Against the Wall (2 page)

It's Meghan—with her new boyfriend.

O
NE HOUR EARLIER

I don't want Chip to meet Eric.

I put on my clothes and makeup in a rush, hoping to slip out of the apartment before Chip gets home. Unfortunately he's early. My stomach clenches as I hear him come through the door. He drops his backpack in a careless heap and strides down the hall. There's nothing I can do to avoid him, so I continue to apply my mascara with a trembling hand.

He pauses outside the bathroom. I don't look over because I'm concentrating on my eyelashes. Despite my lack of greeting, or perhaps because of it, he enters the tight space and puts his hands on my hips.

“Hey, babe,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Where you going?”

“To Noah's.”

He grunts in disinterest. He's only been to my brother's house once. They didn't hit it off.

I set aside my mascara and fix the smudge he made. Instead of wandering away to play videogames or watch sports, Chip frowns at my reflection in the mirror.

“Why are you all dressed up?”

I'm not wearing anything fancy, just a basic skirt and top. But I took pains with my hair and makeup and it shows. I want to remind Eric what he turned down, rub it in his face a little. Chip notices the extra effort. He's got an eagle eye and a suspicious nature.

I think about lying just to avoid conflict. I've been doing that more and more these days. After a short pause, I push aside the urge and move his hands off my hips. “It's a special occasion. One of April's relatives just got out of prison.”

“Who's April?”

“Noah's wife.”

I know that Chip remembers her. He always takes note of pretty women. “I'm going with you.”

This is exactly what I was afraid of, but I don't argue. I have to pick my battles with Chip. He can be hot-tempered, depending on his mood and the amount of alcohol he's consumed. I tell myself it's not his fault. He's a dedicated athlete, big man on campus, born to a wealthy family. Guys like him expect their girlfriends to fall in line.

And I had. I did.

Chip follows me into the bedroom, where I choose a pair of ballet flats. He grabs a pair of metallic gold high heels instead. “Wear these.”

Saying nothing, I don the flashy shoes. He likes me to look a certain way when we're together. I think he enjoys having a leggy blonde on his arm. Before we leave, I glance at our reflections in the mirror. He's tall and handsome, with wavy brown hair. His jeans and polo shirt are sporty and expensive. We make an attractive couple, but there's something missing between us.

We used to have fun together. When we first met, he was hard to resist. He followed me to my car after class one day, begging for a date. He was bold and brash and full of confidence. I felt flattered. He put a lot of effort into chasing me, and I liked the attention. I liked his persistence. Of all the girls on campus, he chose me.

Our relationship hit the skids as soon as I moved in with him. Then he stopped pursuing me and started trying to control me. It's almost as if he considers me his property now that I live in his apartment. He seems to want a maid, a cook, and blowjobs on demand. I wouldn't mind taking care of his needs if he returned the favor.

Maybe I'm expecting too much from him. He is what he is, an MLB-bound superstar athlete who bats .390 and fields like a dream. He's got money to burn and family connections. I understood what I was getting into when I agreed to go out with him. There are dozens of girls who'd kill to be in my glittering sandals right now.

The problem isn't Chip. It's me. I haven't told him that I'm not happy. I've stayed quiet instead of challenging him. We have a superficial relationship, and I'm reluctant to take it deeper. After what happened with Eric, I'm not up for another heartbreak.

I can't bear to compare the two of them, either. That's why I don't want them in the same room together. There's no contest between my live-in boyfriend and the love of my life.

Stupid.

After all this time, I still have feelings for Eric. I'm worried that seeing him again will bring up bad memories—or good ones. My desire for him might come rushing back. Or maybe the opposite will happen, and I'll wonder why I ever gave him the power to hurt me.

Then
I'll
be free.

We take Chip's fancy sports car. He drives too fast, as usual. It's a twenty-minute trip from Midtown to Chula Vista, a lively San Diego suburb that skirts the border. My brother, Noah, is a homicide detective on the local police force. I like the vibrancy and mix of cultures here. Chip calls it Little Tijuana.

