Chapter 12

CHAPTER

TWELVE

I n the romantic movies my mom watched, when the love interest said "Don't call me," it was code for the other character to embark on a campaign of phoning them, leaving voicemails, and turning up on their doorstep. It all culminated in an apology or romantic gesture—the more public, the better—and True Love Wins.

But this wasn't a movie. This was real life.

And real life was me pocketing my phone, grabbing my bag, and bolting from the library. I trudged back to Kappa with my scarf pulled up over my face, blaming the hot prickle of tears on the icy cold winds and not on the fact Charlie had just dumped me by text.

I pulled out my phone more than once on the walk back to Kappa, and every time I saw Charlie's message, it was a fresh punch to the gut.

I blinked hard, and the screen went blurry.

Charlie was really pissed, and I had no idea why. And it wasn't like I could ask him.

Don't call me.

It didn't get much clearer than that, and I was going to respect Charlie's wishes, obviously. But still, I couldn't shake the feeling I was missing something big. It was like I was trying to assemble a puzzle, but there was no picture on the box. Whatever was going on, I was going to have to figure it out on my own—and there was no study guide for this.

I went straight up to my room when I got back to the house and stared unseeing at my ceiling as my gut churned, and my brain played a catchy little number called "Tanner got dumped, Tanner got dumped," on repeat.

Eventually I climbed under the comforter and tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the look of betrayal on Charlie's face when I'd—what? What had I done? Brought someone new to group? Eaten a carrot stick?

It was almost as if he'd been jealous.

I blinked at the ceiling with my hands folded behind my head as I considered it.

That was ridiculous. Charlie wasn't the jealous type, was he? There had been that thing with Nash though, so maybe he was.

It would be so much easier if I could call him. We'd always talked shit through. That was what we did. But I couldn't. So instead, I tossed and turned and did my best to ignore the way my eyes stung.

I pretended to be asleep when Ethan came to bed. I didn't feel like talking right now. Soon enough, the sound of his snoring filled the room, leaving me to toss and turn some more. Sometime around three, I went downstairs and curled up on an empty couch in the living room and didn't sleep there instead.

I must have dozed, though. The next thing I knew the alarm on my phone was buzzing where I'd stuffed it in the pocket of my sleep pants. I lurched upright, rubbing a hand over my face. It took a second to figure out why I was on the couch, but then the events of last night came rushing back to me. I'd been dumped. My heart twisted, and a fresh wave of humiliation washed over me. It had no right to hurt as much as it did, and I just wanted it to stop.

I thought I maybe understood Juliet a little better now.

My alarm continued to vibrate against my thigh, and I pulled my phone out and hit the stop button. Dumped or not, Coach Larson was expecting me at the gym.

I fought through the fog of sleep deprivation and got ready, downing a protein shake before I headed out the door. I jogged over to the gym, forcing myself to set a decent pace. Practice and scrimmages started next week, and I couldn't afford to slack off, not if I wanted a chance to play.

By the time I reached the gym I was sweating despite the cold morning, but just like always, running had helped me get my head back in the game. There was still a giant ache in the middle of my chest whenever I thought about Charlie, but I did my best to ignore it. My love life had imploded, my academics were on shaky ground—although that was nothing new—so the last thing I needed was to screw up baseball as well. There was probably some sort of psychological term for focusing hard on the things you could control when the things you couldn't had turned to shit. I wasn't enough of a masochist to sign up for psych, so I had no idea what that term was, but I was about to become its poster boy. Bonus: I'd be too physically and mentally wiped from a big workout to obsess about Charlie for at least a little while.

Nash arrived minutes after me and gave me a smile that was far too wide for fuck o'clock in the morning, and I managed to return it—mainly because I didn't want him asking what was wrong. If he did, there was no guarantee I wouldn't open my mouth and spill my guts about Charlie, and somewhere in the back of my head I'd convinced myself that if I didn't say I'd been dumped out loud, it wasn't real. There was probably a psychological term for that as well, and I think it was named after a river in Egypt.

I also hadn't taken geography though.

Coach Larson gave me an approving grunt as I worked my hardest at killing myself on the leg press .

