Playing Hurt

Chelsea

indecisive move





My computer screen glows blue against my skin. I’ve just finished packing my bag for the Carlyle, filling it with a flattering, nearly sheer azure dress and the raciest panties in my drawer. Which strikes me as a little weird, actually, since I didn’t worry in the least about having to dress up for Clint. Just threw on a red cami and shorts and raced up the trail behind cabin number four.

It’s late, and my eyes keep trying to close. My entire body begs me to get to bed. But instead of turning my computer off and slipping into the cool envelope of my sheets, I reach into my top desk drawer and pull out a torn-off scrap of paper napkin—the email address Clint gave me before dropping me off at the cabin our last night at Lake of the Woods.

“Whaddaya know?” I’d teased him. “Guess even fishing guides can be a little high-tech.”

I stare at the address awhile, touching my lips with my fingertip, hoping like hell that being with Gabe won’t make me forget exactly how Clint’s mouth felt, traveling over every inch of my body.

What’s wrong with me? Last month, I’d bemoaned the fact that I was the oldest virgin on the planet. Tonight, I’m planning on sleeping with guy number two—in the same week? Have I gone from being a virgin to complete slutsville in a matter of days?

I place the napkin near the top of the keyboard, click on “New Message,” and type in Clint’s address. I stare at the screen, wishing I could tell him everything that swarms through my heart—how much I miss him. How much I wish we were still bowling and fooling around in the lake and making out in his truck. How much I miss the carefree breeze that blew into my heart whenever I was around him.

My cell phone starts to vibrate, buzzing against the desktop. I pick it up hesitantly.

“Hey, Chelse, it’s me,” Gabe says softly. “Got a clock handy?”

I glance at the bottom right hand corner of my computer screen. “Midnight.”

“You know what that means, right?” Gabe asks.

“It’s the day you and I have been waiting for all summer.”

“The day I’ve been waiting for ever since I met you,” Gabe corrects. “Love you,” he whispers.

“Mmm,” I say. “Me, too.”

I click the phone off, my eyes falling on the cursor that blinks like an elbow nudging me in the ribs. Saying, Come on already, write your message.

Instead, I click cancel draft and sign out of my email account.

Scratches pushes open the bedroom door and mews his way across the floor. When he jumps onto the bed, he knocks my purse on its side—and Clint’s compass tumbles onto the comforter. I let Clint think I’d dropped it from the ATV somewhere … selfish of me, since he seemed to love the old thing. But it saved us, in a way. I just never had the heart to give it back.

I pick up the compass and curl up with Scratches, both our heads propped on my bed pillow. As I stare into his sweet sleeping face, I start to get jealous of his simple life. He’s never found himself in the kind of tangled mess I’m in right now. He’s never felt like his heart was in a tug-of-war.

I place Clint’s old compass on the pillow beside me. But the only place it points tonight is toward sleep.





Clint

game time





It’s not a completely foreign place, her parents’ house. When I was a kid, I’d ride bikes with Greg and Todd past Kenzie’s yard, and there she’d be on her porch, giant glasses on the end of her nose and a book in her lap. She was nothing compared to Rosie back then. But maybe, I try to convince myself, it’ll be nice to be with a girl who’s known me such a long time. Maybe this’ll be just what I need …

I park the truck at the curb and rush to Kenzie’s porch, getting so sweaty you’d think I was going to a job interview.

As soon as I knock, I close my eyes to try to steady my nerves. My mind drifts, though, and I see a fleshy lady slipper and the green, tall grass that surrounds the resort. I see flashes of sun-kissed skin. My nose fills with the clean, peachy-sweet smell of soap; laughter rings in my ears.

When the door opens, a simple white dress fills the space. But I start to knot up inside when I see wavy brown locks trickling down the front of her chest. Not blond.

When my eyes trail up and I see Kenzie’s face, disappointment rattles me. I try to shove down my wish that it was Chelsea standing in the doorway instead.

“You okay?” Kenzie asks, tilting her head.

“Shoulder still aches a little,” I lie.

“Oh,” she frowns, using it as an excuse to touch my arm.

