Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (32 page)

Walking back into the party was easier than it should've been. I'm sure it's largely due to the vast amount of alcohol I've ingested tonight, but I'd be lying if I said that saying some of that shit to her wasn't the hardest fucking thing I've ever done.

Seeing the hope in her eyes fade away the moment I told her I didn't love her. Fuck, that shit hurt in places I wasn't even aware of. Sitting in her car and telling her all of those hurtful lies is by far the most awful moment of my life. The worst part, though, those lies are what I'll still have to battle every goddamn day, fighting between how I do feel and what I know needed to be done. 

"I'm not even going to care enough to get mad anymore," I half-ass lie to Willow over what I'm guessing is my second bottle of wine and a crumpled box of tissue.

Last night was devastating to my self-esteem, so it's a given today I needed a good girl pity-party.

"I'm sorry, but what? I would most definitely be mad at him. Have you officially entered the delusional stage of the seven-step program?"

"Um, I think the stage you're thinking of is denial."

"Nope. I meant delusional," she says matter-of-fact. "I mean what I say, and I say what I mean, chicky-boo."

"We're not attending an AA meeting, Low. But, out of my morbid curiosity, what are the other six stages?"

"Well, in order they are—" She stops for a moment and thinks. "Okay!" She jumps up, holds her hands in fists, and begins ticking the words off one by one. "One, hope. You hoped this break would be a good thing, and it was only temporary. Two, grief. When you realized it wasn't you were very sad. Three, anger. Then you were just plain mad. Four, stupidity. Then you went and got drunk in the mall parking lot, and kissed Enzo. Dumbass."

"Don't remind me." I roll my eyes and take a generous gulp of the rosy deliciousness.

She ignores me and carries on, "Five is courage, because you drove all the way to Wes' house in the dark and rain to convince him to talk to you. So, I can't really tell if number five is courage or flat out begging. Or, an extension of number four's stupidity. I personally think courage and stupidity are in cahoots."

"Cahoots? Really?"

"Don't interrupt!" she waves a finger at me and scolds. "Now, where was I? Oh, right. And for the win, ladies and gentlemen, we give you number six. Delusion!"

"You only described six stages. I thought there were seven in this unidentified program of yours?"

"Yeah, but you're only at stage six. Delusion, remember? Only time will tell what the seventh stage will bring forth. Whatever it's going to be, though, I hope to hell you get to it soon 'cause, girlfriend, delusion is not a good look on you."

"I'm pretty sure every program's last step is acceptance," I inform her, more so impressing myself with my tid-bit of random knowledge.

"Good, let's go with acceptance then."

"I'll have to learn to accept the lowest from him." I sigh. "It's crazy, he was the one person I wouldn't have expected it from."

"Well, when you put it your way, acceptance sure sounds bleak."

"If you think about it, acceptance is always a bit bleak."

I don't tell her about my current example. How I've accepted I'm failing all of my classes. I don't want to tell anyone yet, I don't want see the vast amount of disappoint on their faces. But the truth is, I'm going to fail every class this semester if I don't get at least a B on every final. Which won't happen. It's been too hard to focus on much else when I'm busy focusing on trying to feel better. 

I haven't heard from him at all this week. That said, there isn't a Rocket Pop's chance in Hell I could've guessed what went down yesterday. He asked me out. He picked up his phone, scrolled down to my name, and pressed the little green phone shaped icon. I know right? I wouldn't have believed it if the entire Atomic-Anarchy told me so.

So he called me, and not on accident, either, because, trust me, I asked. Then he told me he wanted to go to some house party together tonight.

Thus the reason for finding myself in a totally bizarre position I've never ever been in before. The position I'm referring to is cross-legged on the floor of my not-so-walk-in closet, buried under every item of clothing I possess, and five seconds from going all sad-cat and breaking down into tears.

Breath in. I'm okay. Breath out. I've been in uncomfortable situations before. Breath in. And lived. Breath out. Fuck. Breathe in. This. Shit. Breath out.

I just wanted to look the sexiest I've ever looked before in all of my whole entire life. Did I really ask for too much? Turns out, I did.

It all started off fine. Then shit spiraled out of control, headed on to hit the fan, and then ricocheted off into the garbage disposal. There it was, ultimately chewed up, swallowed, and regurgitated into the mess that is me—holed up in a closet crying.

I've never been the girl who tears her closet apart and whines about not having anything to wear, even though her closet is so full there isn't any room left in it for when she goes shopping again to buy more shit which ends up hanging in there for months with the tags still attached.

Today, however, I wish I were that girl. If I were that girl, maybe I would've had something cute to put on my boring, beige-ass body. At least I found the stripper heels I had completely forgot I bought the day I got drunk at the mall.

