We had found out a few weeks back that we had both been awarded the highly coveted Bakersville Times internship. To say it was a big deal was an understatement. Every senior in the English department vied for the chance to gain hands-on experience at the award winning newspaper. It opened doors that we all desperately wanted kicked open for us.
Sure, Bakersville was a small town, but its newspaper was one of the most respected on the east coast. It had a lot to do with Gary Findle, the editor in chief who had been a reporter for the Washington Post for almost twenty years. When he moved to Bakersville with his wife fifteen years ago, he took on the failing newspaper and turned it into what it is today.
So Rinard students wanting to break into journalism would sell their kidneys for the chance to learn from him. Three students were chosen out of hundreds and somehow, Gracie and I had earned the spots.
“Yeah, it should be pretty sweet,” I said, trying to affect a nonchalance I didn’t feel. Because inside I was bouncing as much as Gracie. But it would blow my too cool for school cover to scream like a banshee at the top of my lungs.
Gracie playfully punched me in the arm. “Pretty sweet? Admit it, you’re ready to piss yourself,” she teased. I snorted and let out a small whoop, making Gracie laugh.
“You’re a lost cause, Ri,” Gracie complained good-naturedly.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve cornered the market on excitable energy. I’ll just syphon off yours,” I told her, turning left at the red light and cutting off a bright blue BMW that honked loudly at me. I waved my middle finger out the window, earning me a look from my friend.
“What? They were totally in my way,” I stated innocently. Gracie only shook her head and then moved the topic into less comfortable territory.
“So where did you disappear to on Saturday?” she asked me and I had to cough around the squeak that escaped my mouth. The question was asked in obvious ignorance so I hoped like hell that Maysie hadn’t opened her big mouth. And if she had, there was a lake and a pair of cement shoes with her name on it.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” I asked indifferently. I was one cool ass bitch! That’s right, Samuel L. Jackson ain’t got nothin’ on me, mothafucker!
I had successfully dodged Maysie’s not so subtle attempts at conversation around my night as a college slut bag. If I wasn’t going to get into the dirty details with her, I wasn’t about to spill the naughty to Gracie.
My plan was to pretend that the whole thing hadn’t happened. My memories of the night in question were hazy at best. Though what I could remember left me feeling mortified.
I seemed to recall following Garrett into his bedroom and promptly removing my clothes. I don’t think I gave the poor guy a chance to say anything before I was on him. It was then that my mind went mercifully blank. I had either experienced some sort of psychotic break or I had been possessed by the evil spirit of a dead porn star.
Because one thing was for certain, the girl who had jumped into Garrett Bellows’ bed was not the Riley I worked hard to be. Knowing I had so willingly spread my legs for a guy I could barely stomach did a number on my sense of self-respect.
I wasn’t a prude. I wasn’t a goody goody. I didn’t subscribe to the antiquated notion that I needed to wait for marriage to have sex. I had chucked my v-card out the window a long time ago. But I always prided myself on sharing that intimate experience with someone that mattered. Someone that was invested in me as a person.
And it was obvious Garrett barely invested in himself, let alone anyone else. The guy was a wreck in the worst possible way.
Gracie snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Riley. What the heck girl? I’ve been talking for like five minutes and you just totally spaced out,” Gracie harrumphed. I gave her a weak smile.