Halfway Girl (Girl 2.5)

My empty dorm room is calling me. I’ve almost made it alive through the rush process and have a good chance of pledging Kappa Kappa Gamma. I’ve earned a night without people or talking or wearing pants. Yet I continue to shift in my boots, a tug in my belly guiding me toward the basement door. It’s not fair that he’s fetching and carrying for his teammates and no one is helping him. Or even thanking him.

He wouldn’t have been Natalie’s type.

The thought doesn’t come out of nowhere. My sister’s tastes and personality are considered, no matter if I’m picking a sorority or deciding which satellite radio station to play in my dorm room while cleaning. Not for the first time lately, the looming question of What Would Natalie Do? makes my palms damp, makes discomfort rise.

I give myself a quick mental shake and refocus on the guy who just vanished down the stairs. I did partake of the beer, didn’t I? Albeit only a small amount. A thank you is in order. Right. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Say thank you, ask if he needs help and then I’ll go home.

That’s what I tell myself. But as my bootsteps echo on the hollow stairs and I descend into the basement, my heart sure is pumping hard in anticipation of a casual thank you…

*

Jerimiah

Who was that girl?

My boots make heavy thuds on my way into the basement, loud creaks a sign that the stairs don’t appreciate my huge, lumbering ass. I appreciate the darkness that wraps around me so completely when I reach the bottom, though. I don’t even bother with a light. There’s no stainless steel refrigerators around to show me a reflection. Or fellow students to stare at me without speaking, their sympathetic expressions speaking volumes all on their own.

Except…that girl—the one I didn’t recognize—she didn’t have an ounce of sympathy on her face when we locked eyes. Not a flinch. Or a wince. She’d just looked. I’m not sure I can remember the last time I’d felt seen like that, even in a crowded room full of people.

There are two places where I feel at home. One is on the football field with a helmet hiding my oversized features. Out on the gridiron, my freakish size is a good thing. Everywhere else, it seems to make people uncomfortable. Sure, I’m not the only big man on the planet. A lot of them are revered. Celebrated. My total lack of social skills and the fact that I stay quiet even when actively engaged in a conversation? Doesn’t exactly make me endearing. It’s that combination, size and silence, that makes me useless for much of anything but carrying kegs up the stairs. Sacking the quarterback. I’m not sure my teammates would have any use for me if it weren’t for those skills. So when they ask me to shoulder a keg…I do it.

I do it because saying no would make me unnerving and useless.

Before I reach the final keg where it rests in the corner of the basement, I stop and turn, looking back toward the stairs. There’s only one reason I’m not as eager as usual to linger in the darkness and it’s because of that girl. Who was she? Why did I get that sinking feeling in my stomach when she left the kitchen? My fingers drum against my thigh and I consider leaving the keg behind to go search her out. Immediately, I discard that notion. There isn’t a woman alive that wants to turn around and see me stomping after them long after night has fallen. She’d probably drop dead from fright.

A little tug in my conscience tells me I’m wrong about that, though. That this girl who looked me square in the eye, almost inviting me to make a move, wouldn’t back down from anything. How would I make that assumption when we’ve never exchanged a single word?

With a sigh, I stoop down to throw the keg over my shoulder, but the door closes at the top of the stairs before I get the chance. The slam is followed by a drawn out, feminine curse, a rough jiggle of the doorknob and then all goes silent. I straighten with a frown and back up two paces, peering up the stairs where a figure stands huddled against the door. I can barely make out whoever it is due to the lack of light, but the voice tells me it’s a girl.

I clear the rust of disuse from the throat, already dreading the reaction of whoever has joined me in the basement. It seems like my voice gets deeper every time I open my damn mouth, almost like God is punishing me for not using the gift of speaking enough.

“Hello?”

Another desperate rattle of the doorknob.

“Did you…” I wince at my low, low baritone rasp. “Is it locked?”