Monday September 30th
04:05pm
My weight shifts from the balls of my feet to my heels and back again, a restless dance against the warm concrete. It's unseasonably warm for the tail end of September, the sun a relentless hammer beating down even at this hour. The air shimmers with heat haze, and I can practically feel the sweat beading on my forehead beneath the brim of my baseball cap.
It had been three full months since I'd dragged myself into this gym, a place that used to be my sanctuary. Now, it felt like the scene of a crime. My bank account was starting to show the effects of my absence, each passing day pinching my dwindling funds tighter. Coach Ken, with his uncanny perceptiveness, had seen the change in me, that gradual dimming of my light. Even back in March, when the whole mess with Phoebe first detonated, he'd noticed the shift in my performance, the slight falter in my step. But this – following the arrest – this was a gulf wider than the Grand Canyon. The thought alone of facing him was enough to make my stomach churn. It felt like everything had spiraled into a catastrophic mess so quickly, a runaway train picking up speed with every passing day. Part of me desperately wanted to bury my shame, to retreat into oblivion. I was terrified that I'd be a disappointment, a letdown to someone I respected more than I feared.
But the time for hiding was over. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I try to steel myself, to pull on the armor of a man who doesn't feel like he's teetering on the precipice of a breakdown. As the heavy double doors groan open, a blast of air-conditioned coolness washes over my face, a small reprieve from the oppressive heat outside. The gym is buzzing, a familiar symphony of clanking weights and rhythmic exertion. Across the floor, I spot Coach Ken near the weights, his broad back to me as he guides a new guy through a routine. My throat feels like sandpaper so I let loose a sharp, clumsy cough, like the rusty squeak of a hinge. Coach Ken turns and his eyes widen at the sight of me, momentarily shocked before settling into a warm smile that both calms and unsettles me.
"Take five, Jimmy. I need to have a quick word with one of my employees." His voice resonates with a familiar authority, yet tinged with a hint of something I can't quite read, something bordering on concern. I walk slowly behind him as he leads me to his office, the familiar scent of sweat, chalk, and disinfectant, both comforting and triggering me. He shuts the door, the thud echoing in the sudden quiet, and gestures towards a chair. I feel the exhaustion seeping into my bones as I settle down.
"Where have you been, Gerald? I was starting to get worried, you know?" He words are soft, surprisingly gentle. My gaze drops to my fidgeting hands, my fingers nervously twisting together. It's easier to stare at the wood grain of the floor— anything but the man who always believed in me. I can look at Dad in the eye, no matter how much he scares me, but right now looking Coach Ken in the eye felt like staring into the sun. "I… I fucked up, Coach. I fucked up bad." The confession feels like a lead weight dropping in my chest.
He leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest, a silent signal that it is my time to finally be honest. "What exactly did you do, Gerald?" His voice is even, patient.
I release a humorless chuckle, a pathetic rasp from the depths of my throat. "You're going to want to kill me when I tell you all of it, so do me a favor and make it quick and painless."
"I'll do my best," he says dryly, but a flicker of concern still lingers in his eyes.
I rise from my seat, the need to move like an electric current coursing through me. I pace the length of the small office, my steps heavy, finally leaning against the cool wall. "I got arrested, Coach... back in July." The words are out, a confession I'd hoped to never utter. The next words are a struggle, each one pushing against the lump in my throat. "Phoebe and I broke up…" My voice is shaky, a fragile thing teetering on the edge of cracking.
Coach Ken keeps silent, his gaze fixed on me. He already knows there's more to the story, and he's not going to push it, he'll let me unravel on my own. I finally muster up the courage. "She says… she says I hit her… and I didn't! I swear I didn't. Like, it wasn't like that! It was never like that!" A sharp scowl deepens the lines on Coach's forehead, his jaw tightening.
"I went to her place, trying to make things right, trying to get her back... and I'd been drinking. I know I was being an idiot, but she was listening to me. Her parents had me arrested." The room seems to be getting smaller, the walls closing in, and the air growing thick and heavy in my lungs.
"But… but they only charged me with a DUI, and they took my driver's license. And she got a restraining order against me, and I have to go to anger management classes for the next six months." I'm staring at the floor now, the swirling pattern of the linoleum blurring the corners of my vision. Why is my heart beating so loudly that it feels like a drum solo in my ears?
A long silence hangs in the air, thick with unspoken questions. "Did you hit her, Gerald?" Coach asks finally, his voice quiet but firm, the words cutting through my noisy thoughts.
"No! I would never hurt Phoebe! I love her, and she loves me. I have no idea why everyone keeps saying that I hit her. It's not true!" My voice is rising, the words urgent, almost frantic.
"So, you never put your hands on her? Not even once?" His eyes are sharp, unwavering.
"Well… once, but it was an accident! I swear! I would never hurt a female, you know me! She just… she just pushed my buttons, okay? She pushed me really hard that day. It's not like I left a mark or anything either! And right after that, she said that she was leaving me! How messed up is that? I tried to apologize, I really did. I spent months trying to get her to forgive me, to take me back! Then, she had me arrested! Now, I've got to go to that stupid anger management class every Saturday for the next six months. And… and… I'm sorry." The words come out in a rush of breath, my chest heaving as I finish the confession. The shame feels like a physical weight on my shoulders, a burden I don't know how to bear.
Coach Ken's hand, thick with years of training, palms the back of his head, the gesture a mixture of frustration and weariness. His brow furrows, casting a shadow over his eyes as he stares at me.
