Love's Learning Curve (10 page)

This morning I woke up feeling hung-over.  Not hung-over from drinking myself into sedation—that I can deal with.  No.  This hangover was from emotional confusion.  When I got back last night, it took all my energy to keep from going back to Charlie.  Back to Charlie to make sure she was okay.  Back to Charlie for answers to the questions that kept me up all night.  Back to Charlie to test the theory that if I touch her enough, the spark will go away.  Back to Charlie for any reason at all just to be back with her.  I don’t understand why she affects me the way she does.  This girl sparked something in me the first time her eyes pierced through mine, and I’ve not been able to think of much else since that moment.

Call me fucking crazy but when I saw her at the party and recognized that she was the very same girl from the afternoon leaving the field, I flipped my shit and thought I’d scored huge.  To my shock, she wasn’t what I expected from her previous feisty attitude show.  The chick at the party was wounded.  She’s holding on to some secrets.

Secrets … I understand those.  I have a cave full, hidden deep, never to be found by anyone.  I have no interest in uncovering whatever she’s hiding.  Hell.  I thought I had no interest in anything other than seeing her kneeling in front of me with her perfect little lips wrapped around my cock and bright eyes looking up at me.  The image is so vivid, it feels real, but that’s not all I want from her. 
What the fuck is wrong with me?

I throw on clothes knowing I need to blow off some steam.  Not working through my sexual frustrations was one thing, but I couldn’t sleep last night either.  Every time I closed my eyes, the image of her defenseless as I carried her was all I could see.  The way she looks at me, like
me
, and not some cocky ballplayer.  Her eyes hold some sort of power over me.  It’s like witchcraft.  

I thought I was immune to the doe-eyed look.  Wait, I am.  I’m Tyler FUCKING Stone.  Girls don’t affect me.  They serve one purpose.  People don’t affect me.  I don’t do emotional connections.  I play ball.  It’s all I know.  I definitely don’t know anything about relationships, and I’m not interested in that sort of complication.  I can count on one hand the people who I care deeply for, and I don’t intend to grow that list and start a new hand.

The field will be empty today, and the best way I know to work this shit out of my system is with a ball in my right hand and a glove on my left.  Since the option of working her over fast and hard in the shower is out, I grab my keys and helmet and am out the door in seconds.  I need to get my head back in the game.  No distractions.

The engine is music to my ears.  I take off toward the field, my sanctuary.  This has to clear my head and put things into perspective.  The streets near campus are empty at this hour.  Nine a.m. on a Saturday is not a peak time for students, but I’m an early riser, always have been.  My stomach wakes me at seven a.m. every day.  I suppose all those years in boy’s homes and foster care ingrained that in me.  If you weren’t up early, you didn’t eat.  It was a survival skill—first to rise, first to get the food portions.  When it was gone, it was gone.  They didn’t give a shit if we missed a meal.  Damn … they didn’t even give a shit if we survived; the only problem in that being they missed a check.

The weather is glorious.  I fucking love spring.  Spring means baseball, and baseball means I have a home and a reason to live.  When people talk about seasonal depression, I laugh.  I have a serious issue with seasonal depression.  When the season ends, I have no purpose.  It’s just surviving month after month to get back to spring and summer.

As I creep up to a stop sign at the intersection to the park, a flash of brunette locks catches the corner of my eye just as the engine quits.  Screams.  I hear them loudly and look to the left and see the figure sitting on the swings.  Her head is in her hands, and it looks like she’s trying to pull her hair out as she yells at the ground.  I pull off to the side of the road to watch because no one is around.

I’d know that figure anywhere.  It’s Charlotte.  What the fuck is she doing?  She looks up into the distance toward the thickly treed area, obviously working through something.  Her face is flushed.  Maybe from her run?  Maybe she’s pissed?  Maybe she’s PMSing?  I don’t know.  I don’t understand chick moods, and I don’t have time or care enough to find out.

I know I should drive away.  I tell myself to drive away.  But instead, I park, hop off the bike, and walk in her direction.  What in the hell is happening to me that my body is acting on impulses when my brain is instructing me differently?  It’s like a damn out-of-body experience every time I’m around her. 

Little Miss Perfect.  What could possibly have ruffled her feathers to make me feel the need to come over here and check on her?  As I walk up to the playground from behind, I slow, feeling the need to just watch her for a minute.  If she’s good, I can get back on my way and do what I need to do, forgetting all about this little interruption in my plans.  I watch as she flips her hair around her wrist and somehow ties it behind her head.  She then picks up her phone from her lap and just stares into the screen emptily.  Sadness?  Anger?  I can’t tell.

“What’s up, buttercup?  What’s ruffled your petals?” I ask.  “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.  What could possibly have gone so wrong in your perfect little world?”  I finish, the sarcasm in my voice not to be mistaken. 

She looks over her shoulder as I approach taking a seat on the swing next to her.  She huffs, looking over at me.  “Oh … you again?  Right!  Of course.  Perfect.” She’s muttering.

Ha … me again?  What in the hell is that all about?  I mean we were both there last night.  What in the hell did I do?  I guess I expected a much different response.  Maybe even a thank-you.  Hell … a few thank-yous, come to think of it.  One, for letting her be my teammate and play beer pong on the winning team so she didn’t get shitfaced.  Two, for saving her from embarrassing herself from the panic attack after her friend fucking left her.  Three, for not letting her fall on her face and leaving her in the dark yard.  Four, for driving her home and walking her to the damn door to make sure she was okay.  Five, for not fucking taking advantage of her weak state and taking her back to my place to sink my cock between her legs.  Well … let’s be honest, she probably would have thanked me for the last one.

