It’s what I was about to say but someone says it for me. Someone with a deep baritone voice with a crazed, murderous tone. Both Roland and I swivel our heads and see Coach Ford stalking toward us. He looks like his head is about to explode.
He grabs Roland by the front of his shirt and whips him backward into the hedge. If it had been a wall, Roland’s head might have cracked open with the force. Instead, his body is pressed into the side of an oversized azalea shrub. The bright green leaves and bursts of hot pink flowers make a funny sort of crown around Roland’s terrified face and I have to stifle a laugh.
Coach Ford is breathing rapidly, audibly, and I would not be surprised in the least if he is foaming at the mouth. Then he turns to Roland and speaks purposefully, just quiet enough to be terrifying. “You ever touch her again, I will cut off your puny little balls.”
I look down at my wrists, which are red where Roland had gripped me. I think I would like to have a shot at removing his balls first.
“You’re a fucking psychopath. My dad will have you fired for putting your hands on me.” Roland’s words are insolent but the spreading wet spot on the front of his designer slacks tells another story.
“Go ahead and try it, you little punk.”
“You’re history,” Roland grunts before sprinting off around the side of the building.
We watch him go. My attention snaps back when I feel warmth on my cheek. The coach’s hand is examining my face.
“Are you OK?”
I am shaking all over from the heightened emotions of the moment, from fear and confusion and surprise at his touch. He brushes my hair away from my eyes.
“Come on. I’m taking you to get checked out.”
“For what?”
“For injuries. We need to document everything in case you press charges.”
“Press charges? I’m fine! He barely touched me.”
But he doesn’t answer me. Instead he picks me up and carries me straight through the ballroom, out into the lobby, down the grand staircase, and out to the street where his truck is already waiting.
I’m reeling from being carried by my swim coach across the dance floor to the utter astonishment of all my classmates. And there’s no sign of Hunter anywhere.
He puts me in the passenger seat gingerly and snaps the door closed. In another few seconds we are speeding down the highway to the hospital.
I open my purse and pull out my phone. I calmly tell my shocked parents that there was a fight at prom, that I’m perfectly fine, and that they should meet us at the emergency room, where I will explain everything.
This whole situation is so ridiculous, so over the top, it reminds me of the romance books I read late at night when I can’t sleep. He actually carried me like a distressed damsel out of a ballroom in front of everyone I know. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve manifested this man from those books. Maybe Weston Ford isn’t even real. Maybe I made him up and this is just a dream, a long, angsty, slow burn kind of dream that never pays off in the end.
I can’t help it, I get the giggles. I cover my mouth and snort. And then the guffaws come loud and fast, and I’m doubled over in my seat.
“Shermer,” he rumbles. “Are you laughing or crying?”
A tear trickles down my cheek and I say, “I don’t even know anymore. This is not how I envisioned my prom night ending!”
32
Addie
It’s all over.
I’m finished.
My eyes scan the audience in the vast auditorium. He’s not here to see me graduate.
At the hospital after prom, he handed me off to my parents, and I didn’t see him the rest of the night. I didn’t see him at school during the days following prom. I moved through the last weeks of my high school career in a fog, highlighted by comments and whispers here and there from people who had seen me in his arms on prom night.
My valedictorian speech is brief, funny, inspiring—everything everyone expects of me.
But my heart is on the floor.