Push(71)

No. No. No. Holy shit. What is going on? How can Mr. Beckman be mad at Peter when this whole thing was my idea? When I was the one who wanted to come? As I gather my things, I try to explain to Mr. Beckman that this was my fault and not Peter’s, that he was just doing what I asked. But Mr. Beckman says that Peter knows better. He apologizes to Michael and the police officers and promises to see that everyone gets home safely.
As Michael is pulling me out of the room, I mouth the word “sorry” to Peter. He looks sad and worried, but he also looks angry. At Michael, I hope, and not at me. I think I’m going to be sick.
* * *

It is a week later, and I am no longer playing volleyball. Michael got me pulled from the team due to “disciplinary issues,” telling my coach that I have been drinking and lying. Telling her that I don’t deserve to be on the team. I was in the room when they met to discuss it, and frankly, the whole conversation was more humiliating than anything else Michael could have come up with. He told her that my behavior has been so bad that he’s considering contacting Case Western and withdrawing my acceptance. What the f*ck? Can he even do that? The thing that bothered me the most, though, was the fact that Coach Lyons believed him. She let him do this. When we left her office, I felt betrayed.
Peter said he can’t see me anymore. The day after prom he called to tell me his parents said we need to take a break. I think they are worried that Michael will hurt him somehow if something like that were ever to happen again. I understand they are trying to protect him. Peter apologized profusely, telling me how much he still cares about me and how he hopes that things get better for me. He even said he’s sorry that he couldn’t be the one to make it better. I wished him good luck at Northwestern and told him that I’ll be okay.



chapter Thirty-Two

Emma—Present Day

My alarm is going off, and I wake up sweating. I was dreaming about the buzzing sound, and it makes me wonder how long the alarm was going off before I woke up. Jesus, I am hotter than shit. My pajamas are soaked, and my hair is stuck in a matted-up wad. Why am I so f*cking hot? I kick off the covers, roll on to my side, and switch off the alarm. It is then that I smell the now-familiar odor of stale cigarettes and warm whisky breath. I roll over on to my other side and see that David is in my bed. He is sound asleep, lying flat on his back with his hands resting on his chest. The blanket covers only his lower body, and I spend a few minutes watching his chest rise and fall. His mouth is slightly open, and for a moment I consider kissing it. I could put my face against his and sink my tongue into his mouth. But I know he didn’t get to sleep until just a few hours ago, and I don’t want to wake him. He is so quiet. He looks almost childlike. I smile at the thought of David stumbling into my apartment after poker. I smile knowing that he wanted to come here to make sure that I am okay. To make sure that I survived a night without him.
As I shower and eat my breakfast, I think about how David will feel when I tell him that I spoke with Ricky last night. I wonder if he’s going to consider me nuts for even caring to find more out about Michael. And then I think about Lucia, and I wonder how much David cared about all the things that she did.
* * *

Wednesday is acting just like the hump that it is. The morning is slow. Slow as f*ck. I feel as if I am treading water. I’m not working with Matt this morning because he is having a meeting with some of the project managers, going over our initial designs and tweaking some of the kinks we stumbled on. But then, in the afternoon, things pick up. We have a conference with the architects—making the rest of the day slip by seamlessly. And now, a handful of hours later, I am on the bus again, listening to my iPod and headed back home. Headed back to David. I haven’t heard from him all day.
When I get to my apartment and unlock the door, David is sitting at the table. Spread out in front of him are mounds of money. Stacks, actually. He is sorting the bills and putting them into piles of the same denomination. I feel for a second as if I am interrupting him. But then I remember that this is my apartment and that he knows I come home at this time. I close the door behind me, lay my bags down, and walk over toward him. He holds up his index finger, silently asking me to hang on for a minute. I put my hands on the top of his shoulders and watch him finish counting the bills in one of the stacks. Next to him is a small pad of paper and a pencil with a novelty eraser in the shape of Spider-Man’s head. It looks silly sitting amongst all this money. There are numbers listed on the paper, and when he stops counting, he scribbles the number 8200 on the bottom of the list. Then he looks up at me, lifting his hand to his shoulder to stroke my fingers.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m taking up your table, but Brad and some of the other guys are up at my place, and I didn’t want to do this there.”
“No problem,” I say. Then I tip my head down at the table and add, “From poker?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was a pretty good night. I didn’t get back here till nearly five in the morning, and I was exhausted. There was no way I was gonna count all this then. I slept here until like four o’clock this afternoon. When I went up to take a shower and get changed, Brad and the guys were already up there. So I came down here instead.” My eyes skim over the stacks of money on the table. There must be at least twenty thousand dollars sitting there. “I hope you don’t mind,” he adds thoughtfully.
“Mind what? That you’re counting your money here or that you slept in my bed until four o’clock?”