“Good.” He presses a knee into the side of the bed. “I’m going downstairs to get something to eat.” I make a motion to get up, but he presses me back. “I’ve got this.”
I allow him to leave, then heave myself out of bed. My monitoring kit is in my backpack, which got flung onto Matty’s desk. There’s a folder, a notebook, and some papers lying on the floor. We must have knocked them off in our haste to undress.
I stoop down and gather everything up. The notebook’s partly open and I take a quick peek. In it is a list of plays. Various offensive schemes. I chuckle a bit. Matty’s a serious student but his number one topic is football. Which makes sense. We’re all studying so we can get a job out in the real world, and Matty’s working toward a potential multimillion-dollar-a-year job after college. It shouldn’t surprise me his primary focus is football.
I stack the loose papers on top of the notebook and grab the folder. I pick it up by the wrong end and the contents flutter out.
“Crap.” I’m making a bigger mess than what I started with. As I’m gathering the stuff, I spot my name on one of the papers. An awful sensation starts churning in my stomach. With trembling fingers, I pick the paper up. Two notebook sheets with precise printing—the kind you see on architectural drawings—are headed with my name in big block letters. I scan it. It lists my major, where I work. That I have two roommates.
I’m only bringing this to you because I think it’s right.
My work schedule at the Brew House is printed out. Wednesdays, Thursdays, five to close. Saturdays, open to noon. All of my classes are listed as well.
Lucy Watson, junior.
Major: Public Policy
Job: Brew House
Extracurricular: Mock Trial
I rip open the folder, but the only thing in it is a sticky note with seven scrawled names. I nearly vomit when I make out the first one. It’s a guy from the Sigma Chi frat that I hooked up with in my freshman year. Four other names are either of boyfriends I had or hookups. Two I don’t know.
I look down at my body with horror. I’m wearing Matty’s shirt. The shirt of some guy who has spent weeks romancing me for no apparent reason. Just out of the blue, a guy who hates coffee, shows up at the coffee house. Flirts with me. Follows me.
I tear the shirt off, my tears wetting the fabric as I struggle to get it off me. I can’t stop crying. The water drips out of my eyes and splashes onto the paper, smearing the ink but the words are all embedded into my brain.
In all the different risk scenarios I had played out in my mind, not one of them had ever, ever included a betrayal like this. That he might cheat on me? Yes. That he might forget me? Also yes.
But those were normal. Those were things anyone could overcome. But this? The pain slices through me. I wrap my arms around my waist and bend over to hold it in, to keep myself together.
How could he do this to me? How could he be so sweet? Should I have somehow guessed? Wasn’t it really odd how he’d sit through those wedding shows without complaint? Ace wouldn’t do that and we’ve been friends for over a decade. And how he was so patient with me? How he didn’t make fun of my cautiousness?
I pull my backpack from the desk and onto the floor because I don’t yet have the strength to get up. My hands are shaking so much it’s hard to open the zipper, and it takes a couple of tries. I shove my dossier into it. Matty doesn’t get to keep this. He doesn’t get to keep any of these.
I look around for my clothes. My panties are lying obscenely in the middle of the floor, mocking me. I snatch them up and stuff them inside my backpack too. God, I have to get dressed and get out of here. Come on! I shout to myself. Stop sniveling and get out of this hellhole!
Dimly, I can hear myself making awful sounds. I hold a hand up to my mouth to silence the moans before anyone can hear me. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to go.
Matty breaks into the room and rushes over to me. “What’s wrong, Goldie? Did you fall and hurt yourself?”
Fall and hurt myself? Yeah, I guess I did. I flinch when he lays an arm around my shoulders. I can’t stand his touch. It makes me sick.
“Are you injured?” he says in concern, trying to turn me around so he can inspect me.
And suddenly I’m enraged. He’s concerned I’m not going to do his dirty work.
“You’re just going to accept my no?”
“I have to, don’t I?”
Right. He’s just going to accept a no. I knew that sounded like a trick when he’d said it, but I wanted it to be true, so I accepted it. I didn’t listen to my internal warning system. I threw away all my careful assessments and what happened? I let Matty eviscerate me. He couldn’t have done a better job of tearing me apart if he’d put my heart through a wood chipper.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl and scuttle backward. My feet hit my jeans. I drape them over my lap. Behind me is a blanket, and I wrap that around me, too. If I had to rip down a curtain, I’d do that as well. Anything to cover myself up.