Of All the Stupid Things (3 page)

I let out a third sigh. “Fine.”

Tara

I HIT THE WALL A COUPLE BLOCKS FROM HOME. I HAVE to walk the rest of the way. Or more like drag my corpse. I can barely see. My head is light from dehydration. My thighs burn. My lungs ache against my sides. I don’t know how far I ran. Ten, maybe twelve miles, in addition to the six earlier. I took the back roads by the railroad tracks that I don’t know very well; it kept my mind focused on where I was running instead of why.

Last time I ran so hard was when Dad left five and a half years ago. But even that was completely different from now; I had been running after him.

Our mutt Sherman bursts out of the house. I go in but leave the door open for him. The phone is ringing. Automatically, I pick it up. It’s Pinkie. She says that Brent didn’t do it after all and then asks fifty times if I’m okay. I say yes I am, and no, I don’t want her and Whitney Blaire to come over. I finally tell her I need to get some rest. Then I promise her something before hanging up.

I concentrate hard on getting myself back into form, stretching and drinking small sips of water. Taking deep breaths. Trying to get back in control.

Mix-up or not, the thought is still in my head. What if Brent cheated on me? With a guy.

Sherman comes over and whimpers. I place a hand on his head and crouch down. He licks my face. My breathing is returning to normal. My heart has decided not to give up. But there’s a stitch near my appendix that still hasn’t gone away. I rub it with one hand. I stop drinking but continue petting Sherman.

Part of me wishes I were still running. Then I wouldn’t need to think. But I can’t move my legs, so the thoughts pour in: Brent with Sanchez. Sanchez with Brent. Not true, I remind myself. Not true. But I need to know for sure.

That’s why I answer Brent’s soft knock on the door at five thirty the next morning. I need to hear it directly from him before I can believe it isn’t true.

“Hey,” Brent says. He leans over for a kiss but I duck away and break into a run. My body is still recovering from yesterday’s exertion. I set the pace somewhere between slow and moderate. Brent is at my side in moments. Silently, we run the first couple of miles. As we get to the park, I slow down automatically. Brent and I always take a break in the park. But today we’re not going to spend the time with our hands all over each other.

Not that Brent doesn’t try. He places a hand on my waist once we stop. I push it away. He tries to hold my hand and I move out of his grasp.

“Baby, talk to me,” he says. “What’s bugging you?”

I sit down. The grass is wet with dew, but I don’t care. I pull up handfuls and heap the blades in a pile. When I speak, I cringe at the name. “Chris Sanchez.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brent kneels down and tries again to take my hand. Again I pull it away. Brent’s lips press together.

I run my fingers through the grass. Deep breath. “Did you screw him?”

“What?” Brent chokes. He gets back on his feet and paces as his breaths come out in gasps. “How—what—who told you this?”

I look away. “Just something I heard around.”

He swears under his breath. I watch him continue pacing, his hands on his head holding his hair.

I press against the ground and control my breathing. “So, is it true?”

He stops and looks at me sitting on the grass. I watch his face. For a split second it looks angry, but then I realize it’s probably more shock and hurt. “No, baby, no. Course not.”

I take a deep breath. And another. I keep quiet as I breathe. I want to believe him. I want to trust him. He’s never given me a reason not to trust him. But the images are running around my head. Brent smiling at Sanchez. His hands on Sanchez. His lips…Brent with Sanchez; Sanchez with Brent.

I want them to stop. They have to stop. But every time I look at Brent, they come back. Uninvited. I have to move; it’s the only thing that keeps the images at bay. The only way to stay in control.

Before I can sprint off, Brent wraps me in his arms.

I push him away. “Don’t touch me.”

He holds tighter.

I jerk to break free. “I mean it, let me go.”

Brent sighs and drops his arms.

Brushing my hands against my arms, I try to wipe away Brent’s touch. The images of his hands on Sanchez haven’t stopped. I pace. Back and forth. I hold my head. Any minute now the images are going to take over and I’m going to lose control. I can’t let that happen. Focus. But I can’t.

“I can’t,” I gasp.

Brent leans closer. “Can’t what?”

“I can’t be with you.” The words almost choke me as they come out. I don’t believe I’m saying it. He’s my first real boyfriend and has been everything I’ve needed. He’s supported me in so many ways. But now…I keep pacing.

His eyes widen and his mouth drops. “Are you breaking up with me?”

I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, squeezing my diaphragm to release the last bit of air. Then I take a normal breath. “Yes.”

He blinks. If I had kicked him in the balls, he couldn’t have looked more hurt. Or surprised. I turn away. I pick up my water bottle from the grass and squeeze it like I did yesterday. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. It sends a shiver down my spine. But I can’t tell if it’s a good shiver or bad shiver. And even if it’s a good shiver, I don’t know what that means.