He parks at Noah's house, so close to the curb that I can hardly open my door. Getting out of the low-slung vehicle in a skirt and high heels is a challenge. Chip comes around to offer me a hand after I've already managed on my own.

“You look hot,” he says in my ear.

I adjust my hem and keep walking, flustered. He has this thing about PDA and making suggestive comments. I hope he acts like a gentleman while we're inside. My stomach is tied in knots and I feel like throwing up.

We go in and say hi to April. She looks fantastic, as always. Chip lays on the charm but doesn't overdo it. Noah and Eric are outside. Jenny gives me a big hug, which both distracts and soothes me.

“Eric brought me a present,” she says, showing me a colorful toy.

“Cool.” I smile and tug on one of her pigtails. She's like a little sister to me. When I lived here with April and Noah, I took care of Jenny after school. We'd make cookies and do homework together. I miss hanging out with her.

April is fluttering around the kitchen. She's got a red apron stretched over her cute belly. I wash my hands at the sink and offer my help.

“It's all done,” she says.

“How's my little
sobrino
?”

She smiles at my question. “Could be a
sobrina
.”

I predicted a boy, but I'm excited either way.

While I'm standing there, April makes a startled face and reaches for my hand, placing it on the side of her baby bump. Something moves beneath my palm and I gasp in wonder. It feels more like a somersault than a kick. She laughs at my expression.

Then Noah comes in from the backyard with a tray of carne asada. He delivers it to April, nodding hello to me and Chip. Eric follows close behind. My mouth goes dry as Eric and Chip size each other up.

God.

He looks different. Three years ago he was twenty, lean and dark and boyishly handsome. He's not boyish anymore. His shoulders are broader. He looks taller, though not quite as tall as Chip. His hair is still black, longer on top and razor-short on the sides. He's wearing new jeans with scuffed work boots and a gray button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal his tattooed forearms.

There's no sign of the brown bandanna he used to wear as a wrist cuff. He's hard-edged and guarded. Not exactly a stranger, but not the boy I knew.

Chip steps forward to greet him. “What's up, man? I'm Chip.”

“Ship?” Eric shakes his hand. “I'm Eric.”

“It's Chip,” he repeats.

“Like potato chip,” Eric says.

Noah coughs into his fist, covering a laugh, and Chip bristles as if no one has ever made this comment before. Maybe they haven't. Chip's led a charmed life. I don't think Eric is mocking him, but I can't tell. Either way, it's a rough start.

And it gets rougher the instant Eric's gaze settles on me.

My breath catches in my throat and the moment freezes in time. There's no lack of emotion between us, even after three years apart. Everything missing in my relationship with Chip is right here, simmering below the surface.

So much for letting go.

“Meghan,” he says quietly, his dark eyes skimming down my body. He curls his hands into fists and shoves them into his pockets.

I just stand there, too awkward to even say hello.

“Let's eat,” April says in a bright voice.

The actual meal portion of the dinner goes well. Eric and I sit on opposite ends of the table, ignoring each other. Noah engages Chip in a conversation about baseball. My brother doesn't like Chip, but he makes an effort to be friendly. The elephant in the room is my former relationship with Eric.

Chip is polite and pleasant, to my relief. He has an easy way with women, so April and Jenny respond well to his charisma. Noah is a tougher sell, and Eric is beyond reach. Chip doesn't heckle Eric or mad-dog him. He doesn't boast about his car or his batting average. He compliments the tacos and applies salsa too liberally. I hide a smile when his face turns red and he chugs his soda.

After dinner, Noah helps April with the dishes. My brother is a progressive type, though we were raised in a conservative Christian household. He's been over the moon since April got pregnant. He'll do anything for her.

Eric catches me watching them.

I glance away quickly, my cheeks hot. I think he likes the way I look. He always seemed to notice me above other girls, as if I were special, or prettier somehow. But that might be part of his game. After he had me, I wasn't special anymore.

Jenny tugs on my hand, a welcome distraction. “Come see my room.”