“I’ll be okay,” I tell her. I rush to open the passenger side door of the truck. I hope a little chivalry scores me enough points that she’ll forget about how weird I acted when she opened the door.





Chelsea

indoor sport





As Gabe checks us into the Carlyle, the man at the counter eyes us with the most suspicious look I’ve ever seen in my life. Gabe stares that check-in guy down like he’s just daring him to say something. But I don’t really have time to care what the guy thinks, not with all my seesawing …

Me and Clint steaming up the windows of his truck.

Gabe giving me a star in my own name.

Me and Clint at the bowling alley.

Gabe and the nearly two years we’ve spent holding hands.

Clint and the roaring excitement I got just touching his hand.

Gabe and the sticky goo he could reduce my heart to with any one of his romantic gifts.

Sweet, sweet Gabe, I think, just as every single moment of our history together starts to float through my mind: long talks on our cells at night, kisses on my doorstep, late nights at dances, shared lunches in the Fair Grove High cafeteria. Most of all, I think about my hospital bed, about his face being the first I saw when I opened my groggy, post-surgery eyes. I think about our plan to stay devoted to each other when we go to college.

Okay. So I’ve taken a slight detour from the plan. But it was only a detour. So I had a summer fling. Big deal. Everyone has summer flings. Everybody.

What am I doing, standing here trying to sort things out? Isn’t it all perfectly clear? Why would I ever throw someone as wonderful as Gabe Ross out the window over some guy I had a three-week fling with?

Gabe has been mine throughout the toughest year of my life. He loved me even as my whole world broke apart. And I loved him, too—love. I love him, too. Sure, it was different with Clint. But different isn’t necessarily better, is it?

Gabe is the future, I tell myself. Clint’s some blip in the past. Clint is over. Gabe is right now—and he’s waiting for me.

“Room 403,” Gabe says, as he slips my overnight bag from my hand.





Clint

between plays





The restaurant is so uptight and stuffy, I can barely breathe. Yeah, it’s nice and all—linen napkins and a guy whose only job, apparently, is to attack crumbs on the tablecloth. But the walls are closing in. And as the silence at my table beats in my ears, I start to wish one of those rescue buttons was close by, the ones on elevator walls—red in-case-of-emergency buttons. I wish I could press it, so that somebody could save me from the too-small dining room with no air at all.

Not just someone. My mind keeps drifting back to Chelsea.

“Dessert?” one of the stuffy waiters asks.

“No,” Kenzie answers. “Just the check.” And when he disappears, she says, “Not your style, Morgan. I thought it was weird that you wanted to take me here in the first place.”

“Trying a little too hard to impress, I guess,” I agree.

“It’s okay,” she says, running a finger over the top of her water glass. “I like that you’re trying to impress me.” The skin around her eyes crinkles as she smiles at me.

But this feels tight, too, this conversation. Uncomfortable as hell. “Guess—guess I’m more like a beer and a burger at the edge of the lake,” I mutter.

“To the lake, then,” Kenzie tells me, leaning over the top of the table, angling so that my eyes hit the drooping-open top of her dress.





Chelsea

fake out





Gabe,” I breathe as I step inside. “You must’ve spent every last dime you’ve made on our room.”

“Not every dime. Close, though,” he teases as he puts down our overnight bags.

“This is like a suite that some movie-star couple would rent for their honeymoon,” I say, staring at the enormous crystal chandelier, the luxurious draperies, the lush coverings on the king-sized bed.

“Why don’t you freshen up?” Gabe says, nodding toward the bathroom. “I’ll order dinner.”

I nod. “Freshen up” means getting out of the dark-washed jeans and plain T-shirt I’d worn to make it look like I really was going to a game in Springfield. I drag my bag into the bathroom, where I slip into my gauzy blue dress with spaghetti straps, racy thong, and a pair of strappy sandals. I try to work magic with my makeup brushes, hoping that an extra layer of concealer is all I need to hide every second thought that keeps bubbling to the surface.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Gabe jumps to his feet from the edge of the bed. “Perfect timing,” he says, smiling at me nervously. “Dinner just arrived.”