"Goddamn, stupid ass, fucking whore heels!" I scream at my shoes around the fifth or sixth time my foot gets suctioned into the mud-filled path we have to take to get to the "somewhere in the middle of the woods on an abandoned quad trail" bon fire. I'm not shitting you, those were his exact words. At least, according to Roman and what he told me his friend said on the phone when he asked for directions.

"I thought you said the party was in a house?" I ask angrily.

"Well, it's behind a house. Somewhere." Roman chuckles, apparently finding my suffering amusing.

I feel a sharp sting slice my right arm, and I look down. Of course this would happen. Blood is dripping down almost to my elbow, and I have to stop walking to take a better look.

Roman's been walking ahead of me quite a few feet and hasn't looked back to check on me once. This won’t be any different, so I better hurry before he gets too far and I get lost. I'm definitely not holding my breath for the possibility of cell service out here.

"Shit."

The branch got me pretty good. I'll have to put peroxide or something on it later. For now, there isn't much I can do.

I dig through my purse to find nothing but a wrinkled up, dirty, old receipt. I grab it anyway and wipe as much of the blood off my skin as I can.

As I'm wiping the last bit off, I see how goose bumped and pale my skin is. I see then the overall picture. The absurdity of it all. How excited I was. Excited for some imagined moment I thought was meant to repair my heart. A moment never going to be given the chance to happen.

He still hasn't looked back, so I quickly stuff the bloody receipt back in my purse, because littering is bad, you know, and I trek onward.

When we finally get close enough to the clearing and I can see the faint glow of the fire and can hear the voices of our loud ass friends, not only am I sweaty, dirty, and bloody, but I'm tired and grumpy as shit.

Roman and I turn to look at each other at exactly the same time. I'm completely aware of how pissed I look. Standing there with a death scowl on my face, arms crossed, and hip jutted out, I'm worse than a three-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. I feel worse too. I could give any toddler's temper tantrum a run for its money, and then some, with the boiling ball of fury building inside of me.

He shifts his eyes to the ground, breaking the invisible cord between us, shakes his head and sighs. Without a word, he walks away.

I knew then we were done. Words weren't necessary. It didn't take a genius to figure out. I'm still not sure how the night will play out, though. The only thing I know for sure is I need a drink.

By the end of the night, I’m sitting on some guy named Mikey's lap, finishing his bottle of Jack and chasing it with his two-liter Coke. No cups involved. Sipping straight from the bottle that's passing back and forth between us. I hand the Jack back for the last time. I catch a glimpse of the pale arm holding the empty bottle out for whoever this guy is to take. Goosebumps cause every hair to stand on end. I'm not cold anymore, so I wonder why I even have goosebumps. Whatever, I'll Google that shit later.

The faded trail of light pink still stains my skin from where the branch cut me earlier. I should've known the receipt wouldn't do an awesome job of wiping it clean. I laugh out loud to myself thinking about it.

Mikey gives me a look, wondering why I'm laughing. Oh, well, I'm not going to explain it. The receipt washcloth story is my own, and I'm keeping it all to myself. It's strange how my cut doesn't hurt anymore.

"All right, Ransom's girl," he says to me, "I think y'all are about ready to head out."

Mikey goes to stand up. I should have fallen off his lap, but I feel his arm wrap around me as he helps me stand up with him.

"It's been fun chatting with you, though. Thanks for sharing my drink. It was nice not having to drink it all alone." He holds out his hand for a handshake, I think. Only to me would this happen, someone being underneath of me one second, only to then shake my hand like nothing weird just happened.

"Sure?" To be completely honest, I don't remember what we were chatting about, or chatting with him at all.

All of a sudden, I’m magically standing next to Rome. I don't remember moving my legs to get here, but here I am.

"Time to go," Roman says pointedly and without looking at me.

"Yup." I draw the word out longer than necessary; my mouth makes the P sound really end in a pop. I make sure he knows I'm annoyed, in case he didn't already. He did.

"Did you have fun?"

"Yup."
Pop
. It worked well the first time, so why not? "Did you?"

"Nope," he says, dragging the word the way I did, making it pop. Bastard. Using my own tricks against me.
Low
.

We get halfway back through the woods when I hear a snap. Suddenly, I'm face down in the mud. Okay, so I'm exaggerating. I caught myself with the heels of my hands, for the most part, but my knees and arms are completely submerged under a nasty mixture of wet dirt and brush. And I did almost hit my face.

"It's official, the world is out to get me," I mutter to myself, seeing as how Rome hasn't even noticed I'm down for the count.
Give it a minute.
I struggle with the muck as I try to sit up.
Five. Four. Three.

"What the hell are you doing, Bee? Stand your ass up. Now is not exactly the time or place to be stopping for a rest or some shit. Females. Fuckin’ crazy." He stands impatiently above me, squirming and looking around at everything but me, while he waits for me to pull myself up.

"Don't worry. I got this. No help necessary. Don't mind me. Thanks, though." Sarcasm is really the only weapon I'm strapped with at the moment.