Nash, beside me, had worked up a sweat but was nowhere as close to a cardiac event as I was. "Are you okay, bro?"

I wheezed out a lie.

I was fine. I was great. I was fantastic .

Charlie who?

For the rest of the workout, I pushed myself until my lungs burned, and my muscles were screaming at me. I wobbled to the showers afterward, as shaky as a newborn deer, and treated myself to a Gatorade under the spray.

"That's disgusting," Nash said as he wandered in. "Doesn't it make the Gatorade all hot?"

"S'fine," I said, even though he was right.

He shot me a suspicious look as he tugged off his sweaty shirt. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." Just guzzling my hot shower Gatorade like a totally normal person.

Nash snorted, dropped his shorts, and stepped under the shower next to mine. "Whatever. Hey, do you think Charlie is okay?"

"What?" I jolted, spilling Gatorade down my front.

"After the way he left study group," Nash said. He spat out a mouthful of water. "What was up with that?"

"I don't know," I said. Good fucking question though. What was up with that?

"Me and Awa went and got coffee," he said. "Nobody stuck around after Charlie left. Chris said he was going to check in with him, but maybe we should too."

My gut twisted up in an unpleasant way that was only tangentially related to drinking hot Gatorade. "Uh."

Nash turned to stare at me. "What? What ‘uh'? The fuck is going on with you?" His expression shifted. "Holy shit. Is there something happening with you and Charlie? Are?—"

"Shut up!" We weren't the only ones in the showers, but there was enough space between us and Kenny and Linc that I hoped they couldn't hear. I sent Nash an imploring look. "It's... it's complicated, okay?"

"I'll bet it's not," he said. "Spill, asshole."

"Not here," I said, nodding toward the other guys.

"Fine," he said. "But once we're out of here, you're telling me everything."

And I did.

Ten minutes later, shivering a little in the cold, we walked toward the central part of campus, and I told Nash the whole pathetic story. He was right; it wasn't really complicated. I'd kissed a boy at a party, then discovered him here at Lassiter, and we'd kind-of-but-not-really dated. Right up until yesterday when I'd somehow wrecked it.

"And you really don't know what you did?" Nash asked.

"If I did, I'd be doing something about it. But I don't. Unless Charlie's secretly the insanely jealous type, and he lost it because Ethan came to study group?"

Nash chewed his bottom lip. "That doesn't really sound like Charlie."

He was right; it didn't.

"We'll figure it out," he said staunchly. Then he ruined the sentiment by adding, "Fuck if I know though. This is why I'm single and carefree."

"I thought you were single because you didn't like college boys."

"Single and carefree," he repeated, like he didn't hear me at all, and slung an arm around my shoulders as we continued on our way.

For the next three days I tried to distract myself by focusing on my training. I went to the gym early and worked out extra, drank my protein shakes, and ate my chicken and broccoli. I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead when my afternoon runs took me past Alpha Tau, and I definitely didn't slow down and cast longing glances at Charlie's window. I avoided the library so I wouldn't accidentally run into Charlie. I was pretty sure I was going to have to quit study group as well.

I was miserable as fuck.

Then, on Friday night, Ethan wandered into the living room, kicked an empty beer can across the floor hard enough that it clattered all the way out into the hallway, and said, "The fuck is wrong with your face, bro?"

He didn't wait for me to answer.

"Get the fuck off of that couch," he said. "We're going to a party."

"Nah, I'm good," I said. "I don't want to go out. We have our first scrimmage tomorrow."

It should have been the high point of my week, but I couldn't get excited about it. Before he'd dumped me, I'd had some wild fantasy about Charlie sneaking into the bleachers and watching me play. There was no way that was happening now.

Ethan got right up in my face. "Bro. We. Are going. To a party ."

Ugh.

Well, what-the-fuck-ever, right? It wasn't as though I cared either way, and at least getting out of the house would get me a change of scenery. I could feel like shit with new and interesting people. "Fine. Can I bring Nash?"

"The fuck is Nash?"

"He's on the baseball squad with me," I said.

Ethan shrugged. "Sure. I don't care. Just get your ass outside in ten minutes."

Okay then.

