Halfway Girl (Girl 2.5)
Because it wasn’t for me.
I might be inexperienced when it comes to sex, but my attraction to Birdie doesn’t end there. I’ve never felt more comfortable in my own skin than when she’s standing in front of me. I think I do the same for her. God, I hope so.
“Beautiful?”
She opens her mouth to say something—
“Campus security just pulled up!” someone yells in the living room. That shout is followed by crashing and the sound of feet running across the floorboards. Frustration wells up inside me. We’re not allowed to have alcohol in the fraternity house and we’re definitely not allowed to have drugs on the premises. None of my teammates are partaking in the weed, thanks to random drug tests for athletes, but they could be held responsible, either way. And there’ll be no denying the existence of the kegs. I need to help them handle this now or there’s every chance they could be sidelined for the next several games.
When I look down at Birdie, I hesitate. How can I walk away from this when I don’t even know where we stand? It would be a lot worse if she got in trouble, too, though, wouldn’t it?
“Come on,” I say, opening the door and pulling her into the disaster of a living room. “Who did you come with?”
“My roommate.” Birdie points at a girl who’s wringing her hands near the front door. “There she is. I’m good.” She nods at me and I finally, finally see her eyes are an incredible melted brown sugar color. “Go do what you have to do.”
I hesitate, barely checking the urge to hide her in my room. But I can’t break another rule that could land her in trouble, dammit. Nor do I have time to exchange numbers when there’s a stampede happening around us. “Where can I find you?”
“Um. The mural?” She’s already backing away from me and taking my stomach along with her. “I’ll be there in the afternoon.”
“So will I.”
Birdie disappears out the front door in a herd of students. Battling the sudden wave of loneliness, I face the room, prepared to help my teammates clean up anything that visibly breaks campus rules. Instead I see the quarterback being stopped at the back door by a security guard—while in the process of lugging an empty keg.
Reasonably, I know it’s not my fault he’s been caught, but I can’t stem the flow of guilt. Not that I will ever regret a single second with Birdie, but if I’d come back up from the basement when I was supposed to, I could have cleared out the kegs in a fraction of the time it would take someone else. Some security guards might take it easy on a well-known athlete, but I can see right away, that’s not going to be the case this time.
It’s going to be on me if he’s benched. On me if we lose.
You have to contribute something here. Otherwise you’re just a mute giant haunting this house while everyone puts up with you.
I hear Birdie’s voice in my head, telling me I’m not scary. I feel the pleasure that rode along my skin when she looked at me…and smiled. Kissed me like she couldn’t stop. But those stolen moments in the dark feel like such a dream compared to my usual reality, I can’t put all of my trust in them. Badly as I want to.
“The kegs are mine,” I say. “I brought them.”
Chapter Three
Jerimiah
Most days, my teammates don’t have much to say to me. There isn’t a whole lot of appeal in a one-sided conversation with someone who doesn’t laugh when he’s supposed to. Or isn’t interested in talking about girls like they’re meat on a stick. Today they’re giving me even wider berth than usual—and for once, I’m not glad for the silence.
As I sit in the common room of the house alone, I’m craving the noise, the dick jokes, the ever-present sounds of PlayStation. Anything to distract me from the fact that I couldn’t show up at the mural this morning. That’s where I was supposed to meet Birdie and I didn’t get there. My first promise to her. Broken.
From what I understand, guys break promises to girls all the time. Especially promises made in the heat the moment at a party. The possibility that Birdie thinks I spoke false is driving me crazier than anything. Crazier than the fact that I have a permanent smudge on my academic record for taking responsibility for the kegs at the party.
I sigh and pull up a new internet search screen on my phone, typing in diabetic breakfast. Perhaps the silence is good for one thing. For the past couple hours, I’ve been reading everything I can find on diabetes trying to understand what Birdie’s day looks like. Caring for herself is so much more complicated than I would have guessed. Blood sugar checks, highs, lows, pump malfunctions, strict carbohydrate counting, insulin doses. It’s impossible to get an understanding for it in one sitting, but I know I definitely can’t bring her chocolate to apologize.