STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice harsh.

“Sorry. I just heard you come in and— sorry,” I say, shaking my head. I move to shut the door as quickly as possible—

“Wait,” Trishelle says. It’s not the word that stops me, but her voice. It’s cracking and high, broken in a thousand places. I freeze, then look up at her through the slim space between the door and jamb. Trishelle looks up, trying to keep her tears from falling, and then sort of flings her arms out. “So, I’m sort of fucked,” she says shakily.

“How?” I ask, opening the door wide. I take a step out and lean in the frame, arms folded across my chest protectively.

“After the…um…after that stuff with Tyson, I was really upset. I went to this party, and this really, really nice guy gets me a drink. He’s telling me how cute I am, and how he’s noticed what a great athlete I am, and it’s just all super nice,” she says, jaw trembling. She bites her lower lip at the last word, but there’s no stopping tears now— her eyes overflow, and they begin running down her face. “But it turns out that he’s one of the senior’s boyfriends. Not one of the captain’s, but basically one of the captain’s best friends, and so they were all just furious with me.”

“And they put you on probation?” I ask, astounded. Isn’t there like an athletic director or dean or someone who can stop stupid shit like this from happening? I guess not— cheerleaders rule the world again, I think to myself bitterly

Trishelle laughs humorlessly and drops her keys, then slides into one of the barstools. She drops her head into her arms and sniffles loudly. “Probation alone would be fine. Whatever. So I don’t have to go to a game. But they said that since I embarrassed one of the seniors, she gets payment in kind. So for the last two weeks they’ve made me wear these stripper heels everywhere, even to workouts, because they say I’m ‘such a slut that I need to wear slut shoes’.”

“You’re working out in those?” I ask, stepping out of my bedroom entirely. My mouth is hanging open as I walk toward her to get a better look at the shoes. They’re rhinestoned and plastic and look like something no one would want to wear for more than fifteen minutes, if that. I doubt I could make it ten.

“Yep. And then when I can’t keep up with them during runs they make me do an extra half mile in them,” she says with acid in her voice.

“Trishelle, that is insane. You have got to quit. This is some next level social torture,” I say, shaking my head at her.

“I can’t quit! I worked so hard just to get on the team, and then worked all semester to follow their rules. If I quit now I’m just letting it all go,” she cries, lifting her head. Her makeup is a disaster, running down he face in thick lines, and her skin is a wreck from the stress. “This is what we both wanted— to reinvent ourselves. And you got Tyson Slate, and what did I get? Stripper heels?” she says.

I swallow and look down. “I should have told you about Tyson. You were right about that,” I say softly.

She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “It’s fine. Whatever.”

“No,” I say, still unable to look her in the eye. “I should have told you.”

“Well,” she says with a shrug. “I guess…I mean, you’re right about me not really being around. And being a shitty friend. I guess I just never thought that something so huge could happen in your life and you wouldn’t hunt me down and tell me all about it.”

I nod.

We sit in silence for a while. Her phone rings again, and she silences it.

“This is what I wanted,” she says softly. “But it isn’t the way I wanted it.”

“I know the feeling,” I answer. She gives me a curious look, and I shrug, trying (and, I’m sure, failing) to look non-chalant. “Tyson and I aren’t a thing anymore.”

“You broke up?” she asks, eyes going wide.

“The term ‘broke up’ implies we were every really together. But you were right. I was basically just his secret fuck buddy. He had me hide in the closet because he didn’t want a reporter to see us together.”

“Are you shitting me? What the actual fuck?” Trishelle asks, and her voice makes me laugh. I don’t know why— it’s not like she’s saying anything funny— but I think it’s just hearing her say something in my defense, hearing her furious on my behalf…it’s such a relief that I can’t help but laugh about it. “When did it happen?” she asks.

“The morning after you found out about us, actually.”