Chapter Twenty-Nine
My body was on fire, and my head was still pounding, when Peters dropped me off at my dorm.
He woke me in the early morning while everyone was still asleep. On our way to my dorm, he pulled through a drive-up coffee place. Peters ordered me a coffee, and when I questioned why he didn’t order one, he said he didn’t drink coffee. I told him to stop being nice to me, and he said he’d never stop, which made me even more flustered and nervous.
Twice, he put his hand on my knee.
The first time, I swatted it off, and he laughed. The second time, I let him leave it there. I felt ridiculous in his T-shirt, and I’d borrowed a pair of his boxers. When his hand inched closer to the boxers’ trap door, I crossed my legs, blocking his access. He peered over at me with an exaggerated frown, but it soon erupted into his signature Gray Peters charming smile.
During the car ride, I glanced at my phone several times, expecting a news flash to come across the screen. And I peeked up to the sky a handful of times, expecting to see the Goodyear blimp overhead with a lit-up sign: Sunday Lane is Sydney Porter… Murder… Death… Kill.
Realistically, it was still too early for my dream wrecker to learn Jack didn’t in fact sleep with one of the Shrieking T’s, but it was just a matter of time. The saddest part, though? I was beginning to dread Peters finding out more than the rest of the student body. For all our faults, I had fun with him, and the way he looked at me was fast melting my ice-bitch heart.
All week, I waited for my impending doom.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
The only thing out of the ordinary was Allison’s absence. At first, I thought she was staying with Jack, but when my texts bounced back, I knew something was up.
Peters started texting on a regular basis. He’d make an excellent telemarketer, always popping up at the most inconvenient time. I tried to avoid him. Let’s face it, at this point, I would eventually be exposed, and he’d hate me along with fifty percent of the campus. But despite my best efforts, I was thawing under his attention so much Sunday Lane stopped talking about him altogether.
In true awkward trying-to-rekindle-something-I-wasn’t-sure-was-lit-in-the-first-place fashion, his texts were slow and innocent.
Saturday…
Microdick: At our away game. Thought I’d check in to see if you still hate me.
Syd: It doesn’t help that you’re texting me at three in the morning.
Sunday…
Microdick: Just studying. Wondering if you know how to find the sine of a right triangle?
Syd: That’s easy. To find the sine of a right triangle, you GO TO MATH CLASS, MEATHEAD.
I had to sigh, but two seconds later, I sent him a record-breaking second text.
Syd: Good night, Peters.
Microdick: It’d be a better night if I had someone to cuddle with.
Syd: I just sent Fernando a text. He’ll be by in a minute.
Reply was a sad face emoji.
Monday…
Microdick: Thought I’d change your name on my phone? What do you suggest?
Syd: How about YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE
Peters: No. I was thinking something more endearing… like antichrist. Promise you’ll change mine?
Syd: That has a nice ring to it… No way, Jose.
But I did.
Peters: Do you ever eat?
Syd: Yes, most people eat, Peters.
Peters: Would you consider eating a meal with me?
I held the phone in my hand, rereading the sentence until the message hit my brain. A date?
Syd: I don’t know. Give me 24 hours
On Tuesday, I was beginning an extra set at the SpaceRoom when Nick set a drink down on the stage. He looked especially good tonight. He was wearing a fitted white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his tatted arms, and black-rimmed glasses, which made him look like a bookish, hot nuclear physicist. Needless to say, it was distracting.
“Greyhound,” he said softly. “I fresh-squeezed the grapefruit. Didn’t get a chance to get you a proper birthday drink the other night.” With a small frown, he turned away and started a slow, steady death row walk back toward the bar. You know the one, shoulders drooped and shuffling his feet like he had five pounds of chain attached.
“Nick,” I yelled, and he whipped around, throwing his hands in his jean pockets. When he gave me those puppy eyes and rocked back and forth on his heels, I nearly melted. “I’m sorry about the other night… Peters was just being a turd… Maybe we could do it again sometime?” I gave him a small, hopeful smile.
He slowly nodded, eyes searing my body until I pulled at my top to release the building steam. “Yeah. Get your shit together, Sydney.”
His words caught me off guard, but he gave me a quick smile. “Hurry up and figure out Peters is an asshole. You know where I’ll be.” He flipped back around just as a patron approached the bar.
Conflicted.
I was conflicted.
The possibility of being with Nick terrified me. He was always an untouchable fantasy. Something to strive for when I was in my late twenties and hot, because I’d be more sexually experienced and confident. Never in a million years would I have predicted his interest now.
Then there was Peters.
Peters, who was beginning to grow on me like some sexy quarterback mold over my rye bread exterior. Not the best analogy, but he made me feel soft and fuzzy all over.
The night I spent in his room, he’d made me feel safe and respected. Not something I was expecting at all. His arms around me felt like home, but a home that would eventually burn to the ground once Sunday Lane’s true identity was out.
Nick, on the other hand, had never been a topic of my airwave diatribes. I’d put him in a special place, for my view only, but the more I opened my eyes, the less I seemed to care.
Two years earlier…
Gray and I spent the last three hours talking about everything.
We talked about what we loved, but not who we were. It was refreshing to not be asked a million questions about my home life or my dreams. We both thought we were keeping our conversation simple, but it was so much more than that. There’s a level trust you agree to when you admit the things you love. What you love is telling of who you are and what you value.
Gray loved old people because they smelled like mint and had the best stories. He loved football, but he wasn’t in love with football. When I told him I didn’t understand the difference, he smiled and picked at his pillowcase cover. “I guess I love football because it got me here,” he’d said, “but there’s other things in life I love more.”
When I asked him what, his answer was tuna fish sandwiches. Tuna in water, not oil. When I told him tuna was gross, he said he was starving for one and headed back to my nether regions. So I slapped him lightly in the face, which led to another round of mind-blowing s-e-x. Like up against the headboard, I’ll probably need a chiropractor, and I know I’ll need an icepack later sex.