"Gerald…" he begins, his voice low, a rumble that usually precedes a demanding drill, but now tinged with something else – disappointment. "I know you love her, she came here often enough for me to see that. Phoebe was always smiling when she was around here, and I could tell you cared about her. But…if you did hit her, even just once, it's inexcusable." The words hang heavy in the small office, the scent of sweat and liniment usually comforting, now suffocating.
My own stomach is a knot of anxiety and shame. I cross my arms in front of myself trying to hide how hurt his words make me feel."Like I said, if you're going to kill me, make it fast." The bravado feels weak, a flimsy shield against the weight of his judgment. My gaze drifts to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. This place, this gym, has always been my sanctuary, the controlled violence of sparring a refuge from the chaos of my life. Now, it feels like a trap.
Coach Ken lets out a sigh and his shoulders slump a little, all his usual energy seems to have completely drained from him. "I'm not going to kill you, Gerald. You're only seventeen, still learning about everything, and you don't need me to ride your ass about it." There's a hint of affection in his voice, one that makes the tight fist in my chest loosen slightly. He isn't speaking to me as if I am a villain, which is more than I can say for the rest of my life right now.
Hope flickers briefly within me. "So you're not mad at me?" My voice cracks slightly, betraying the deep vulnerability I usually keep hidden.
"No," he says, his gaze finally meeting mine, and it's not filled with anger, just a deep, quiet sadness. "Just disappointed. I thought you knew better than that." The words are more painful than any yelling could have been. He thought of me as someone who could control himself, someone who had the discipline to never hurt a woman. I can't bear to look at him any longer.
I sigh hard, a heavy breath that feels like it's carrying all the weight I've been holding onto. I know I can't redeem myself in his eyes. Not after what I've done. "I can understand if you want me to stop training with you, or if you want to fire me." My words are flat, devoid of emotion, I want to leave before my emotions get the better of me. The thought of leaving this place, of losing the routine, the rhythm, even the pain, is a bleak one, but what else do I deserve? I turn towards the door, bracing myself for what I imagine is coming.
Before I can reach it, I feel his hand clamp down on my shoulder. The sudden contact makes me flinch and I pull away fast, my muscles instinctively tensing, almost in a fighting stance. He seems caught off guard by my action, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it softens into a small smile, that small smile eases the tension out of my body. "I'm not going to fire you, Gerald, and I don't want you to leave this gym." His voice is firm but gentle. "You can't change the past. Losing your girl and going to those classes sounds like punishment enough." He takes his hand back from where he placed on my shoulder, tucking it into his pocket, allowing space between us.
"There has to be something I can do," I protest, the words tumbling out of me. "I know I've let you down. How can I make this up to you?" I'm desperate, searching for a way to restore the equilibrium, to regain his trust. I hate this feeling, this feeling of having disappointed the one person in my life that has never given up on me.
Coach Ken looks thoughtful for a moment, his gaze drifting away as he seems to consider my words. A subtle smirk plays at the corner of his lips. "You've missed a good month of training. How about I run you ragged so you know not to miss any more of our training sessions together?" He grins now, all hints of disappointment gone.
A small, unexpected smile creeps onto my face. "Sounds fair," I say, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. I follow him out of his office, the familiar sounds of the gym – the thud of gloves on heavy bags, the grunts of exertion – filling the air, a welcome comfort. Even Coach Ken, sees this as a big misunderstanding that got blown way out of proportion. Why can't Phoebe forgive me as easily?
7:50pm
The weight of my limbs feels monumental, each step a herculean effort. It takes what little energy I have left to drag myself across the threshold and into the sanctuary of my room. The door clicks shut behind me, a small sound that feels like a tomb sealing. Coach Ken certainly wasn't joking when he said he would run me ragged. My legs shake with a deep, bone-aching fatigue, and my arms feel like they've been filled with lead. I'd never done so much strength training in my entire life; the endless circuits, the heavy weights, the sprints that seemed to stretch on forever. Who knew being MIA for just a month would put my body so completely out of commission? I've gone from feeling like an athlete to feeling like I've aged a decade.
I stumble toward the bathroom, the tiled floor cool against my burning feet. A long, luxurious shower is a necessity, not a want. I can already hear Dad's voice in my head, a shrill indictment about the water bill being so high, but tonight, I don't give a damn. I twist the faucet all the way to cold, and the icy water bursts forth, a welcome shock against my heated skin. It's like a thousand tiny needles pricking, then soothing the screaming agony in my muscles. I let the water run down my back, imagining it washing away the day's exertion, and the lingering echoes of the guilt I carry every single day.
After I towel off, the rough fabric a minor discomfort, I throw on a pair of well-worn gym shorts, the cotton soft against my abused body. I collapse onto my bed, the mattress catching me like a weary traveler. Usually, after a practice like this, I'd know exactly what to do. Phoebe would come over, her delicate hands working magic on my knotted muscles, her fingers tracing the lines of pain and easing them away with gentle pressure. Or maybe I would call Arnold, and ask if I could come over for dinner, just to be in the familiar warmth of their home, to share a few hours away from the turmoil that always surrounds me.
My hand instinctively reaches for my cellphone, my fingers already starting to dial his number, fueled by an old reflex. But then the cruel reality hits me like a physical blow, a cold fist punching the air from my lungs. Arnold and I are not best friends anymore, not by a long shot. He made it very clear, during that last, agonizing confrontation, that he never wants to speak to me again; the harsh words still ring in my ears. Losing him was almost as hard as losing Phoebe, the gaping hole in my life feeling just as raw, just as disorienting. Almost. The loss of Phoebe, with all it encompassed, still remains a wound that time hasn't been able to heal.