"Not that I'm not honored to be invited," Nash said in an undertone fifteen minutes later, squeezed into the backseat of Ethan's truck with me and Ethan's buddy Fisher, "but why are we suddenly going to parties with your roommate?"

"Because he's a miserable fuck, and I'm sick of looking at his sad face," Ethan said from the driver's seat, and Graham, who was riding shotgun, laughed.

"Yeah, dude," Fisher said. "You've been our brother for months, and you never come and party. This is an intervention!"

I didn't think that was how interventions worked, but I kept my mouth shut. I already regretted agreeing to this—not that Ethan had given me much choice.

"Who wants snacks?" Ethan asked, twisting around to look at me over his shoulder. "Tanner, my bro, you look like you need snacks!"

With a squeal of the brakes, we pulled into a parking spot at the side of the road. It took me a second to realize exactly where we were. We were parked across the road from Hole Foods. Graham and Fisher were both laughing now.

Nash and I shared a confused look, and Nash said, "Donuts? Me and Tanner don't eat donuts."

"Yeah you do," Ethan said, swinging his door open.

Fisher jumped out of the truck, then stood looking at me. "Y'all coming?" He leaned in and unclipped my seatbelt. Then he yanked on my arm, pulling me halfway out of the truck.

I scrambled to catch my balance and managed to land on my feet. Before I had a chance to object, he had an arm around my shoulders and was corralling me over the road toward Hole Foods. I glanced over my shoulder at Nash, who was following, and he shot me a look that very clearly said what the fuck?

The bell over the door jangled loudly as Ethan pushed his way into the busy store. Fisher was hot on his heels with me in tow. There were probably a dozen people waiting, but that didn't stop Ethan from shoving his way to the counter. "Hey!" he said loudly.

Charlie glanced up from where he was bagging a donut. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he froze with his tongs midair. Even in his godawful pink hat and shirt, the sight of him had butterflies swooping in my gut. It had only been four days, but I missed him so fucking much.

I gave him an uncertain smile, and part of me hoped he'd smile back or nod or even scrunch up his nose in that cute way he did when he was surprised—anything to acknowledge that maybe he missed me like I missed him. But he blinked once, then ducked his head and turned his attention back to his customer like I didn't even exist.

My chest ached, and I wanted to ask him what the fuck was going on and why he hated me, but I couldn't. Not here. Not now.

I forced myself to look away.

Ethan rapped on the glass case with his knuckles right in front of where Charlie was working, and I cringed. I'd worked my share of shifts at a burger joint in high school, but even if I hadn't, I knew shitty behavior when I saw it.

His coworker, a cute, dark-haired girl with a lip piercing, said, "The end of the line is by the door."

"I just want some donuts," Ethan said, fixing her with a broad smile.

"So does everyone else in the line," the girl said, pointing to the door. Her face clearly said try me.

"Whoa," Ethan said, and showed her his palms.

"Let's just go," Nash said. He grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pulled me toward the door. "Come on."

I caught Charlie's gaze, and it was like looking at a stranger. There was no expression there that I could read at all, just a stony stare that somehow felt worse than his anger would have.

"Sorry," I said. He probably didn't hear me.

The bells on the door jangled again as Nash and I stepped back out into the street.

"Bro," Nash said. His eyes were wide. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"I don't know," I said. I was suddenly queasy, and I wasn't entirely sure why. Everything just seemed off, but then again, everything had felt that way since Charlie had told me not to call him. That had knocked the wind out of me, and I hadn't caught my breath, or my balance, since.

"Your roommate is a dick," Nash said.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that."

"Tan, let's skip their dumb party," he said. "It's gonna suck."

I was starting to get that too.

"You wanna go back to campus?" I asked. "Maybe throw a ball around?"

Relief spread over his face. "Fuck, yeah."

A few moments later, Ethan and Fisher and Graham tumbled out of the store. They didn't have donuts, but Fisher had a paper napkin, which he ripped up into pieces before tossing it into the air like confetti.

"Woo! Party time!" Fisher crowed.

"About that," Nash said. "Like, thanks for inviting me and stuff, but me and Tanner are gonna head back to campus."

"What?" Ethan exclaimed. "It's gonna be a blast! Why not?"