I rise from the table and follow Jenny out of the kitchen. Chip comes with us, but he ducks into the bathroom before we head upstairs. The door to the den is open. Eric must be staying in there, sleeping on my old bed.

Jenny's room is decorated with leftover balloons. She's got more than a dozen of Eric's letters on her dresser. He sent her handmade cards with beautiful, colorful drawings.

I remember the single letter I wrote him. He never responded. It was returned by the post office, unopened. I kept the scented envelope stashed in my desk. It's probably still there, waiting to be discovered. My heart stalls as I consider the embarrassing contents. That letter was full of first-love angst and nineteen-year-old hormones.

I make a squeak of panic.

“What's wrong,
Tía
?” Jenny asks.

“I have to do something,” I tell her.

Unfortunately, Eric and Chip are standing at the bottom of the staircase. I can't slip by them and sneak into the den. They both watch me come down the stairs. My skirt seems to shrink with every step. My legs are too long, the heels too high and flashy.

I feel exposed. On display.

“What were you in for?” Chip asks Eric.

“Manslaughter,” Eric replies.

“Yeah?” Chip's gaze sharpens. He's got a mean streak that translates into aggressive play on the field. Off the field, it's not an admirable quality. “Who'd you kill?”

Eric looks from Chip to me and back again. “A rival.”

Chip doesn't miss the challenge in Eric's tone. He might be a jock, but he's not dumb. His neck flushes red, like a warning flag.

“We have to go,” I say, threading my arm through Chip's. “I have a ton of studying to do. Midterms.”

Eric keeps his focus on Chip. “Sure. Thanks for coming.”

It's rude to leave without saying goodbye to April or wishing Eric good luck, but I'm worried about my ticking time-bomb boyfriend. I practically drag him out the door.

Chip doesn't appreciate my efforts. As soon as we're on the sidewalk, he takes control by gripping my arm. His fingernails dig into my flesh. I can't cry out in pain or pull away without causing a scene, so I grit my teeth and endure the rough treatment. Eric isn't the only one who might object. Noah is even more likely to throw a punch at Chip for manhandling me, and that's the last thing I want. Chip's family is litigious.

It's a short walk to Chip's car. He opens the door and lets go of my arm so I can climb in. Tears blur my vision as he gets behind the wheel and starts the engine.

“Did you fuck that wetback?”

I blink several times, stunned by his wording. Chip has never before used a racial slur in my presence.

“Did you?”

“I'm not going to talk to you until you calm down.”

He drives in sullen silence, taking the turns too fast. After a few miles, his rage seems to dissipate, evaporating as quickly as it materialized. “I'm sorry,” he says in a gruff voice. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“It's okay,” I say, even though it's not. I'm more disturbed by the offensive language he used than the pain in my arm.

“I shouldn't have said…what I said, either. That was messed up.”

I stare out the window, my throat tight. Chip is rowdy and immature. He's a year younger than me and two years younger than Eric. He's got a lot of growing up to do. His wealth and privilege have insulated him from the struggles that help build character. But at least he can acknowledge when he's wrong and apologize.

“I was with Eric a long time ago,” I say, owning up to the relationship. “You've got no reason to be jealous.”

“Did he kill a guy over you?”

“Of course not. He killed a rival gang member in a knife fight. It was self-defense.”

Eric defended me once, when I was drunk at a beach bonfire. One of my male coworkers followed me away from the crowd and attacked me. Eric stepped in and beat the hell out of him. He was my hero, dangerous and exciting.

Ironically, I met Chip under similar circumstances. Some jerk was trying to take advantage of my best friend at a frat party. When I stepped between them to protect her, the guy shoved me backward. I bumped into Chip, spilling his drink. Chip dragged the offender outside and kicked his ass. Sometimes he uses his brawn for good. I've always wondered if he cared more about his spilled drink than me or my friend, though.

“Why didn't you tell me about him?” Chip asks.

I sigh, shaking my head.

“I felt like a fool, Meg. He was laughing at me.”

“He wasn't laughing at you.”

“He was
looking
at you.”

Chip's friends also look at me, and he seems to get off on it, but I don't say that. I don't say anything else.