The Next Forever (4 page)

I sat on the cement stairs and looked down. I was already under suspicion from Steve. If I went back upstairs, there was no way in hell this frat would let me in. What kind of guy ran away from half-naked girls?

If I went back upstairs, this would be over. I couldn’t go back upstairs.

The thin girl walked up and sat next to me on the step. Far enough away so our legs weren’t touching. She pulled her blond hair on top of her chest. It flashed on and off in the strobe light.

I could feel her next to me. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck seemed to pulsate with each beat of my heart, which was pounding like a jackhammer in my chest.

This girl made me nervous.

“I’m supposed to come over and talk to you,” she said, looking at her bare knees—as small and smooth as her breasts.

“Who says?” I asked, trying to play it cool but fearing I was failing miserably.

“Deanna,” she said, indicating the vase-shaped girl; she and Steve had moved from flirtatious dance to heavy make-out. He had a hand on each of her boobs like they would fall off if he let go.

“I doubt she’d notice,” I said, looking at my own knees. My pants were wrinkled. Not that I usually cared because I usually didn’t stare at my knees
or
iron my pants, but I noticed it now because her skin next to me was so smooth by comparison.

“You don’t want me to talk to you?” she asked, her brown eyes big like the bottom end of two Hershey’s kisses, melted and dabbed on her face. She might have seemed timid from across the room, but once she got next to me that changed. Apparently she realized she didn’t have to be.

“I have a girlfriend,” I said again, which let me know it had less to do with telling other people and more to do with reminding myself.

She looked around the basement. “Is she here?”

“She would never be here,” I said. “She hates frats.”

The girl looked at me like it didn’t compute. I understood. It didn’t really compute with me, either, but it was also one of the things I loved about Amy. She did what she wanted, at least when it came to me.

“Is she a loser?” the girl asked.

“No, she’s just—” I paused. “Different.”

“That’s a nice way of saying loser,” she said, still looking at me with those eyes, sizing me up. She thought my girlfriend was a loser, so I was a loser. I didn’t care. I didn’t need to prove anything to
her.

“Dancing around with a guy’s wet undershirt on is very cool,” I said sarcastically.

“Hey, no one down here seems to be complaining,” she said.

I didn’t respond. She was right. I
wasn’t
complaining.

“My name’s Emily,” she said.

“Joe,” I said.

“I may be stupid enough to dance around in a wet T-shirt,” she joked, “but I can read your name tag.” She flicked it the same way Steve had. The difference was her touch made the heart that it covered race yet again. She was a half-naked girl touching me. Girlfriend or no girlfriend, I was a guy.

“Why are you dancing around in a wet T-shirt?” I asked, leaving out
and your underwear
, because there was no way I could pull off talking to some girl I barely knew about her underwear.

“Sometimes you do things you don’t want to do to get what you want, you know?”

I did know, but I hoped my thing wouldn’t involve being naked. “You can put your real shirt back on if you want,” I said.

“I didn’t take it off for you,” she responded.

I looked around the basement for a pile of clothes. “You don’t know where it is, do you?”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” she asked, not wanting to answer, which let me know I was right.

“You got a beer on you?” I joked. I would have taken it then. Wouldn’t have really cared if she saw my hand shake as I drank it—turned it into a fizzy, frothy milkshake as I tried to swallow it down. I wanted to do anything other than try not to look at her bare thighs, as pale as sunlight.

“Now that would be a trick,” Emily said.

“I feel like I should be talking to some of the frat brothers or something,” I said, trying on her what hadn’t worked on Steve.

“They don’t want to talk to you,” she said. “They want you to look good and be willing to do what they say and keep your mouth shut.”

I thought about Amy. It was weird, but a lot of times I felt like that was what I expected from her. Aside from the mouth-shut part. But really it was because it was what was best for her. I just wanted her to make the right decisions to keep her safe.