I see my journal sitting on my nightstand, its plain, unassuming cover a constant, silent reminder of the circumstances I can't change. Why can't things just be like they were before? Before I ever decided that dating Phoebe would be a good idea, before that decision fractured everything, the perfect storm that ruined my life. Before I broke everything that mattered.
Journal Entry
The air in the house was thick with his anger. Dad was ranting again, his voice a booming, distorted record stuck on repeat. Ranting and raving, a storm of accusations and complaints that seemed to have no end. Lately, it felt like that was all he ever did. His target, as always, was Mom. Every word he spat out sounded like a physical blow. She stood there, shoulders slumped, a silent recipient of his wrath. I clenched my jaw, my hands balling into fists. She was a grown-ass woman, capable of making her own choices. If she was naive or stupid enough to stick with an asshole like him, then who was I to interfere? It was her life, her mess, her choice to wade through it. I just hate that me and my sister were dragged into it. Timberly was at her Campfire Lass meeting; a safe haven far away from his rage. She didn't need my overprotective tendencies tonight. Besides, I was in absolutely no mood to deal with his bullshit. The constant yelling set my teeth on edge and my head throbbed.
I grabbed my car keys from the hook near the door, my movements sharp and jerky. A mix of anger and frustration pushed me towards the exit. I practically ran to my car, the door slamming shut with a heavy thud that mirrored the turmoil in my chest. My foot pressed down hard on the gas pedal, the engine roaring in response. I always sped when I was upset, the feeling of speed a twisted comfort, a way to outrun the feelings that churned within. And I always sped straight to Arnold's. He was a beacon, a calm eye in my personal storm, the only one I could remotely depend on in this maddening life. The tires crunched on the gravel as I pulled into his driveway, parking with a satisfyingly abrupt halt next to his grandfather's sleek, vintage Packard, a battleship of a car in a sea of modern vehicles. Without knocking, and with a familiarity bred from years of friendship, I let myself in. Arnold had given me a house key years ago, a silent acknowledgment that I was practically a permanent fixture within their home.
I headed into the kitchen, the familiar scent of cinnamon and something savory drawing me in. Arnold's grandmother, Gertie, a woman whose small frame belied her immense strength and vibrant energy, was at the kitchen island, karate chopping a watermelon into triangles, the sound a rhythmic thwack that filled the room. She didn't even notice me at first, her focus fixed on each precise cut.
"Hello Gertie, how are you doing today?" I asked, automatically ducking as a rogue piece of watermelon went flying too close for comfort, spraying a fine mist of juice in my direction, a sticky reminder of her powerful moves.
"Good afternoon grasshopper, and have you come for dinner?" she said, the corner of her mouth twitching into a wicked grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
"No, not for dinner, but I came to see Arnold. We are getting ready for a party tonight. Is he home?" I asked, trying to sound casual. As if this wasn't a desperate flight from my own home.
"Kimba? Yes, he is in his room." She karate-chopped another melon into pieces before carefully arranging all the juicy wedges onto a large platter. "Could you please give this to him? He needs proper nourishment if he has any plans on wooing that she-devil." I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure what she meant. I picked up the plate, careful not to spill the sticky contents, and headed towards the staircase, the familiar creak of the wooden steps a comfort in this chaotic afternoon.
I knocked once on Arnold's door, not waiting for an answer before pushing it open. He was lying on his bed, sprawled out with his face buried in a book about ancient civilizations. He looked up as the door opened and placed a worn leather bookmark on the page.
"You're early, the party doesn't start until eight." His voice was calm, a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. I placed the plate of watermelon on his desk, the sweet scent filling the room, and headed straight to his walk-in closet, a treasure trove of clothes that felt more like home than my own.
"I know, but I need something to wear, and I left all my good clothes over here." I started pulling clothes off the hangers, a whirlwind of fabric and indecision, trying them on in a frenzy. An old favorite band t-shirt came off as quickly as it went on.
"Tell me again why I have allowed you to invade every aspect of my life?" He said, his tone dry with amusement, as he took a bite of a watermelon slice, juice dripping down his chin.
"Because you are my best friend and you will do anything in the world to help me impress Phoebe," I looked at myself in his full-length mirror and immediately frowned at the Ed Hardy shirt I'd put on. "What do you think?" I asked hesitantly, hoping for a miracle.
"You look like a douche bag," He said casually, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile.
"That's what I thought," I said, peeling off the heinous shirt and tossing it on the pile with the others. I turned my gaze to Arnold. "Why aren't you freaking out? This party is a big deal."
"Because I'm not going on a date with a girl I've been crushing on since preschool," he said, his voice even and measured.
I glared at him. "Well you are going with Lila, aren't you nervous?" Lila was a beautiful woman, the girl that every guy in our school had a crush on.
"Not really. Lila is nice and she asked me if I wanted to go with her, not the other way around." He shrugged, completely unfazed. I hated how he could be so damn calm sometimes, like he had a secret cheat code for life. "This is one of Rhonda's parties, a pool party at that. Just be casual."
"Ugh, you're right! What was I thinking?" I abandoned all thoughts of date-night outfits and went to his dresser, digging through the drawers until I found a pair of dark blue swim trunks.
Arnold frowned. "Those are yours, right?"
"If they weren't, they are now," I said with a shrug.
"Ooh Gerald, that looks pretty nasty," Arnold winced, his brow furrowing.
"What?" I asked turning my attention to his floor length mirror, now searching for the flaw he was referring to. My eyes darted over my face, scanning my physique, and then suddenly I remembered the new addition to my body.