“Well … I guess it’s me again.  The yelling caught my attention.  Sorry to interrupt your … whatever is happening here.”  I stand to leave.  Shit.  I don’t need this.  I take one more look into her eyes, which are holding on to emotions that I can’t read, but then I drag my eyes away and turn to walk.

“Wait … I’m sorry.  You didn’t deserve that.  I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she says, her voice breaking.  And I pray to God that she’s not crying.  I can’t fucking handle chick tears.  They’re a deal breaker for me.  I can’t even believe I’m thinking tears are my deal breaker.  This whole thing is a deal breaker.  I don’t do this … what I’m doing right now.  I don’t check on chicks.  I don’t initiate a conversation to find out what’s upsetting them.  I’m losing my focus every extra second I’m in her presence.  But worse than that, my thoughts lead me to want to take care of her and fix shit; it makes me want to pass over my damn man card.

I should just keep walking and ignore her.  I will my legs to move, but they are grounded and heavy as if hundreds of pounds of lead fill my shoes.  I can’t move toward my bike.  I can’t escape her.  “Fucking witchcraft.”

“What?  Witchcraft?  I don’t get it,” she asks.  Now realizing that I muttered those words aloud, I shake off her question.  I turn back toward her not wanting to get too close, but my betraying body takes the seat right next to her.  I shake my head and laugh at myself.  It’s all I can do because I’m not in control of whatever the hell is happening to me right now.

I fearfully look over at her.  I’m not sure which part is scarier, the fact that she could be crying, or the fact that her eyes will hypnotize me to start jumping around like a damn monkey, and I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

When I look at her, she’s taking in my reactions and trying to read me.  Well… good luck with that, buttercup.  I’ve had years of experience hiding behind these walls, and while the best therapists have tried to read me, it’s impossible.  I smile knowing I will actually win this game.

“So …” I start, “want to talk about what’s bothering you?”  I mean she might as well tell me so I can move on with my life.  Clearly, it’s the only way out.

She shrugs her shoulders.  “It’s been a bad morning.  It’s fine.  I’ll get over it,” she says simply, obviously not wanting to go into detail.  “Thanks, though.”

She’s dismissing me.  I don’t like this at all.  I might be an egotistical asshole, but for some reason, I want to know more.  Not that I want to keep prodding.  I don’t.  But I also can’t really handle this rejection right now. 

I don’t even recognize myself right now.  In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve turned into someone else.  I’m completely on edge.  Is this what happens when you let others set the course of your life?  Do you eventually turn into a screaming basket case eating, sleeping, and breathing only to live to the expectations of others?

I look up at Tyler, his eyes staring into my own, and feel my skin pebble. 
What is it with this guy?  Is this just another side effect?
  I shake it off.

“So …?” he asks. “Want to talk about what’s bothering you?”  What a simple question.  However, I can’t answer that question.  It’s kinda cute that he’s trying to pretend he cares, though.  I’m sure I look like an easy target to him.  Poor guy will soon find out what a waste of his time I am.

I shrug my shoulders attempting to make light of my issues.  “It’s been a bad morning. It’s fine. I’ll get over it,” I tell him then plaster on my stage smile trying to really sell it.  “Thanks, though.”

He nods and looks away into the trees in the distance.  Silence among us comfortable enough as I sort through the thoughts in my head and then, in an attempt to possibly lighten the mood, he speaks softly. “I love spring.”  I nod my head in agreement.

I should probably finish the run.  I’ve been sitting here a good while, but somehow, just sitting here in our solace—not really talking, just sitting, thinking, taking in the breeze and view—I find my thoughts more settling.  Everything is falling apart around me.  I’m emotionally wrecked.  But I’m content enough at this moment for whatever reason.  His presence is calming me and allowing me to see the things outside my walls.

“My mother found about the party last night.  She’s disappointed.”  My voice invades our silence.  I’m not sure why I feel the need to open up to him after I already dismissed the option moments ago and we’d moved on, but I do.

“So your parents are really strict?” he asks.

How do I describe the people who hold me hostage in their world under constant public scrutiny forced to live a life that’s not my own?

“Yeah, you could say that.”  I’m not really sure how else to describe it without looking like a puppet.  I don’t want him to see that side of me.  Right now, I feel normal.  I want this kind of normal for a few more minutes until I have to go home and face the music.  He silently processes my answer as I watch him worry his fingers as he thinks.

“Do you always do what your parents tell you to do?”  he asks; the question is innocent enough, but the answer will reveal me.

I want to answer the question.  I want to tell him I’m nothing like the girls at that party last night.  I want to tell him that everything I do is carefully planned to benefit others.  I could tell him that I was born into the world for no other reason than to be photographed and paraded as a showpiece.  If I told him that at twenty-one years old, I’ve only ever had a couple of true friends or that my list of life experiences could be written on the tiny scrap of paper that you’d find in a fortune cookie, would he see my dilemma?  Would he still describe my little world, as he called it, as perfect?

My voice is void of emotion when I finally bring myself to answer.  “Yes, I always do what I’m told.  I kill myself to impress them and make them proud, and I fail every time.”  Refusing to allow the emotional release, I will back my tears as I finish.  “Last night, I wanted to live.  I wanted to understand what I’ve been missing.  I wasn’t trying to go to the party to get wild and lose control.  I didn’t intend to hook up with a guy.  I just wanted to experience life, as normal.”