s not as great as say, Ryder, of course. But hey, still an awesome name.” He smiles, and I roll my eyes. “You always downplay stuff. Why is that?” He cocks his head, paused, hovering over the bench before adding another weight. How much does he bench? My gaze travels over his flexed biceps, wondering… When I don’t respond, or can’t, because I don’t really know the answer, he says, “Anyway. I see we have this much in common.”

“Great names?” I’m suddenly incapable of saying more than two- or three-word sentences. Like my brain got knocked out through my butt and sucked into the treadmill during the fall. Or maybe I’ve finally worn myself out, too tired to deal with his head games.

No, I doubt that. He makes me too hyperaware. I’m always forced on guard.

“Well that, too, but I was talking about working out at night.” He puts the clamp on the bar and then straddles the bench. “I usually have this place all to myself.”

“Sorry I encroached on your turf.” I hit the button to slow the walker even more.

“Damn. You’d think for someone who just got one over on the most notorious pranksters of college football, you’d be flying high right now.” He wraps his fingers around the bar, adjusts his grip to get a proper hold. I can’t help but notice the way his muscles tighten, his sinewy arms strained as he lowers himself to the bench. Why do all the assholes have to be the hot ones?

Because, of course, they know they're hot and think they can act any way they want, I remind myself—a nice splash of cold water to ground me.

I continue walking at a steady pace, but a small smile curls my lips despite my best attempt. “The joke wasn’t to make you guys actually wear the thongs, you know.” My smile takes over my face as I remember how Ryder and his teammates waddled onto the field.

He does a few reps then sets the bar on the holder. Sits up. “I know. But I figured the guys deserved the full weight of their punishment. And even though I really didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your car, or your drink”—his gaze snags and holds mine—“I paid my dues for what I did say and do at the bonfire.”

My feet miss a step, and I quickly correct my pace. He’s lying. Maybe. Or he’s just trying to lower my defenses; set me up for something bigger. But as his gaze intensifies, I’m trapped there. Caught in his sight, believing him.

“Why didn’t you tell me that it wasn’t you who condom bombed my car?”

Finally dropping his eyes, he shrugs. “Would you have believed me?”

No, I think inwardly. “Maybe.”

“Liar,” he calls me out.

I laugh and step off the treadmill. “Yeah, okay. I was a little pissed that day.”

He pinches his fingers together closely. “Just a little.”

“I was livid, all right? And…” I trail off, bending over to pick up my towel and also avoid his eyes. “You called me a bitch before. So I just knew….” I shrug. “You weren’t done tormenting me yet.”

He’s silent, and I use the awkward moment to wipe my forehead. Thankful I took my makeup off before I got here. What’s worse than being seen without makeup? Being seen with it bleeding and bubbling all over your face.

“Ari…”

My spine stiffens at his inflective tone. “I didn’t mean anything, Ryder. Whatever. No big deal.”

When he speaks again, he’s closer. I can almost feel his body against mine, like electricity crackling off a powerful conductor. “I didn’t mean it. I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s just something dumb-ass guys say when they’re mad. Or upset. Or scared.” I turn to see him lacing his arms over his chest. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. Anger is our go-to reaction for every emotion.”

I nod. “All right. Well, sorry I threw beer in your face and outed to the whole school that you’d never claim me among your conquests.”

His mouth presses into a tight line. I hear his hard exhale. “You think that really matters to me? What they think?” He moves closer still. “That I’m really some cliché jock who cares about his rep?”

I force myself to be honest right back. “Well, yeah.”

“Ouch.”

“Look, it’s not meant as criticism.” I take a step back, needing to put more space between us so I can think. “That’s a lot of guys. Most guys, actually.”

He chuckles. “Damn, that’s even worse. You think I’m most guys.”

“This isn’t going anywhere, Ryder. We’re talking circles around each other—”

“Yeah, but we
are
talking.” He cocks an eyebrow, his feet eating the distance between us quickly. My breath stutters hot against my lips as I try to breathe normally. “That’s the only way to get from point A to point B.”

My head tilts. “See, again with the conquest. Like I’m something to be conquered.”

“No…I didn’t… Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just can’t articulate around you. Everything comes out…wrong. Just wrong. Be patient, okay? I obviously need a little leniency here.”

Despite my unease, I feel a smile tug at my mouth. “Fair enough.” I wave my hand through the air, prompting him on. “Take your time.”

With a determined nod, that’s so sincere it’s adorable, making my chest stir with heat, he says, “Give me a do-over.”