I hate him.
I hate them all.
I hate the wretched, pitiful sound of my own tears. I hate the sting of shame piercing my heart like a thorn. I hate my stupidity, my naiveté believing Jared Foster wanted someone like me instead of someone like Cindy. I hate the way my thighs spread, stretching the denim of my jeans. The way my legs rub together when I walk. I hate this roll of fat hanging over my waistband.
This body is an inadequate shell that doesn’t reflect the powerful, confident person I am inside. And yet there’s a part of me that knows it shouldn’t matter. That knows whether I’m a size 2 or 22, I’m still smart an
d ambitious and kind and generous. And yes, speak Italian, Russian, and a little Chinese.
It shouldn’t matter, but I have to be honest with myself as I weep uncontrollably and admit that it does. Right now, it does.
“Banner, open the door.”
Jared’s voice bellows from the hall.
Could this night get any worse?
“I’m not leaving.” He gives the door four successive bangs. “You left your coat and your clients’ laundry. You have to get those so you’ll have to open the door.”
I cup my hand over my mouth to catch the sobs that won’t stay down. He won’t hear me crying for his fine sorry ass. I can imagine how glamorous I look with my just-fucked hair all over the place, puffy eyes, and blotchy cheeks. When I cry this hard, the blood vessels around my eyes always burst. Technical term: facial petechiaec. Layman’s term: hot mess.
“Okay. You want to do this.” I hear a sliding sound on the other side of the door and assume he sits on the floor, mirroring my position. “We can do this. I’ll stay out here until you open the door. I swear I had nothing to do with this. Prescott is a liar.”
I sniff, hope pushing through like a tiny bud in a storm somehow preserved from the wind and the rain, but I keep my voice hard and sure. I’ve seen what he does with my vulnerability. I focus on my anger to dry up my tears.
“So you had nothing to do with it? He’s lying? Did Prescott ask you to . . .” I clear my throat and close my eyes but force myself to say the words “. . . fuck the fat girl—me in case we’re confused about that. Yes or no?”
There are a few seconds of guilty silence through the door before he speaks.
“It wasn’t like—”
“Yes. Or. No.”
“Yes, he did tell me that if I wanted to get into The Pride, I had to fuck . . . you, but I—”
“The Pride?” I run through the various fraternities on campus and cannot place that one. “What the hell is The Pride? Like lions?”
“It’s a secret society that I’m not allowed to talk about. I’ve signed papers that I won’t, even though I told them tonight I’m not joining. Not after they asked . . . Not after what Prescott wanted me to do.”
“So let me get this straight. You’ve been running around like a fool all semester to get into this secret society of privileged spoiled brats, and you’ve done everything they asked. Tonight they crossed the line when they asked you to fuck the fat girl.”
“Banner, stop saying that,” he cuts in harshly.
“I’m sorry it’s so hard on you hearing that I’m fat,” I say, every word sardonic.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And you,” I continue without acknowledging his denial, “were so outraged by Prescott’s heinous suggestion that you told them you don’t want to play his little games anymore.”
“It’s not . . . Yeah. I told them to fuck off.”
“Oh, I just bet you did. Then you come to me and all of a sudden, when you’ve shown no indication of being attracted to me, you just happen to decide we should fuck.” I get on my knees and face the door, glaring at him with X-ray vision through the cheap faux wood. “Am I getting this right, Jared?”
“No, it’s not right,” he yells back, frustration reaching through the flimsy door. “I told you I’ve liked you all semester.”
“And Cindy? Why did you stay with her if you were pining for me?”
“I don’t . . . shit, I don’t know. Habit? Someone convenient to fuck? What do you want me to say? I’ve never pretended to be anyone but who I am, Ban. I’m not gonna lie to you now.”