"That bruise on your lower back," Arnold clarified, his voice softer now, tinged with a note of concern. "I thought you just did regular boxing, not...kickboxing. That looks like you took a serious hit."
I bit back a sigh. Time to play it cool. I twisted my torso, angling my back to catch the light from the window. There it was, a mottled purple stain marring my skin, an old mark from the week prior. Dad's handiwork, the result of my ill-fated attempt to pilfer one of his beers. My throat tightened slightly at the memory, but it quickly got pushed down by practiced habit.
"What can I say? The person I was sparring with liked to take some cheap shots," I said, attempting to shrug it off with a casual tone. I grabbed a plain black t-shirt from his floor, pulling it over my head, hoping the sudden shift of topic would distract him from the lingering subject. It was a lie, of course, a convenient half-truth to keep the dark parts of my life hidden. I never told Arnold about the… the rougher side of life at home. It just didn't sit right to burden him with my family's problems, something he could never truly comprehend, since he didn't have a family of his own anymore. It felt almost like a betrayal, rubbing my struggles into the face of his loss.
Arnold's parents had embarked on a daring expedition shortly after his birth, venturing to a place called San Lorenzo in a quixotic attempt to save some lost civilization. They never returned. When we were thirteen, after countless years of searching and aching, he had received the call, the cold, hard confirmation that their remains had been discovered. It was news that crushed him, a finality he struggled to process, but he found a small measure of solace in knowing they had died helping those in need. That selflessness was part of their legacy, he'd often say. I couldn't taint that memory by sharing my own comparatively petty grievances.
"Well, be more careful man, don't want you getting too hurt," Arnold said, his voice returning to its normal gentle cadence. It was his way of showing concern, a subtle nudge to be mindful.
I grinned, pushing aside the heavier thoughts. I flexed my arm, showing off my bicep. "Please, I'm a fucking ox, no one can hurt me. All the girls will be trying to get into my pants tonight!" I knew I was overcompensating, but it was my defense mechanism, projecting a carefree bravado to mask the insecurities swirling beneath the surface.
"I thought you only had eyes for Phoebe?" Arnold smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. He knew me; he knew my desperate, teenage crush.
"Oh, I do, I do," I admitted, my chest puffing slightly with pride, "but I can't help it if I look like a sex god." Arnold grabbed a pillow from the couch and playfully tossed it at me. "Hey, I know you are jealous because I got it like that, no reason to throw things." I continued, my voice dripping with false arrogance. He just rolled his eyes, chuckling lightly, and picked up another slice of watermelon, the juice dripping down his chin.
We chilled out in his room for a couple more hours, just shooting the breeze, talking about everything and nothing, before finally hopping into my beat-up car, the scent of old french fries still lingering in the upholstery. We were on our way to pick up our dates. Despite the cocky façade I put on, underneath it all, I was a nervous wreck. This was my first official date with Phoebe, the girl of my dreams. If I wanted to make her mine, I had to be the absolute best version of myself. Every detail, from my cologne to my conversation, had to be perfect.
"Hold up man, before we go pick up the girls we have to make a quick pit stop," I announced, making a sharp U-turn back to my neighborhood.
"Wow," Phoebe whispered, her voice barely audible above the throbbing bass that vibrated through the air, "I had completely forgotten how massive Rhonda's house actually is." Her eyes, wide with a touch of awe and perhaps a hint of intimidation, scanned the sprawling mansion.
I smiled, the corners of my mouth crinkling, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. The warmth of her skin against mine was comforting, a familiar anchor in this chaotic scene. "Well," I drawled, a touch of sarcasm creeping into my tone, "she just had it completely remodeled last year, and she's been practically begging for any excuse to show it off. Honestly, I think she'd throw a party if a squirrel crossed her lawn the wrong way."
"I think it's ever so lovely, don't you agree Arnold?" Lila said, her voice a melodious chime. She stood gracefully on Arnold's arm, her eyes sparkling with genuine admiration for the house.
"Yes Lila," Arnold replied, his voice a low rumble, though his eyes were fixed on Lila's ample chest, as if mesmerized by a particularly captivating sunset. He wasn't fooling anyone. My man, tried as he might to project an air of nonchalance and level-headedness, was just as susceptible to the allure of a pretty face and a well-endowed physique as the rest of us. It was a universal male weakness, I suppose.
The music pulse, a deep, insistent vibration, grew louder with each step, promising a party of considerable magnitude. I was always genuinely surprised that the neighbors hadn't already descended, torches and pitchforks in hand, to shut down her raucous gatherings. Arnold, ever the gentleman, held the heavy, ornate front door open, revealing a scene of vibrant chaos. A swarm of teenagers milled throughout the foyer, red plastic cups clutched in their hands like trophies, dancing with unrestrained abandon. We had to push through that mass of gyrating bodies making it feel like we were going against the flow of a river. As we finally broke free, we found ourselves standing in Rhonda's newly renovated backyard. The space was unrecognizable from what we had seen the year before. She had spent our entire sophomore year forcing her parents to transform it into a ridiculous, expensive grotto, complete with a faux-rock waterfall and an azure-blue pool, perfect for extravagant pool parties. It had been a common hangout spot all summer, a fact I couldn't help but feel a bit nostalgic about.
