Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(22)

Something has shifted. At this point, all the humiliation in the world couldn’t keep me from her.

A fraction of the fissure running through me begins to seal itself. And it’s because of Arian. I wish I could’ve found a way to make things right with Alyssa. But it would’ve taken more than wearing a pair of thongs to correct that mistake. A hell of a lot more.

Down the yellow line, Beck curses. I glance over to see him hike one of his legs and reach behind him to pull at his pants.

Game well played. Arian, all the points.





11





Arian





Vee’s asleep. Zonked out to the world. Offering me the solitude I need to reflect. She talked non-stop about the game. Gavin making a touchdown after a fumble. Pointing to the stands and doing a victory dance…and then digging out his wedgie.

We almost died laughing, tears streaming down, the blistering cold freezing our faces stiff. We knew the Bobcats would be upset. Angry. Livid, even. Or maybe they wouldn’t get the joke at all…just toss the thongs away and run out onto the field to face the other team going commando.

We never imagined that our prank would go so far as to see our school football team out on the field walking like big, muscle-burdened ducks. Digging into their pants in-between plays. I mean, why the hell did they actually wear the thongs? Are jocks really that bone-headed?

Gavin even saluted the risers at one point, singling out the criminals—us—with a thumbs-up. Vee fantasizing he was talking directly to her. Which, I pointed out, he was. She was euphoric after that. And I was right there with her.

I’ve never been a part of anything like this. Just the heightened anticipation, the excitement, of walking with the whole school to the stadium. The roar or cheering, thunder of stomping, the sea of blue and white—it was overwhelming. So powerful. Granted, I was only going to gloat at the players, at Ryder—but sharing that with him, feeling how he must feel when he runs out onto the field, it was mind-blowing.

And I won’t feel guilty for indulging in the rare, carefree moment. I probably won’t get many of them later.

Now that I have some time to myself, I pull out my journals. The ones I kept during the four months at Stoney Creek. I stashed them in a box under my bed. Never really thought I’d look at them again, not wanting to read the many dark, twisted thoughts that cluttered my head during that time.

Right this second, though, I have this overwhelming need to write about today. Just put into words this feeling that I can’t otherwise express, explain.

Something altered this past week.

From the moment I was kicked out of school until now, I’ve been so focused on recovery. On fixing myself. On righting my relationship with Becca and my father, trying to repair the damage I caused. Though I honestly had no idea even how to go about it. Eat more? Exercise less? Go out with one of the guys my dad keeps pushing my way? Invest more time in studies? Get a freaking life?

To do anything not to obsess over me…and my imperfections.

For some reason, I have a burning need to write down this liberating feeling. It’s proof that I can laugh. That I can relax. And have a life outside my obsessive angsting. As stupid as these pranks have been and as annoyed as Ryder has made me, I sort of have to thank him. I haven’t been able to unwind and just exist in the moment for a long time.

So that’s what I do.

I sift through the journals, months of gloomy, lonely thoughts, where I burned Stephan on many pages, until I find a fresh, untouched notebook. Mel enters my thoughts, and I think about writing her an old-school letter. I was waiting until I didn’t feel so…lost. So dismal, before I contacted her. Maybe that time is now.

I write the first sentence that starts nothing like the one’s I’m so used to writing.

And surprisingly, it doesn’t start with “I”. Already it’s not as narcissistic as my former entries. There’s also a description of beautiful blue eyes I can’t quite get out of my mind.





* * *



When the adrenaline wears off, and I’m all out of words, I decide to head to the gym. I need to do something to tire myself out. I try not to feel bad about going to the gym twice today.

No small change is ever permanent. One thing I learned while in treatment? You have to repeatedly apply the change—over and over—until it decides to stick. Until you no longer have to remind yourself to do it.

Baby steps.

Exercise, though it’s not a bad thing in general, but rather the opposite, has at times gotten out of hand for me. To the point where I couldn’t walk the next day after a ruthless workout. A form of punishment if I’d indulged, or couldn’t suppress the need to binge eat. Exercise is supposed to be rewarding, giving you endorphins and energy, and helping you stay positive, creating a good, healthy self-image.

Well, anything good can become a vice. An addiction. Or even unhealthy.

But right now, I just need the rigorous routine to wipe me out so I can sleep. I don’t feel the need to punish, just deplete the excess, over stimulated energy.

The steady chirr of crickets greets me along the winding path toward the campus gym. It’s almost eerie, this still quiet that is usually so full of hustle and swarm. The chilly wind stirs the elm branches, adding to the effect with a hushed rustling.

I glance behind me, totally creeped out. This is the first time I’ve been to the gym at night, and I’m wondering if I should just head back before I’m featured in some slasher flick.