“How long do you think I have to stay down here?” I asked, grabbing my phone from my back pocket. I kind of thought I’d find a text from Amy, but considering I’d lied to her, it wasn’t like I deserved it. Considering I’d asked her to move in with me like a scared little boy and she’d sucked down into herself like a turtle, it’s not like I expected it.

“It’s not seven minutes in heaven,” Emily said. “You’re free to go, but you have to think about how that will look.”

She was right, so I sat there. It was nice to blame it on not wanting to look bad in front of Steve or the other brothers, but I couldn’t ignore how the smell of vanilla coming from her hair was making me dizzy.

“Anyway, we’re in this together for the next few hours. Unless you’d rather I find someone else,” she said, her hands on her knees.

I looked around the basement at the other guys down there. Guys who it was clear would probably do things to Emily that she really wouldn’t want to do, but that she would do because sometimes you did things you didn’t want to do to get what you wanted.

If she kept talking to me, it was going to be hard not to turn into one of those guys.

Chapter Four

Amy

I might have felt uneasy around Trevor, but I was less so when we got to the party. We stood in the street, staring at the house. It was one of those off-campus places where people lived when they didn’t live in the dorms anymore—where I would have already agreed to move with Joe next semester if I hadn’t been such a jerk.

Kids, music, and light were seemingly bulging out of the house like worms from a rotten apple. It didn’t look much different from a high school party. Except the house was way shittier, there were way more people, and at least half of them could legally drink.

“The party,” Trevor said, and sort of bowed. His hair fell in his face.

It was the first thing either of us had said in minutes. Maybe he felt like he needed to say something. Felt like he needed to remind me that I had agreed to come here with him, even if the way I was acting might indicate second thoughts.

And third and fourth and fifth thoughts.

I continued to look up at the house. There were so many people inside it appeared to be bursting at the seams—a pair of pants that someone definitely had to unbutton when he sat down. I was standing as far away from Trevor as I could and still be able to claim we were indeed together. If he had to push me out of the way of an oncoming car, it was unlikely he would make it in time. I would be car guts.

Served me right.

“Looks fun,” I said, wishing I could stuff the words back down. Most of the reason I hadn’t spoken on our walk, aside from being stuck in the mud of the guilt swamp in my own head, was because I said stupid shit a lot.

Later, I always thought about smart shit to say, but when I was talking it was like my mouth was several IQ points lower than my brain—a stupid sibling that everyone hoped would marry rich.

I know college was supposed to make me feel more confident and independent—at least that was what everyone said—but I’m pretty sure I hadn’t been here long enough for any of that to take. I also couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it would never take.

Trevor didn’t respond, just watched me like his eyes had X-ray vision. Like seeing me naked wasn’t good enough; he wanted to see my bones, too, the particles that made up my bones.

But I mean, how should he have responded?
Golly gee
,
I sure hope it is fun. I love fun parties.

He was probably too busy having a conversation in his head that was no doubt eerily similar to the one in mine, the one asking,
What the hell am I doing here?

He continued to watch me like I was a match he couldn’t light. I was disappointing him. I could tell.

The thing is that it was good I was disappointing him. It was when I
stopped
that I would have to be worried.

We walked in, the music so loud I could feel it in my throat. The kind of thumping house music they played at bars. Too loud to have a real conversation so instead you just keep drinking and end up leaving with someone so you can “talk” and end up not talking at all.

We could not leave to talk.

“I’m getting a beer. You want one?” Trevor asked, not stopping to hear my answer.

I was glad. I might not have wanted one, but I definitely needed one.

I’d already failed the alcohol test, but I also knew there was really a harder test I needed to be concerned about passing:
Will I make it through the night and still be a faithful girlfriend?

Will my panic at hearing Joe’s question make me ruin everything?

The room was filled with the kids I would usually see on the quad, phones stuck to their hands like a compass as they walked from class to class with their backpacks on. Here they had their cup in one hand, phone in the other, standing in buzzing circles and ovals and figure eights like the room was a vein, the alcohol was blood, and they were cells.

Where the hell did that come from? Maybe I don’t need that beer after all.