"Hey you guys," Rhonda called out, her voice smooth and confident, a smile that seemed a little too rehearsed adorning her face. She approached us, every step a deliberate sway of her hips, wearing a bright red bikini that left little to the imagination. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back, each movement of her head causing her shoulder-length hair to ripple in a seductive dance. Nadine, her blonde curls pulled into a low ponytail, followed close behind. Her toned figure was a testament to her years on the school swim team. They both looked like goddesses. "I was wondering when you were going to show up. It's nice knowing only respectable individuals were able to attend my back to school celebration." A smug, self-satisfied smile plastered across her face.
"What's in your backpack, Gerald?" Nadine interjected, raising one eyebrow with playful suspicion. "I hope you're not planning on recording anything that goes on tonight." She crossed her arms, her lips thinning, glaring at me as though I was a particularly troublesome insect.
"Nadine makes a good point. I absolutely cannot afford to have this end up on the internet, not again, like my disastrous Christmas party. It's seriously damaging to my brand!" Rhonda continued to scowl.
"No, sweetie," I said, my tone light and easy. I unzipped my backpack with a flourish, revealing several bottles of premium vodka. Rhonda's eyes widened, a genuine spark of delight lighting them up. She squealed with unrestrained joy. "Just something as a sign of goodwill, you know that. I didn't want to show up empty handed." I winked at her, hoping the charm would smooth things over.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed, grabbing two bottles from my bag like a drowning person clutching a lifeline. "That's one less thing I have to worry about. The punch bowl is already spiked, so pace yourself on it." A series of high-pitched, boisterous screams erupted from within the house, and she rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed. "What the hell is wrong with these losers today? Nadine, I need assistance!" She turned on her heel, her red bikini a flash of color as she stormed back towards the house, and Nadine, with a sigh, obediently trailed behind her.
"Gerald, how did you manage to get alcohol?" Phoebe asked, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity, and a tinge of concern. Her brow furrowed slightly.
"Fake ID," Arnold replied casually, completely unfazed by her shock. He snatched a bottle from my backpack, not unlike Rhonda had done, and swiftly led Lila over to the swim-up pool bar, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"You have a fake ID?" Phoebe questioned, her eyes widening further. I hadn't realized the reaction would be so big. I had hoped that casually producing it would impress her with my rebellious cool, but I couldn't quite decipher if she was even remotely pleased or deeply disapproving.
"Well," I shrugged, attempting to appear as nonchalant as possible, "I swiped Jamie-O's driver's license when he visited once last year. We're starting to look a lot alike, and the place I buy alcohol from doesn't really care about my age, or frankly, anything." I cracked open the bottle, the scent alcohol wafting into the air, and took a generous swig. "Do you want some?" I offered, holding the bottle out to her.
"I don't know," she said hesitantly, her gaze fixed on the bottle as if it were some dangerous, exotic creature. She took it from my hand with a sort of delicate reluctance. "Helga doesn't really approve of the consumption of alcohol, and I know it would really upset her if she found out I was drinking at this party." Her voice was soft, a little uncertain.
I frowned, a slight irritation rising within me. Why did Helga have so much influence over her? It was as if Phoebe couldn't make a single move without fearing her disapproval. "Well, Helga isn't here now, is she? Come on," I said, a hint of persuasion creeping into my tone, "she won't find out. Live a little."
"Well…I suppose one drink can't hurt," she conceded, her voice still laced with uncertainty. She lifted the bottle to her lips, took a small sip, and immediately winced, her face contorting in a comical grimace. "Oh, that burns an awful lot. How can people drink this stuff?"
"Don't worry, you get used to it," I said, taking the bottle back from her with a chuckle. "Besides, that's cranberry flavored, so it tastes better than the straight stuff." I took a large gulp, letting the cool, slightly sweet liquid slide down my throat. "Come on," I said, grabbing her hand, "let's go sit down." I led her over to a couple of lounge chairs that were slightly off to the side of the pool, away from the densest part of the crowd. A lot of my friends were here, but I could sense that Phoebe was a little uncomfortable, like a delicate flower in a field of boisterous weeds. This was definitely not her usual crowd. Gloria saw me and offered a little wave with a wide, toothy smile as she passed by, Stinky trailing closely behind her, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted. She wore a skimpy white string bikini that barely concealed her intimate areas. I found myself glancing down to compare her swimsuit to Phoebe's, but she was still covered up by a tank top and a pair of shorts. I hated how girls like Gloria flaunted themselves so openly for the world to see, a stark contrast to Phoebe's demure modesty. Although, a traitorous part of me couldn't help but think that I wouldn't have exactly minded seeing Phoebe wearing something like that, but only in private, just for my eyes only.
"So, how you liking junior year so far?" I asked, trying to sound casual, as if this wasn't the first real conversation we'd had all summer. Hope, like a fragile butterfly, beat its wings inside me for a moment.
Phoebe took the bottle again, her fingers delicate against the glass, and took small, almost dainty sips. The lights of Rhonda's backyard pool party reflected in the surface of the clear liquor. "It's okay," she said, her voice a soft melody against the loud pop music thumping from the speakers, "I'm really starting to like our Anatomy and Physiology class, and I absolutely love my AP classes." A soft smile played on her lips, a genuine, sweet smile that made my stomach flip.
Oh my little nerd, I thought to myself, fondness washing over me as the vodka did its job. "I don't think I could ever do an AP class, all that extra work? It's not for me," my tone a mixture of genuine awe and self-deprecating humor. The thought of all that studying made my head spin.
I shook my head slightly, still watching as she brought the bottle to her lips once more. She had a way of holding herself, with such grace and confidence that made my heart clench just a little bit.