He points toward a small table draped with Irish linen and dotted with covered sterling dishes. A bottle of bubbly on ice serves as the centerpiece. I realize that in the time I’ve been gone, Gabe’s changed into a suit coat and tie and has turned down the bed, exposing ivory-colored satin sheets. He’s also taken it upon himself to spread rose petals all over those sheets, to light candles, and to place a nosegay of red roses beside my dinner plate.

“You look beautiful, Chelsea,” he says softly. He fidgets like he isn’t sure what to do next. I have to admit, the pressure of it all is hitting me, too—sure, I’ve done this before, but not in such a structured way. Which is exactly the way it feels. Not romantic. Structured.

Back at White Sugar, on grad night, when Gabe had talked about sex at prom being a cliché, I’d felt lucky that he wanted to take the time to do things on our own terms. Now, it seems like we’ve spent way too much time waiting for the right moment to happen instead of just making it happen, the way I had with Clint. Injury aside, what does it say about us, that we’ve never made the moment happen in almost two solid years of dating? What does it mean that sex has never been a have-to thing with us? Being at the Carlyle with Gabe, now, makes me feel like we’ve missed our opportunity and we’re here to compensate—like taking a makeup exam or something.

Stop thinking so much, I scold myself. I throw my arms around Gabe’s neck and kiss him. I kick off the strappy heels I’ve just put on and grab his tie.

From the look in his eyes—a mix of thrill and wonder and, yes, maybe even a little fear—fear?—I can tell he thinks we’re skipping dinner entirely. Or, at least, that I’m skipping the appetizer and heading straight for the main course.

“Wait. First,” he says, pulling our bubbly from the ice, uncorking it, and pouring two full glasses. “To tonight,” he says, holding his glass as he proposes a toast.

And that’s all it takes to bring Clint into the room. Gabe’s toast brings me back to that last night—I hear, again, Clint saying, To never living timidly. Suddenly Clint’s everywhere, showing me everything that’s wrong with this night. Everything that’s missing. I blink back the tears that well up in my eyes, hoping Gabe hasn’t noticed.

Gabe clinks his glass against mine and we both tilt our heads back.

“Sparkling cider,” I say.

“Stupid, I know, but I couldn’t order champagne—no ID.”

“It’s wonderful,” I say, because even though it’s kind of a silly imitation, it really does soften the dry, nervous burn in the back of my throat.

I wrap my arms around Gabe’s waist and kiss him, powerfully. I can feel the beating of his heart against my own. His kisses wander to my neck as we edge our way toward the bed. Together, we tumble onto the slick sheets and rose petals.

It’s the first time we’ve kissed this way since I’ve been back. Really kissed, our tongues tangling, hands running up and down each other’s bodies.

But tonight, as Gabe kisses me, I can hear the sound of rushing water. Can feel drops of mist falling across my skin.





Clint

bodies in motion





I park the truck at the edge of the water that sparkles black beneath the moon. I don’t even have the engine turned off yet when I feel her hand on my wrist. She swallows the distance between us in a single gulp—her hip against mine, her breast pressing against my biceps. Her mouth an arrow aiming for my own.

She’s pulling my shirt from my slacks, tugging me forward. Without thinking, I’m suddenly pressing myself against her, stretching myself out flat—pushing her back against the seat of my truck. Pressing my hips against hers. Her touch is soft, her fingers warm on my skin.

Her lips? They’re strong and wet and full of want.

But no want in me bubbles up out of my chest to answer hers.

I open my eyes to find her staring up at me.





Chelsea

forfeit





Gabe works his mouth down my chest, kissing me along the neckline of my dress. He tugs at my spaghetti straps and continues to kiss me, making his way toward my breasts. But all I can think of is Clint and how his body had felt against my own. How desperately I wanted him. And I know, as Gabe’s mouth travels my chest, that I don’t want him. Not the way I wanted Clint.

I can hear the promise Clint and I made to each other: Never live timidly. And I know going through with this night is the coward’s way out. The tears I’ve been holding back burst forth, running down both cheeks.