STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

I gave him my heart, and right now it feels like I’ll never be able to truly get it back.

18

I almost leave school a week before the Thanksgiving break.

But I refuse to let them win. I refuse to slink away from campus with my tail between my legs.

So I return to the apartment Trishelle and I share, going straight to and from my room, avoiding Trishelle at all costs. I want to talk to her, but it’s old Trishelle I want to talk to. The Trishelle who, upon learning that my heart was broken, would have gone out to get me Gushers and Milk Duds, and watched old movies with me and told me what a loser the guy was who dumped me.

Maybe we would have made a bonfire and burned all the memorabilia from our tragically failed romance.

Except, there’s not really anything we could burn. Tyson never wrote me letters. Never sent me flowers. Never got me a card. We had no anniversaries or receipts from first dates. We’re just finished.

Which is why I really, really wish Trishelle and I were speaking, because I have no idea how to get through a breakup like this without her.

I throw myself into preparing for my theater audition instead— it’s only a week away, the day before we leave for the holiday— but there’s only so many times you can read a scene before you start to crack. Given that I lost my virginity after reading the hostess scene to Tyson, I distract myself by memorizing the other two scenes just for fun. I’m reciting the comedy one to myself one afternoon when I realize that there’s a game today.

Morbid curiosity beats out my desire to stay far away from Tyson, and I turn on the television, though I leave it muted— I can do without more speculation from the commentators on his love life, thanks.

Charlotte is up by a touchdown, but even my novice eyes can tell the game isn’t going particularly well. Tyson is playing decently, but it’s nothing compared to how he’s been doing for the last few weeks. He seems distracted, and I’d bet money that the commentators are pondering on if it’s something to do with his father’s guilty plea. As the game goes into the half, the camera swings across the cheerleaders, and I frown. I don’t see Trishelle with them.

I guess it’s possible that she just ran to the restroom or something, but my stomach feels more than a little knotted. I watch the game for a while longer, paying close attention to the cheerleaders in the background, waiting to see if Trishelle returns to the group or if she was just left out of the shot earlier. She’s not— she’s nowhere. I bite my lip and glance at my phone. Something must be wrong for her to miss a game— I mean, the captains wouldn’t even allow her to wear flats or go without makeup. Missing a game is surely off limits, right?

I could call her. I could call her just to check in, just to make sure everything’s fine. I should call her. Just because our friendship might be over doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned.

I shake my head.

Trishelle has her new friends now— this isn’t my battle to insert myself into, assuming there’s a battle to begin with. Plus, I’m just not sure I can tackle another fight yet, and the odds seem good that even if I call with good intentions, we’ll end up in a war. It’s easier to just avoid her, to avoid the conflict, to focus on getting through the tail end of the semester and nailing my theater audition.

I go back to my audition piece, reading through it for the thousandth time.

I hear Trishelle arrive home late that night. I lie still in bed, listening to the sounds of her opening the fridge, running water, flipping through the mail on the counter. Her phone rings, and she silences it without answering. It rings again, and again, and she silences it each time. It’s unusual behavior for her, given how married she is to her phone, but it’s also nearly midnight, so it’s not impossible to write off. But then it rings again, and I hear Trishelle sigh and answer.

“Hello?” she says. There’s the muffled sound of someone on the other end speaking— no, yelling. I swing my feet off the bed and roll-step to the door to eavesdrop. “Yes,” Trishelle says, voice quavering. “Yes, of course I want off probation. Yes. I know. I don’t know how I can prove it to you. I wasn’t trying to flirt with him, I swear! I know. Alright, I— alright. I’m on my way.”

My eyes widen in surprise, and I hear Trishelle putting her shoes back on, then of her gathering her keys. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly in the darkness, and then slowly turn my doorknob. I don’t know why, exactly, I’m trying to open the door quietly— I guess so I can close it again without detection should I lose my nerve. I peer out into the hallway; Trishelle is at the opposite end, by the door, collecting her purse. She’s wearing the highest heels I’ve ever seen in my life— platforms with an additional heel, and they’re lucite, like the sort that strippers wear. I frown, and in doing so accidentally move the door a bit. Trishelle picks up on the motion and her eyes fall on mine.