"It's not that bad, really," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a gesture I found strangely endearing. She handed the bottle back to me, our fingers brushing briefly, and a spark of electricity ran up my arm. "I have AP English with Helga, and she makes the literature truly enjoyable. If it wasn't for her, I don't think I could ever appreciate Chaucer." Her voice was filled with such genuine enthusiasm that it made the mention of boring, old English kind of sound…interesting.
I remembered reading somewhere once, maybe in a self-help book my mom had lying around, that a man should remain silent and be thought a fool than open his mouth and remove all doubt. Intellectually speaking, Phoebe was in a completely different stratosphere than me, and if I wanted to keep her interested in me, I would have to make sure we were both on the same level - or at least pretend that we were. It was a challenge, but one I was ready to accept if it meant being around her.
"Where is Pataki anyway, I thought you two did everything together?" I asked, deliberately changing the subject, the butterflies in my stomach briefly fluttering away as I steered the conversation away from anything academic. The image of Helga's smug, know-it-all face flashed in my mind.
Phoebe sighed, the sound a soft, almost melancholic breath. "I know, under normal circumstances, I would never come to a party like this, but lately, she has been pushing me to have a life outside of her. I think she just wants to spend some time with her mom since she just got out of rehab," Her voice was barely a whisper as she confided this to me.
I almost spit my drink out all over Phoebe. The vodka stung my throat, and for a moment, I was completely still, my mind racing. I quickly recovered and blurted out, "Wait, Pataki's mom was in rehab?" Oh, this was just too good. Finally, I had some juicy dirt on that bitch. The knowledge that this could destroy Helga's reputation made me feel a small, ugly swell of satisfaction.
Phoebe covered her mouth with both hands, her cheeks flushing a vivid crimson as she realized what she had revealed. "Oh dear, I've said too much. I think that's enough alcohol for me, it has me spilling secrets. You have to promise not to tell anyone, Gerald. Helga would never be able to forgive me for telling her secret." Her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and guilt.
"Don't worry, Phoebe, I won't tell a soul. Just because me and Helga don't get along doesn't mean I have to go around telling everyone her business," I said, trying to sound as sincere and trustworthy as possible, even though a part of me was already plotting how to use this information to my advantage.
Phoebe's smile returned, her relief palpable, and she reached out and took my hand, her fingers fitting perfectly in mine. "Thanks, Gerald, you're a true friend." Friend. The word stung my ears, a sharp ache behind my ribs. Was that all I was to her? Could I ever be more than just her friend? The thought was a painful twist in my gut.
"Phoebe Heyerdahl? Is that you?" We both turned our heads towards the sound of the familiar voice. Lorenzo was walking towards us, his body dripping wet from the pool. The water was glistening off his caramel-colored skin, and the way the overhead lights caught the droplets made him look like a Greek god. Ugh.
"Cuban bastard," I muttered under my breath, the vodka in my system making my jealousy burn brighter. I didn't really care for Lorenzo. He had Arnold's effortless kindness and Rhonda's money. Everything about him, the perfect teeth, the effortless charm, just screamed fake to me. And now, he wanted to talk to Phoebe? What the hell? Phoebe wasn't even in our usual circle of friends. Why would she even show up on his radar?
"Oh, hey Lorenzo, I was wondering when you were going to get back from vacation," Phoebe said, her voice bright with genuine delight, and the casual way she said his name ignited a fresh spark of frustration in me.
"Got back in this morning, sweetheart. Rhonda called me as soon as she heard I landed and demanded I make an appearance at her…soiree," he said with a playful lilt. "I'm surprised to see you here; I know these types of parties aren't your usual cup of tea."
"Oh I know, but Gerald invited me," Phoebe gestured towards me with a soft smile, and I felt a knot of something akin to pride, and a dash of panic, bloom in my chest. I downed some more vodka before slapping on the fakest grin I could muster.
"Why hello Gerald, how have you been, my friend?" Lorenzo said with a wide, friendly smile, the kind that could charm snakes.
"Just fine, my man. I was scared you finally transferred to one of those fancy private schools or something," I said, the sarcasm dripping from my voice, masking the very real hope that he had, in fact, transferred to another school.
Lorenzo chuckled, the sound deep and smooth. "My mother only wishes," He turned his attention back towards Phoebe, his eyes lingering on her. "Now don't you have too much fun here, my little flower, I still have plans on seeing you Sunday, eleven o'clock sharp."
Phoebe giggled, a sound that was like a string of tiny bells, and my stomach twisted a little bit at the sound of it coming from Lorenzo. "Oh I wouldn't miss it for the world, Lorenzo. I have been practicing all summer, and I am certain I can wipe the floor with you."
Lorenzo let out a boisterous laugh and enveloped her in a hug, his arm briefly brushing against her bare skin. "Only in your dreams, my dear," I continued to sip from the now half-empty vodka bottle, the burning sensation no longer unpleasant, but a necessary distraction. "Oh dear, I've gotten your shirt all wet, oh well, I guess now you can finally take it off. I mean, we are at a pool party! Show off your fabulous swimsuit." He shrugged with a playful nonchalance.
"Oh, silly me, I forgot I was even wearing this thing." Phoebe stood and slowly, deliberately, removed her top, revealing her slim, pale frame. I felt myself begin to harden as she eased out of her shorts, her movements fluid and graceful, and I swallowed another mouthful of vodka, the alcohol doing nothing to cool the heat that was spreading through me. She was teasing me, I just knew it; she wanted to show off her body in the most sensual way possible. It was just a shame I had to share this moment with Lorenzo.
