The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories (158 page)

God knows, I sure as hell tried.

Once the worst of the loneliness set in, it was hard to think about anything else—about how much I hated college or my late blooming awkwardness around my new classmates. It was like being lost all of the time. Unable to ask for directions, I had spent most of the last two summer feeling sorry for myself and interning at Dad’s office—delivering coffee and making sure phones, touchpads, and computer’s were charged. I think it was entirely possible that the only reason I still kept going to class every day was so I didn’t have to listen to my parents complain otherwise.

When all the friends who promised to come home for the summer after freshman year didn’t, I began spending more time at work, going in early and staying even after I punched out, just so I could pretend to have somewhere to be. The thing I discovered about loneliness though (the only evidence of reading my way through positive thinking and self-help books) was that being alone makes you more observant, and, like the world’s worst philosopher, I began seeing the terrible in people, the dark corners in every room, and the sadness in each pair of eyes.

It was at the beginning of my sophomore year in college that I really began to think that if I was really lucky, a meteorite would crush me from the sky above.

It may as well have ended right then and there, because once I got the idea of ending my life, it was all I could think about. Literally. My grades fell as I imagined all the creative ways to die, to fall asleep and never have to drag myself through another pointless day ever again. I researched the odds of getting kill by a foul ball at a baseball game. Tried to calculate how much of Dad’s good beer I’d have to drink before I died of alcohol poisoning. If I antagonized a large dog, what was the likelihood it would rip my throat out?

Overall, I had come up 67 different ways to die—only 16 of them being very realistic for me. Keeping them in my head, I never wrote them down, all too aware of Mom’s propensity for going through other people’s things and having no desire to get hopped up on antidepressants.

Once fully awake I got up and went to the bathroom. The diner food after a day of not eating, cramped my stomach and I regretted my lack of jumping more than ever. Looking in the mirror certainly didn’t help either. A string of syrup had a piece of hair stuck to the side of my lip, and though I didn’t think it was possible, it only made me feel more pathetic. I leaned forward and pulled my eyelids down. My irises were dark, but plain, just like my hair and the rest of me. I hadn’t been graced with Mom’s naturally luscious lips—as she loved to frequently tell me—but at least like a lot of Italian girls, I didn’t have facial hair all over the place. Overall, I thought my only other positive physical features were my tapering chin and the fact that my skin hadn’t broken out since sophomore year when Mom had all but insisted I go on the pill.

After brushing my teeth twice, I got in the shower, standing directly under the shower-head so that the pressure might soothe my headache. Only a few minutes later did I make myself reach for the shampoo and then the conditioner. It was difficult, but I did it anyway. My depression had worked its way into in my arms and my fingers and I could barely scrub the smell of grease and syrup out of my hair.

Yet thinking of syrup brought me back to the memory of William and I cringed.

Why did he have to be there? Why couldn’t he just have driven away? More importantly, why did he have to be so damn nice about everything?

I hardly had any clean clothes left, but I did manage to find a clean pair of pajama pants and an old tank top. When I became completely conscious of the laundry situation, I threw a few things into the washer. I hadn’t minded inconveniencing Mom with dirty clothes beyond the grave, but if I had to keep living a little while longer, then clean clothes were a basic necessity.

Closing the doors to the utility room I stepped out into the hallway and ran my crooked toes against the carpet. For their tenth anniversary Dad paid for Mom to re-carpet the upstairs and get drapes custom made for every window other than the little vent thing in the attic. I thought it was funny, considering neither of them were around enough to appreciate it, and once they were up, Mom decided that she hated the color in the dining room, and never should have let me choose the colors for my room.

At least, William spent his money on something he was passionate about—obviously all of the street racers did. I didn’t know much about cars—other than the typical price of an oil change—but from what I had seen, racers spent more on lights than what I made working at the bakery a month. Mom and even Dad would probably snuff at that, turn up their noses and talk about the practicalities of a certified pre-owned Volvo, the racers seemed to genuinely love their cars, loved the racing, and I envied them.