I walked to the corner of the room and waited behind two girls in super-short skirts who were drawing what they thought would be the “coolest tattoo” on the biceps of some guy in a straw cowboy hat. It didn’t look like a tattoo; it looked like tear-stained mascara running down his arm.

I’d never worn a skirt that short and I wondered if they had to get drunk before they could even put them on, or if they were just extra drunk now.

I pulled out my phone, realizing I hadn’t checked it the whole walk. That it had taken so much concentration to put one foot in front of the other with Trevor and not run back to my dorm room and throw up in my trash can that I’d totally forgotten about it.

Still no text or call from Joe, which was odd but not unheard of. I was selfishly glad. It would have made me feel guiltier than I already did, if that were possible. Though considering I couldn’t stop thinking about him that night, I doubted it.

I started to text him but stopped. What if he said,
I’m bored. I’ll come over
.

That wasn’t unheard of, either. He did need to study, but I also knew that he blew it off for me a lot. Probably more than he realized. Not that his grades showed it, but imagine how much better he would be doing in school if I hadn’t followed him here.

If he hadn’t chosen a school we had both gotten into.

Trevor still hadn’t returned, but luckily I knew how to hold my own at a party without looking like a total mutant. I’d been to plenty of parties in high school. Sure, college parties were supposed to be bigger and wilder but I knew the drill: grab a cup, hold it, nod or shake your head when people offered you other things depending on how cute they were or how fucked up you wanted to be. That was amended when your friends were doing something. You had to do it, too.

Luckily, I didn’t have any friends here, since the things I did because my friends were doing them back in Collinsville had gotten me arrested.

I could only hope that Trevor wouldn’t offer me anything other than beer. There was no way I could call Joe to bail me out of jail.

Trevor came back with two red plastic cups in his hands and a friend at his side.

Thank goodness.

“This is Amy. She lives in my dorm,” Trevor said, pointing at me. “This is Pete. I jam with him sometimes,” Trevor finished, pointing at the friend.

“What’s up?” Pete yelled above the music. He reminded me of one of those guys in the jazz band in high school, dark smoky eyes, lips most comfortable on a trombone.

I nodded. I knew he wasn’t really expecting me to answer him, so I didn’t.

“You got any cute friends?” Pete asked, not wasting any time.

“No,” I said, not adding,
I have no friends
, which is what I was thinking. I took a sip of my beer, realizing too late I should have said,
Yeah, Trevor
.

My stupid mouth had betrayed me again. If I could rewind the moment, I totally would have said that. Of course, if I could rewind the moment, I could rewind this whole night and I might not have ended up here to begin with.

“Thanks a lot,” Pete said, looking at Trevor with slit eyes.

“Since when am I your matchmaker?” Trevor asked, his hand tight around his beer cup.

“You bring someone for yourself and leave me hanging,” Pete said, quiet enough that I probably wasn’t supposed to hear above the music, but I did.

“I’m not here for him,” I said, and then took a long drink of my beer so I didn’t have to say anything else.

Whether it was true or not, I needed to say it.

“You sure about that, bad girl?” Trevor stared at me.

My neck felt hot, my throat empty of breath. I wasn’t sure, especially if he kept calling me
bad girl
like that.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, smiling at Pete.

I tried to step back from Trevor, but there were so many people that there wasn’t enough room. We were standing so close now. Close enough that I could smell the cigarette smoke on him and hear the faint swish of his leather jacket as he moved. He could have saved my life now if he had to, which was ironic because standing so close to him could quickly end mine.

“You play or sing?” Pete asked me, possibly hoping for something for us to talk about besides his sex life and mine.

“No, not me,” I said, taking another long drink.

“You don’t play or sing and you’re not here for him. So what the hell are you doing here?” Pete asked, his eyes sparkling. I understood he was joking. I understood this was the kind of talk that happened when beer was being drunk, but his question still hit me right in the gut.

What was I doing there?

What the hell am I doing there?

