Wrecked(80)

“Together?”

“Yes. Interacting with each other. Talking, dancing, drinking . . . with each other. Leaving the party with each other.” He emphasizes the last three words almost angrily.

Richard combs his memory, trying to recall anything. He draws a blank. “I don’t think so,” he repeats.

Dean Hunt returns to his chair. “Okay,” he says. More to himself than to Richard.

They sit, not speaking, for what feels to Richard like a long time.

When Dean Hunt finally breaks the silence, his tone has changed. It’s as if he’s made up his mind about something. He stands. “Thanks for coming in today,” he says, extending his hand. His expression is unreadable.

Richard rises slowly to his feet. They shake. “That’s it?”

Dean Hunt purses his lips in a tight line. “That’s it.”

There’s nothing to do except leave. What the hell? Richard wonders as he heads for the door. His hand is on the knob when the dean speaks one last time.

“Richard.”

He turns.

“Let go of this now,” Dean Hunt says. “Trust me.”





. . .


They aren’t sitting anymore. They lie side by side on the bed, kissing.

Jordan kisses Jenny’s neck, the space at the bottom of her throat. He kisses the place behind her ears, where her hair starts. His lips move down her chest, to the V of her dress. He kisses her there as his hand cups her breast.

She breathes in sharply. He looks at her. Her eyes are wide, surprised. Jordan presses his lips against hers. Hard this time, parting her lips, his tongue in her mouth. His hand moves from her breast to her thigh, slips beneath the scarcely--a--dress. His hand is on her hip. His hand is on her crotch, holding her crotch, while his tongue, in her mouth, rotates.

She pushes away, her hand on his chest. She gasps, a little intake of air as his mouth detaches from hers. She grasps his wrist from between her legs, pulls it away.

“Jordan,” she says. “I haven’t . . .” Her heart pounds.

He smiles. He strokes her hair.

“We can slow down,” he whispers.

Relief, like a warm wave. She closes her eyes. Snuggles warmly against him.

“I’m so tired,” she tells him. She buries her face in his neck. She feels shadows, like giant wings, pass over them. “I’m so tired,” she repeats.

. . .





37





Haley


The look on Madison’s face when Haley tells her is somewhere between aghast and amused.

“The dawn run?” she exclaims. “You’re nuts!”

It’s the countdown before Thanksgiving break, and the level of postmidterm angst and prevacation excitement in Main dining hall is deafening. She and Madison have finished lunch. Both nurse cups of something hot and caffeinated in white, institutional mugs. Their season has officially ended—for Madison, an eight--month hiatus; for Haley, forever.

Madison, in a rare moment of emotional sensitivity, has asked her how she feels about that.

Haley’s been surprised by what she’ll miss most. Teammates, for sure, but she’s still friends with a few of them. Admittedly, the competition. The game itself, because soccer is great.

But what she’ll really miss is the dawn run.

The whole team, early misty mornings, the campus still asleep, passing townies emerging from the bakery clutching brown bags and steaming cups as they clop--clopped past, half dreaming.

She thought she hated it. Hated that alarm going off in the near--dark, hated the acid in her still--sleeping stomach, the rubber--band stretch of tight muscles. Hated the calf burn and ankle ache, someone’s phlegmy cough when they set off at a slow trot. Lung sear, eye tear when the leaders picked up the pace. She even thought she hated her teammates. Especially the one who always commented on the gorgeous view.

Then the burn would settle into warmth, the footbeats a steady rhythm. The thudding in her chest would feel less like pain and more like excitement when they climbed a familiar hill and had energy to spare at the top. She’d switch from struggling to autopilot, and while her legs still worked and the bellows in her chest continued to blow air in and out, she felt less trapped in the cage of her body and more just along for the ride. So when the telephone pole signaling the end loomed and the captains called for the kick and she put on a burst, pouring everything into those last hundred yards, she couldn’t help but feel amazed by what her body could do. Grateful to be part of those mornings.

It was never, she realizes, about the uniform.

“What about Mr. Hottie?” Madison presses. “Didn’t you tell me he runs?”

Since the Matt Trainor event, Madison and the rest of the team have dubbed Richard “Mr. Hottie.”

“That would end us,” Haley tells her, not bothering to explain that it’s the runners and not the running she’ll miss. “He’s definitely not an early--morning person.”

“More the late--night type?” Madison says suggestively.

Haley smiles but doesn’t elaborate. They return to wondering aloud what it will be like to see old high school friends after their first semester at college.

“You’re going back a NARP,” Madison teases, then looks instantly sorry.