Envied that they loved something and got that love back in spades.

I wandered around the house, desperate for something to do other than lingering in my thoughts. My homework was backed-up, but I couldn’t make myself do it anymore than I could make myself text my parents one last time. So, I retreated to the kitchen instead—a messy place of worship for when I knew I had to make myself get up and do something. I preheated the oven and got out the mixing bowls, though not with even an ounce of the enthusiasm I used to have.

While working, I flicked on the TV wedged between two cupboards—a good distraction to keep me from feeling alone. But even when I began the routine of preparing the icing bag and flipping through the channels, I found that nothing could distract me.

For the cake batter I added the Dutch chocolate, four, eggs, and water before I started stirring. Though I had a few recipes memorized—nailed down in my head like a carving on a tree—experimenting was still the greatest thing to do. When that exactly stopped being fun too, I hardly remembered. Probably around the time Mom quit encouraging me to playing in the kitchen, and do other, more productive things with my life.

When I finished the mix I stirred harder, less consistently like cooking shows had taught me. There was something intriguing about being reckless, breaking the rules—even in this small way. I almost laughed to myself. Even if they were far from my favorite, it was too bad I didn’t have the ingredients for a French-toast maple cake—a silent dedication to William Do-gooder. The thought of him alone inspired the image of tires spinning in my head, and before I knew it, bits of egg and flour had splattered on the counter and side of the refrigerator.

I chucked a little louder to myself. So maybe I was crazy after all and so maybe I shouldn’t have said thank you for keeping me from jumping, but I definitely should have said thank you for taking me to the race. William was right about that if nothing else: everyone should see at least one street race before they die.

The first batch had only been in the oven for a couple of minutes when the doorbell rang, the annoying chime that Mom had custom picked out reminding me of her every time someone came to the door. Luckily, that was almost as infrequent as Mom and Dad being in the same building for more than one night.

I put the last of the dishes in the washer and headed for the window. Odds were that it was just a salesman, one of those Avon ladies my mom always made best friends with. Yet, when I looked through the blinds I could have fallen over.

What in the hell was William doing here?

I ran my fingers through my hair just as the bell rang again. Who did this guy think he was anyway coming to my house like this? Just because he saved my life, didn’t mean I owed him anything. But what if he thought I did? Tried to blackmail me for money or something? I ran over our conversations in my memory and tried to recall whether or not I had told him about how much I wanted to keep my suicide away from everybody else. I didn’t think I had, but what if he could sense it anyway? Knew it just like he knew I was about to jump and held it over me?

I put all of my weight on the door, swearing at myself for forgetting it was locked and tried again.

“What are you doing here?” I practically yelled at him and pulled away when I realized it. It wasn’t as if I cared so much about what the neighbors believed, but more like I didn’t want them running their mouths off to my mom. I narrowed my eyes at him and pursed my lips.

William Do-gooder O’Reilly however, didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.

“Hey Jumper.” He looked me up and down and smiled. “Nice apron.”

I swore and untied the flower-patterned garment from by waist and neck. No wonder why he hadn’t been panic-stricken by my death glare. It was hard to take anyone seriously when they were wearing daisies and sunflowers.

“Are you a cook, Jumper? Cause I have to tell you, there is something sexy about a woman who knows her way around a kitchen.”

“Wow.” I crossed my arms over myself and rolled my eyes just to emphasize how annoyed I was. “Noisy
and
sexist. You must be one hell of a catch.”

“Hey!” he said with his grin growing. “You’re the one who answered the door in an apron. And I’ll have you know that I
am
one hell of a catch.”

“You—” I pointed my finger out at him, a slew of insults ready and loaded on the tip of my tongue. I would have thrown all of them at him too, but the sound of the timer going off took my mind elsewhere.

William leaned in close while his eyes looked past me. “Do you have to get that Jumper? I could wait—”

I threw the apron at him and went for the kitchen. He may have infuriated me, but there was no way I was going to let my cupcakes suffer for it.