Answer 1:
I was bored.

Answer 2:
I was invited.

Answer 3:
My boyfriend just asked me to move in with him and instead of saying yes, I came to a party with another guy.

Answer 4 (and the one I didn’t want to even consider):
I’m a shitty girlfriend on the brink of being even shittier.

I looked at my phone again.

“Waiting for your boyfriend to call?” Trevor asked, his lips so close to my cheek he could have kissed it without even moving.

“No,” I said.

“Hoping he won’t call?” he asked, his lips even closer.

“What?” I asked.

“Maybe that’s just me,” Trevor purred. “You, me, and my hat have an appointment later.”

“You can shove your hat,” I said, finally able to attempt to defend myself against his advances.

“Just tell me where, bad girl.”

I felt like such a dork, but I really liked it when he called me
bad girl
—liked it in the lower part of my stomach, which let me know I
was
such a dork. Which let me know I was in trouble.

Pete laughed and turned to Trevor. “A girl with a boyfriend? At least you have one hand tied behind your back, too.”

I wanted,
needed
a girl to talk to. Unsure if I would spill everything or just needed a place to hide, I let them know I was headed for the bathroom. Unfortunately it wasn’t until after I said it that I realized it was the second time in less than an hour that I’d said the word
bathroom
to Trevor. Forget even having a choice to reject him—I was doing just fine getting him to do that on his own.
When I think of Amy, I think of her using the bathroom. Maybe she’s majoring in plumbing.

I fought through the crowd, my cup held high so it wouldn’t spill. Just as I suspected, there was a line for the bathroom and girls were in it. There was something about standing in line for the bathroom that made it okay to talk to people you didn’t know. There was something about an unnamed shot from a flask and an almost finished beer that made it okay to talk to anyone.

“I hate waiting in line,” I said to the girl next to me. It was true and it wasn’t like I knew what else to say. It’s not like I could start with,
I am a gigantic whore
.

“Yeah,” she said, turning to me. She had flame-dipped red hair, definitely from a jar, and eyes so blue they made my teeth hurt.

“Is there another bathroom?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going. What I really wanted to ask was,
What am I doing here? How could I do this to Joe? Why did I agree to even come? Why am I still here?
But she barely seemed interested in talking to me as is.

“I wish,” she said. She looked around like she wanted to find that other bathroom just so I’d stop talking to her.

But I couldn’t. I was a little drunk and when I’m a little drunk, I ignore the social cues life’s stage manager is giving me. This one was clearly,
Move on
.

“I’m afraid I’m going to cheat on my boyfriend,” I said, amazed how easily it came out of my mouth.

“What?” she asked, her head spinning so fast to look at me it might have launched across the room if it wasn’t attached.
Now
she was interested. I knew drama could make anyone your new best friend. I needed a new best friend, even if it was for just as long as it took the girls in front of us to finish peeing.

“I’m here with someone who isn’t my boyfriend,” I said, hoping that would make more sense.

“Naughty,” she teased. “Which one is he?” She twirled her hair around her finger so tightly her skin was turning as red as her hair.

“Does it matter?” I asked, feeling a bit like I was being interrogated, even though I was clearly asking for it.

“Um, yeah it matters. If he’s superhot, I say go for it. You only live once, right?” She held her cup high. “YOLO!” She laughed and took a drink.

“YOLO,” I repeated, not nearly with the force she’d said it. More like I was responding with
here
in class.

“So,” she said, leaning in to me, “who’s the lucky guy?”

“That’s him,” I said, pointing to where Trevor was standing. It was obvious even from this far away that he was indeed superhot. His blond hair fell just to his eyes, his worn leather jacket fit snug enough that you could see the muscles in his arms, the jeans he wore perfectly framed his ass, and he stood like the floor was lucky to have him on top of it.

I would say pretty much any girl in the room would be lucky to have him on top of her.

He wanted me to be his
bad girl
, and I liked that he wanted it—more than liked it.

“Do it,” she said, her breath hot in my ear.