"Because you're a dick," Nash said. "You and your bros here." He pointed at the bits of napkin on the ground. "That's littering. Are you a toddler, expecting your momma to come pick up after you?"

Fisher's jaw dropped.

"There's no call for that," Nash continued, "just like there was no reason to push into that line. Were y'all raised without manners? Jesus fucking Christ."

They stared at him like they were wondering what in the hell was happening and why some guy they'd only just met was schooling them on their behavior. I was wondering the same thing. Who guessed Nash felt so passionately about littering? I bet he also hated those people who didn't put their carts back in the store parking lot. And you know what? He was right to. It was plain selfish and inconsiderate. Which also described Ethan and his buddies to a tee .

Nash was right. Whatever party they were dragging us to, it was going to be awful.

"We're going back to campus," I said. "See you guys around."

I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and walked away. Nash fell into step beside me. It was a long walk back to campus, but it wasn't like we were stupid enough to ask Ethan for a lift. Pretty sure we'd burned our bridges there. Pretty sure that neither of us cared.

"You say fuck a lot for someone who cares so much about manners," I said at one point.

"Fuck is just a word," he said. "Manners are your actions."

He had a point, I guessed.

"What the hell were you thinking agreeing to go to a party anyway?" he asked me as we finally reached the large "Welcome to Lassiter" sign on the eastern entrance to campus. "It's our first scrimmage tomorrow. I'm definitely going to be in bed by ten!"

"I wasn't going to stay long. I was just tired of sitting either on the couch or in my room." I elbowed him. "What the hell were you thinking by saying you'd come with me, then?"

"You're a mess," he said, "and your not-really-boyfriend just kind of broke up with you. I'm not going to let you go get stupid drunk to try to fix your broken heart. I'm pitcher, and you're shortstop, Tan. I don't want anyone else standing next to me out on that field tomorrow when it should be you."

I was silent for a moment, letting those words sink in. Then I said, "I don't actually stand next to you on the field, you know."

He punched me in the arm and rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. I don't want anyone else standing behind me and to my right. Better?"

"I don't even know if Coach will give me a shot," I said.

Nash threw an arm around my shoulders. "You've worked your ass off this week. You know he will. You' re just overthinking it."

When we reached Fraternity Row I went up to my room and looked for my spare glove. At first, I couldn't find it and had to dig around in the pile of papers and shit on my desk. I moved a folder to one side and caught a flash of red paper. Charlie's Christmas present sat there, the bow flattened and the paper crumpled. I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat and blinked hard against the prickling sting of tears.

No. I wasn't going to do this.

I dropped into the chair and shoved the parcel off the edge of the desk. It hit the ground with a thump, and sitting underneath it was my glove. I guessed there was some kind of analogy there or symbolism or whatever one it was. Maybe it was another word entirely.

Yes, I still needed English tutoring, and no, I wasn't going to think about where I was going to find that now.

I grabbed my glove and the ball that was always nestled in the palm, and the familiarity of the leather against my skin made me feel a little better. I blew out a long breath and headed out front to where Nash was waiting.

We wandered over to Gamma Kappa's wide front lawn, exchanging a few easy catches to warm up. The steady thwock of ball against glove settled something in my chest. Once we'd warmed up, I sent Nash a throw with more force.

He stretched his glove skyward and made the catch. He grinned, his teeth flashing bright under the streetlights, and I took a couple of steps back so we had room to throw properly.

We exchanged catches like that for a while, picking up momentum, until we were throwing harder than we should have been on the street at night. But hey, we were having fun.

After a throw that he struggled to catch, Nash let out a long breath, hands on his hips, and said, "Game on."

"How's the arm, pitcher?" I called.

"You want a pitch?"

I crouched. I was no catcher, but I could hold my own. "Bring it. "

Nash wound up and sent the ball flying in my direction. And it might have been the light, or he might have been distracted by the car engine revving as someone took off down the street, but whatever the reason, Nash sent the pitch straight at my face. I dodged instinctively—thank you, years of avoiding deliberate bullshit throws from Colt—and the ball whistled past my ear and, with a loud thunk, hit a truck parked out on the street.

The car alarm began to wail.

Nash ran over to me, one hand clutching at his chest. "Holy shit. My bad."