Just as I turned the corner out of the hall, I heard his feet behind me, the squeak of what sounded like new sneakers on my mom’s freshly waxed hardwood floor. When I realized he intended to follow me I gritted my teeth together—hoping the expression was enough to suggest I would literally bite his head off if I could. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I yanked on the oven mitt as hard as I could. There were a million and one things I could do to show him how much he pissed me off, and I intended to do as much of it as possible.

“Walking” he strode into the kitchen like he owned the place, his absolute lack of hesitation to pull out a chair infuriating me even more. “Now, I’m sitting. What are
you
doing?”

“Well” I said as vindictively as I possible. “
I’m
taking out these cupcakes, and then I’m going to call the police about a breaking and entering.”

William’s laugh was downright musical. “Last night you weren’t so pro-establishment?” He shrugged and propped his hands behind his head. “Though, it is a ladies prerogative to change her mind.”

I dropped the cupcake tray in mid-air. The noise so loud, I earned William’s attention. Like the night before, however, he remained cool and calm—happy. Briefly, I glanced at him trying not to appear too interested in the way his long sleeve white shirt fit him. When that failed, I went back to insulting him.

“Me throwing things at you and calling you names, does not equal an invite. What kind of degenerate are you?”

“I’m Irish Jumper.” He laughed “And if you think that doesn’t equal an invite, you’ve clearly haven’t spent any time with the Irish.”

I slung off the over mitt and closed the oven door with my hip. Given William’s lack of manners, it didn’t surprise me that he had met nearly every cliché stereotype I knew about the Irish. I kept this to myself however and put my hand to my hip instead, staring at him almost as hard as he was staring at me. Why hadn’t I noticed his prominent Adam’s apple the night before? Or, more importantly, when did I become so attracted to that sort of thing? I didn’t exactly think that the light of morning would change my perspective of him—but then again, I hadn’t ever expected to see him again either. What was I supposed to say to that? Was I supposed to be flattered that he was motivated enough to try and scam me?

“That accent then” Since when was I attracted to prominent Adam’s apples? And why did I so badly want to stare at his? “That’s the real thing or what?”

“Or what?” William tilted his head like he was genuinely confused. I, on the other hand, knew better.

“Come on, like you don’t know what I mean?”

“I consider myself a pretty quick witted guy Jumper, but in this case I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I slammed the silverware drawer shut and pumped the icing bag for the next part of my project. Maybe, if I could use it like a stress ball it would keep me from swearing or throwing something at him.

“Oh, you know. You flash the nice car, a few choice words with the accent, and any girl who ever had a crush on a Kennedy will be all over you.”

“Jumper!” He opened his mouth wide as if in shock. “If you think I’m sexy you can just come right out and say it.”

“Some girls” I emphasized. “Find that attractive. I assure you, I do not.”

Without waiting for the cupcakes to cool properly, I began icing them, making an effort to be just as interested in that as I had been in William’s Adams apple.

When I was lost somewhere between my thoughts and trying to concentrate, William much have stood up, so quiet I was only aware of him when he stopped to hover over my shoulder. This movement made things exceptional difficult considering that I could smell his cologne better, the soft scent of aftershave and leather becoming even stronger as he reached across me.

“Why don’t I believe you?” He whispered in my ear and grabbed a cupcake, stuffing it icing first into his mouth.

I swear I didn’t take a breath until he took a step back.

“B-Because you’re full of yourself?”

He nodded just before stuffing the remainder of the cupcake in his mouth. I grimaced like I was really disgusted—one of the many facial expressions I had learned to mimic from my mom—it hardly had the effect I was hoping for.

“Damn Jumper, you really earned your apron here.” William ate with his mouth wide open. I was tempted to laugh, but I rolled my eyes instead. “These things are amazing. Is that peanut-butter I’m tasting?”

William reached for another and I smacked his hand away.