Her eyes close briefly. “It’s stupid. It doesn’t matter.”
Frustration seizes my chest, and I release a heavy breath to ease the constriction. “You’re pissing me off now.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “I’m pissing you off? Oh, sorry. I always seem to forget the amount of narcissism that’s involved with jocks.”
That’s it. I tug her foot, bringing her forward. “What’s your deal with jocks? Why don’t we just get that one out of the way?”
“Hey!” She scrambles to push herself away again, but this time not nearly as far. “You have a real problem with maneuvering people wherever you want, you know that?”
I hold eye contact with her, waiting.
She sighs, then, “The guy I was steady with at my last college was this big lacrosse star.”
I raise my eyebrows, prompting more from her. “And?”
&nbs
p; “And,” she says, drawing out the word. “There was a bunch of stuff. But mostly, I was expelled.”
My face contorts with my confusion. Little Ari. Little uptight, perfectly in control, levelheaded Ari, expelled. I find this hard to believe. “Care to elaborate?”
She shakes her head, ejecting a strained huff from her mouth. “Not really. Let’s just say he was really into himself, like super conceited, and he thought that me taking the fall for something would work out better for our relationship.” She wriggles her fingers, making air quotes. “He said he couldn’t get an expulsion because of his sport’s career, whereas I—because of my family’s connections—would be able to get away with it.” She rolls her eyes. “That didn’t happen. I took the blame, got expelled, and he dumped me the next week. Through a text. Before I was admitted to rehab.”
Her gaze swings to mine and widens in panic. She did not mean to reveal this last part. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, thinking hard. She’s been in rehab. And she said, “take the fall,” but I have close, personal experience dealing with people who suffer from substance abuse. I know the denial and blame that accompanies it. I hate that my mind jumps right to that conclusion…but it’s my automatic response. Triggered from years of accepting my brother’s collect calls from jail. There’s always an excuse and someone else to blame ready on his tongue.
This is Ari, though. And I can’t expect her to dole out the trust if I don’t offer at least some in return.
“So they sent you to rehab after you took the blame for…?” I trail off, trying to fit the scenario together in my head. “For finding some drugs on campus?”
A heavy exhale, then she follows with, “It was speed. I didn’t know he used all the time, just on occasion, to get through exams when he had practices and games. I’m such an idiot, I know. But I guess we believe what we want. Anyway”—she draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her shins—“I never bothered to ask how he got his supply. Maybe I didn’t want to know. But he was using my mailbox. He had his dealer actually mail it to him. He started using my box after about a week of us dating, saying he didn’t have his own, so it never even crossed my mind. I didn’t know how drug rings worked.” She laughs mirthlessly. “But, after four months in rehab I do. I now know more than I ever wanted to.”
I don’t interrupt. I let her vent. It sounds like she needs to, and I wonder if her parents know the truth. How much punishment and shame has she been dealing with, trying to get back into their good graces? And it hits me; dating me probably won’t do her any favors there. Not a guy from the poor side of town, getting by on an academic scholarship.
“When they uncovered a package of speed, it was addressed to me, in my college mailbox, so there wasn’t much of an investigation. I told them straight up it was mine, and I thought maybe I’d be reprimanded, or have to pay a fine…I didn’t really know or understand.” She swallows hard, the column of her throat strains. “But I was kicked out. Of Dartmouth, by the way. Not Yale, but I guess you were close. And to defer the charges, I accepted voluntary drug rehabilitation. My father arranged it all with the judge. I stayed in the facility until my father felt confident all was buried, and then I was enrolled here.” She looks around, her eyes settling on my face. “No one knows. Not the full story, anyway.”
I open my mouth to say something, but she quickly continues. “So yeah, I really don’t have a soft spot in my heart for jocks.” She shrugs. “Call me crazy, but I only had to get burned once to learn my lesson.”
“You’re too smart for that,” I say. “Tossing everyone who plays sports into the same douchebag pile…I don’t buy it. You were hurt badly, betrayed, but that’s because you cared for someone who you thought you could trust, and he took advantage of you. Jock or not makes no difference there. People can be assholes.”
She releases a quick laugh. “That’s true enough. But I guess the full truth of it is that I don’t trust easily.” Her stare intensifies as she holds my gaze. “Anyone. But especially jocks. It’s just a bit too fresh, I guess.”
“Fair enough.” I’m so lost in her eyes, soft and vulnerable, that I’ve completely forgotten why I came here in the first place. There was something I wanted clarity on…her text. “So I’m assuming something was said, or you heard a rumor that made you question my intentions.” Around here, that’s not too far off of an assumption.
“Truthfully, Ryder, I’ve never trusted your intentions from the start.”
Ouch. “But today. Something happened today specifically.”
She turns her head away, breaking our connection. “Do you have a bet to sleep with me?”
I release a groan. I expected as much, but I was hoping for something a little more original, at least. “No,” I say honestly. “I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it?” Tentatively, I reach up and touch her chin, turn her face in my direction. “You believe me?”
Tilting her head just enough to be released from my hold, she says, “Yes. I thought it sounded a bit too juvenile. Even for you.”
I laugh. “As opposed to sharing my cake with you?”