My heart raced. "That—you hit that truck!"

"Uh, yeah," Nash said. "But bro, I almost hit you ! I could have taken you out! Let's make a pact to never tell Coach we were doing this without a mask."

"No, you hit a truck!" I said, my heart sinking as I registered very familiar shade of orange. "Nash, you hit Marty O'Brien's truck."

Nash shrugged. "Marty's cool."

"He really is not."

Nash cocked his head. "Of course he is. I'll tell him it was my fault, and I'll pay for it, and my mom will kick my ass because I don't have any money, so she'll actually have to pay for it, and I'll be hearing ‘What have I always said about playing in the street, Nash?' for the rest of my life. But me and Marty? It'll be sweet."

It sounded fake to me, but Nash seemed pretty certain. Mind you, everyone loved Nash, so maybe he and Marty were sweet.

The alarm continued to wail.

"I guess we should go look?" Nash asked.

I trailed across the street after him, wincing as the door to Alpha Tau opened and a couple of the guys came out.

"Marty!" one of them called, and Marty O'Brien burst through the front door in a flurry of color and movement. He was wearing an orange and purple Hawaiian shirt that should have clashed with everything in the known universe—and it did. It really, really did.

Marty pointed his fob at the truck, and the alarm stopped.

"Hey, Marty," Nash called, jogging over to him. "My bad, bro. I was practicing pitching, and I hit your truck."

"I get it," Marty said. "Shit happens."

What?

Maybe Nash had hit me in the head and this was all a fever dream. It would certainly explain the existence of that shirt Marty was wearing. It was the stuff of nightmares.

Then Marty saw me, and his expression shifted into something terrifying and warlike.

"This is Tanner," Nash said, as though Marty didn't already know exactly who I was, and vice versa. "He's in the baseball squad. He's cool."

"Uh," I said, and gave a lame wave. "Hey."

Marty narrowed his eyes and inspected his truck for damage.

"Can't see anything," another guy said. He had dark hair that was a little wild but nowhere near as wild as Marty's. He also had another guy stuck to his hip—Briar, Charlie's roommate. Briar was wearing a lacy cream sweater and leggings. It worked for him. "You sure you hit it?"

"I think so," Nash said. "The alarm went off."

Briar detached himself from the guy and scooped the baseball out of the gutter. "Maybe it bounced off a tire or something?"

"Yeah, maybe," Marty said, using the flashlight on his phone to check the truck over. He cast me a suspicious glare. "Did you throw the ball?"

"Nah," Nash said before I could deny it. "Tanner can't pitch for shit. It was all me."

I'd let him get away with the trash talk just this once if it saved me from Marty's ire.

Briar smirked. "So he's a catcher? "

Nash shrugged. "I dunno, bro. We're purely platonic."

Briar raised his eyebrows.

Marty burst out laughing and so did Briar's boyfriend, which was when I finally figured out what Briar had meant. And it didn't feel like Marty or anyone was making fun of me—they were just laughing because what Nash had said was genuinely funny.

And hey, maybe Briar was right about me catching. I still had no idea. Charlie was the only guy I'd wanted to figure that out with, so we could discover what we liked together. He was special, and I'd messed it up without even understanding how.

"So, if you find any damage, let me know, and I'll make it right," Nash said, and he and Marty shook hands.

Briar walked over to me, holding the ball out.

I took it. "Thanks," I said. And then, "Um, if you see Charlie..."

He waited and then said, "If I see him, what?"

My face burned. "Nothing, sorry. Just, I'm sorry."

Charlie didn't want to hear from me, and I needed to respect that. My throat ached, and my eyes stung, but I tried not to let it show in my expression how miserable I was and how embarrassingly close to tears I felt. I didn't trust myself to speak again, so I tore my gaze away from Briar's and looked at the ground instead.

Nash clapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, thanks, you guys," he said. "For being cool."

"We're always cool," Briar's boyfriend said.

"That's not the word down at Gamma Kappa," Nash said, and everyone laughed again. "Have a good night, y'all."

And then we headed back to the other side of the street, and the Alpha Taus went inside.

An exchange with the Alpha Taus that had been friendly, funny, and hadn't ended in threats to get campus police involved?

Weird.