"Gorgeous as always, my dear," Lorenzo said, his eyes taking in her high-waisted, denim fifties-looking bikini. If I wasn't so worried about trying to impress Phoebe, I would have decked him right then and there. He took her hand and kissed it softly, a gesture that felt entirely too intimate. "See you around."
Phoebe waved her little fingers and sat down in her chair once again, her cheeks still slightly flushed. "It was nice seeing Lorenzo, I have really missed him since he went to Italy for the summer."
I nodded my head stiffly and set the bottle of vodka down on the small plastic table. "So, you and Lorenzo, huh? How long has that been going on?" I said, the bitterness in my tone impossible to hide. The vodka always made me more honest than I intended. Phoebe gave me a confused look before she began laughing, the sound pure, joyous, and aimed at me. I glared at her, my jaw tight, the vodka making me more irritable. "What's so funny?"
"You thought Lorenzo and me…" She said between fits of laughter, the tears starting to well in her eyes. "No, Lorenzo and I are just friends. We fence together every Sunday. Lorenzo is a truly magnificent sparring partner, but I have no interest in him." A wave of relief and unexpected warmth washed over me, but I was still mad as hell that Lorenzo was pushing up on her like that.
"Really, no interest, huh?"
She shook her head, her smile soft and genuine, and her eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze with an intensity that made my heart race. "Not a bit. Besides, Gerald, I'm here with you, aren't I?" She leaned a little closer to me, her arm gently brushing against mine, and the world narrowed down to just the two of us sitting there, among the loud music and the splashing of the pool, and for a moment, it felt like my fantasy had become a reality.
I smiled, a genuine, relieved smile that stretched across my face, and gently took hold of her hands. Her skin was soft, a little cool from the evening air, but it sent a jolt of warmth right through me. "I'm happy you decided to say yes," I said, the words tumbling out a little faster than I intended. "You don't know how long I've been waiting to ask you out. It feels like forever." My heart hammered a crazy rhythm against my ribs, a mixture of excitement and the last remnants of lingering nervousness.
Phoebe's eyebrows arched slightly, a hint of amusement playing around the corners of her mouth. "Why the wait, if you don't mind me asking?" Her voice was like a melody, smooth and light, and it made me want to keep talking to her forever.
I hesitated, the question catching me slightly off guard. I hadn't expected her to try and delve into my thoughts so soon. I had imagined this moment for so long, but my carefully-rehearsed lines had gone completely out the window. "I can't really explain it," I admitted, my gaze drifting down to our intertwined hands for a fleeting second. "It was just… out of nowhere, I found it so hard to talk to you. You're so smart, and incredibly pretty. I always got nervous you'd say no to me, especially since we don't really run in the same circles anymore." I wanted to be confident but I felt like a goofball.
"Nonsense, Gerald," she chuckled, her voice a warm and reassuring sound. "I don't care about the social hierarchy of high school." Her smile was sweet, and a little disbelieving, like she found it absurd that I would even consider it. "If you wanted to ask me out, all you had to do was say so." My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and I felt like an absolute idiot for even thinking she would be shallow like some of the other girls in our school. My stupid high school bravado had done nothing but keep me away from her.
"Well, I'm sorry for not doing it sooner," I said, a sheepish grin spreading across my face. "I'm having a great time with you." I leaned in a little closer, the soft glow of the pool lights reflecting in her eyes. Her lips looked incredibly soft, and I could almost taste the sweetness I knew they held. A sudden desire to close the distance between us washed over me, making my hands tremble with anticipation.
Out of nowhere, a deafening roar shattered the quiet of the evening. The next thing I knew, we were both completely soaked, head to toe, by a tidal wave of chlorinated water. It cascaded down our faces, plastering our hair to our foreheads. I sputtered, blinking the chlorinated water away, and glanced over to the pool.
"Hey love birds, get your asses in the water, we need some help!" Arnold yelled, his voice thick with the happy slurring that only alcohol could produce. He was waving us over to the deep end, where he and Lila were clearly struggling against Stinky and Gloria in a game of chicken. I groaned inwardly. I was going to kick his ass for ruining my moment with Phoebe. Arnold was a bit of a lightweight when he drank, and tonight was no exception. He was now convinced that a simple game of chicken required my immediate and urgent attention. Phoebe just giggled, a melodic sound that sent shivers down my spine, and squeezed my hand again, her fingers intertwining with mine.
"Come on, it looks like fun," she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. I couldn't help but drink in the sight of her half-naked body, the moonlight painting soft shadows across the curves of her bikini. A wave of longing washed over me, a desire to see more of the skin that was hidden beneath the vibrant fabric. I hoped that one day soon, I could explore every inch of her, with her permission of course. A sudden surge of heat rushed through my veins, a familiar response that had nothing to do with the warm night air, as my eyes drifted briefly down to the front of my swim trunks. I dove quickly into the cold water, hoping that the chill would reduce the sudden swelling that seemed determined to make an appearance.
We played pool games for the better part of an hour, the laughter mixing in with the party music in the background. Phoebe, bless her heart, was truly dreadful at the game of chicken – the kind where you try to sit on someone's shoulders and knock them off. She had to take her glasses off to even attempt it, which resulted in her squinting and flailing like a confused starfish. I didn't really care about winning though; the game was just an excuse. The real thrill came from the feel of her thighs wrapped securely around my head, a closeness that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. A thought flickered in my mind: would she ever let me get into this position outside the pool? It was a tantalizing question that made me smile.