“You can’t be serious. I love you,” he says.

I make the mistake of looking at him. There’s a sad puppy-dog look in his green eyes. He shallows and sniffs. “Tara, please.”

That does it more than the three words he had said before, even more than the tortured look on his face. Brent never calls me by my name.

The images of him and Sanchez fade a bit. But only a bit.

I lick my lips. “I need some space. A little bit of space. Away from you, away from…this.”

He sighs and then kisses me lightly on the lips. I don’t respond, but I don’t wipe my mouth clean either. “Okay, if that’s what it takes for you to trust me. And once you do, it’s you and me again?”

“It’s getting late. We have to go.”

He squeezes my hand before we start running again. Slowly first, and then as the images clear I pick up the pace. I know he thinks I didn’t really mean what I said. But I do. I need these thoughts out of my head. And until they are, I can’t be with him. As much as I might want to be.

Then comes the little voice inside my head. It asks why I didn’t just finish things off completely if there’s doubt about Brent’s honesty. Because I love him, I tell the voice. Oh right, says the voice, and it shuts up and goes away.

Whitney Blaire

DAVID’S WAITING FOR ME BY THE SWING SET JUST LIKE I asked him to. And he’s holding the history notes that I missed from yesterday. He’s such a good boy.

“Aw, thanks.” I give him a quick hug. “You’re such a sweetie. I’d be totally lost without these.”

David looks down while I rustle his blond bowl cut. He shifts from one foot to the other and kicks some gravel. He’s blushing like he’s ten, it’s so cute.

“It’s nothing, really,” he says.

I shove the notes in my purse and spot a magazine. “Hey, check this out. There’s this article in here that talks about the ten most important traits to have in the perfect guy. I got it for Tara, so hopefully she won’t end things with Brent.”

I feel kind of bad about yesterday. I acted too quickly. I shouldn’t have rushed to Tara with the news. Not when it was so obviously not true, not possible, not even likely. But at the time I thought she had the right to know if she was being two-timed. I figured it was better to hear it from me than through the grapevine. That’s what real friends do.

David grumbles. “What’s Tara see in him anyway?”

“Oh, come on.” I glare at David. “Brent’s the hottest guy outside Hollywood. Any girl at school would give her right arm to be seen with him.”

“Then why haven’t you gone for him?”

I give him a shocked look. “A girl never goes for a friend’s guy. Never ever. That’s the ultimate betrayal.”

He crosses his arms but keeps staring at the ground. “But you basically said you wanted him.”

“David,” I try to explain things to him. “There’s nothing wrong with looking at something you’re not going to buy.”

David snorts. “Yeah, but what’s going to keep you from trying it on for size?”

I don’t need to defend myself. He’s a guy. He doesn’t know anything about shopping. Or guys. Instead, I squint at him and tilt my head. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I just think you girls should know better than to go for guys like Brent. He just uses girls to get laid.”

I wave David away. He is jealous. And intimidated that Brent could have any girl he wants. Not that David should be. I missed my chance with Brent. Or rather he never offered me a chance. And now, because of his history with Tara, if he did ask, I would have to turn him down. Which, thinking about it, really wouldn’t be too bad. Because that would mean I’d be the one girl he’d want but couldn’t have.

I fantasize about that while David picks a handful of pebbles and as if he’s on a lake; he starts skipping them across the playground.

It’s a few minutes before he speaks. “So, let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?” I was just getting to the part in my fantasy where Brent was sending me flowers and begging me to give him a chance. David is still focusing on throwing stones but his back is a bit hunched over.

“The ten things you need for a perfect guy.”

I grin. That’s why I mentioned it in the first place. David will never be anything more than a friend, but there’s no harm in letting him know how he ranks.

Sitting down on the merry-go-round, I start off. “‘Rule one: Be sensitive and supportive of a woman’s needs.’”

David stops for a second and turns around. “I always give you a hug when I see you, and I brought you those history notes.”

I roll my eyes. Boys. “History notes are not exactly what I have in mind, but I guess it’s a start. ‘Rule two: Don’t be afraid to ask her what she wants.’”

“Do you want the history notes?”

I give him a confused look. “Yeah?”

He smiles, straightens up, and skips another rock. “Great. So let’s move on to rule three.”

Stupid, I walked right into that one, but I’ll get him back. I stretch out on the merry-go-round. I don’t have to peek to know I’m showing off some good cleavage. I scoot up just a bit. “Ha, now here you’re slacking. Pink would love this rule: ‘Always return a woman’s phone, e-mail, or text messages.’”

David’s eyes shift down and then up again. “Slacking? When was the last time I didn’t get back to you?”

I have him now. “I send you e-mails all the time.”

“Forwards that say ‘you must send this to twenty people in five minutes or face a horrible death’ are not e-mails.”