After about an hour of aquatic fun, we emerged from the water, our skin tingling from the chlorine. I grabbed one of the fluffy towels Rhonda had thoughtfully provided and wrapped it around Phoebe, the soft fabric a stark contrast to her damp skin. We headed inside, the echoes of the pool fading into the background. The party had moved into a different phase; we were now in the living room, the music throbbing softly in the background and bodies swaying. Phoebe wasn't a natural dancer either, her movements a little stiff and awkward, but she was smiling, her eyes twinkling with genuine enjoyment. And honestly, that was all that mattered to me.
As the evening wore on, the buzz of the party began to wind down. By one in the morning, only a few stragglers remained. Arnold, poor guy, had been defeated by his own enthusiasm for the punch and had passed out about thirty minutes prior, a comical heap on the couch. Stinky and I managed to haul him to the car, a task that required more coordination than either of us possessed. I knew he'd be safe though, I was planning to crash at his place anyway so we could go back to our usual routines tomorrow. After dropping Lila off at her place I turned my car towards Phoebe's house.
"Oh no Gerald, you don't have to take me home," Phoebe said, her voice a gentle melody that seemed to soothe my nerves. "I told my parents I'm sleeping over at Helga's."
"Oh, okay," I replied. "That's actually on the way to Arnold's house, so it works out perfectly." I tried to sound upbeat, but inside I was scowling. The thought of her spending time with that boorish bully, Helga, grated on me.
"I had a great time tonight, Gerald," she said, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the car's interior. "We should do it again sometime." I looked down at her, at her angelic face with its rosy cheeks and upturned smile. It made me want to cup her face just to feel the warm blush of her skin.
"Are you asking me out on a date, Miss Heyerdahl?" I asked, a playful grin spreading across my face.
"Depends on if you say yes or no, Mr. Johanssen," she retorted, her eyes dancing with mischief.
This girl was driving me absolutely bonkers. She was quick-witted, possessed an almost eidetic memory, and had the audacity to flirt with me without even trying. I was smitten, completely and utterly.
"How about I take you to the movies on Sunday?" I proposed, barely containing my excitement.
"Okay," she replied, a thoughtful expression flitting across her face. "As long as it's after my fencing class with Lorenzo. Any time after three will be perfect."
I nodded, trying to hide the involuntary clench of my jaw. The name of that Cuban douchebag always set my teeth on edge.
"So, you sleep over at Helga's often?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual as I pulled up to the Pataki residence. The house seemed grim and unwelcoming, even in the night.
"Not very," she confessed. "She's usually at my house, actually. But she enjoys her personal space too much to make it a regular thing." Her voice held a fond amusement.
"Oh...well, that's good," I said, my voice a little lighter. "I'm sure even you can only tolerate so much of Pataki." I moved to get out and walked her to the porch.
She chuckled, a melodious sound that made my heart flutter. "She does have her moments when she can even aggravate me, but those are few and far between. Helga is a complicated individual and only allows a select few people into her private world. I am truly honored that she trusts me enough to be one of those people."
I shrugged, not really caring about Helga's supposed complexities. "Whatever you say, I just hope she isn't too upset that you were hanging out with me tonight." I was only partially joking, knowing Helga's jealous streak was as wide as the Grand Canyon.
Phoebe just smiled, a knowing, secretive smile. "I'm sure she won't mind in the least, Gerald." I looked down at her in the soft glow of the porch light; she looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her before. The light cast soft shadows, emphasizing the curve of her cheek and the gentle slope of her nose, her eyes shone brighter than the stars above. I leaned down, my hand cupping the base of her neck, feeling the soft silk of her hair against my skin. Phoebe stood on the very tips of her toes, her breath warm against my lips, and we shared the kiss I had been craving all night. A swell of emotion, so intense it was almost painful, erupted inside me. I swear I could hear fireworks going off in the distance, it felt like the world was exploding with color. Phoebe pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. "Well... now I'm sure Helga will certainly have some choice words for you if she ever finds out about this." Her voice was teasing but with a hint of something else, something that made my pulse race.
"If being the operative word, right?" I said, a thrill coursing through me.
"Good night, Gerald. Get home safely," she said softly, before reaching into her pocket, pulling out her key, and quietly slipping into the house. The door clicked shut, leaving me standing alone on the porch, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
I lingered for a moment longer, wanting to etch the memory of this night into my brain, before finally walking back towards my car. Arnold had woken up and somehow managed to slide into the passenger seat, his face still flushed from alcohol.
"Aww, how cute, your first kiss," he slurred, a knowing smirk plastered on his face.
"Fuck off, you drunk!" I snapped, not wanting him to ruin my perfect moment. "You know damn well that wasn't my first kiss."
"First kiss with Phoebe," he clarified, his head lolling back against the seat, finally buckling his seatbelt as I pulled away from the curb and set off towards his house.
"And I promise you, it won't be the last," I said cockily, a surge of possessive confidence flooding through me. Phoebe was mine now, at least she would be, and there was no way I was ever going to let her go. I felt an intense and powerful need to stake my claim on her, to make sure everyone knew she was mine.
11:37pm
The journal felt cool beneath my fingertips. I traced the faded ink of my own handwriting, each word a ghost from a different time. I reread everything, the entries a testament to a past self. Back then, my love for Phoebe...it was so pure, so vibrant, a beacon in the dark. A sharp pang of longing shot through me. Why couldn't she remember this? Why was she so focused on the negative? Why was everyone? Why did they insist on picking at old wounds when I just wanted to remember the bright, beautiful times? I loved Phoebe so much, I still do; the thought resonated through me like a familiar melody, a bittersweet symphony of what was and what could have been.