9
Lincoln
I wait outside of the building where I know Raegan will be coming tonight for her Statistics Class, my thoughts still in my last class where I listened to Professor Adams blame Tiberius for his shortcomings that ultimately failed Rome as the second Emperor, listing off facts like his tyrannical ways and frequent absences to the island of Capri. However, Professor Adams neglected to mention how Augustus, his adopted father, had ordered for Tiberius and his first wife to divorce so that Augustus could marry her. How his family pledged allegiance in accordance with Caesar and then became victims when that relationship soured. Forced to become proud and powerful out of self-preservation and a lack of allies and trust.
I’m nothing like him, and yet there are aspects I can clumsily align with my own life that leaves me feeling sympathetic as my thoughts wander down footpaths of my past, back when I was ten and caught the flu and spent three days with a hired nurse before being hospitalized. I could take care of myself, but I couldn’t sign my own release papers, and my parents weren’t there to do it, so the headmaster had to come and do it. I think of the holidays I came home and Gloria, our housekeeper and my nanny, would be the only one to meet me at the airport.
Those thoughts and their potential effects disperse the second I see Raegan. I’m here to invite her to a party that is a prelude to my father’s wedding. I could easily have texted her the details, but I haven’t seen her in three weeks. Halloween came and went, and I haven’t seen her at any of the parties, not at the house, not even at her home for the last team dinner that was catered with trays of Italian food. I know I’m being an asshole by seeking her out when she’s doing a diligent job of ignoring me and moving on. I should let her, encourage the fact by maintaining this absence. I’ve spent more time in the gym in the past three weeks than I have in months, pushing myself, demanding more from my teammates, working on plays with Coach Harris and our offensive director Coach Harold, eating, sleeping, and breathing football to keep my thoughts from wandering to her.
As she gets closer, I realize Raegan’s distracted, her arms folded over her chest, and her eyes vacant.
I step away from the overhang, walking straight toward her, and still, she doesn’t seem to notice me. “Raegan,” I call her name.
Her blue gaze meets mine, then slides over my shoulder as she stops. “Hey.”
Something is missing. Something I can feel on a visceral level like I could that night she dove underwater and the others kept saying she’d be back any second, but I knew she wouldn’t. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes flash to mine and then away as she opens her mouth and then closes it. “Nothing.” She shakes her head, rolling her lips together. “Nothing,” she says again.
“Bullshit.”
Raegan snickers, but it’s gone just as quickly as it formed. “I need to get to class.”
I glance at the brick building behind me, knowing she has at least fifteen minutes to get to the second floor, but, I don’t argue this fact. In the past couple of months, I’ve lost touch with her on so many levels, unaware of how her classes are going, if she was in the majority who complained about the early first snow or the minority who celebrated it. I have no idea if she dressed up for Halloween or if she’s been seeing anyone. “There’s a party this weekend. Our game is on Friday, and Saturday night, my dad and his fiancé are having a second engagement party of sorts.” I shrug. “She’s worried people think something happened because the wedding was delayed. I checked, and Dr. Swanson is going to be there. I thought you might want the chance to come meet him.”
She rubs her hand across her forehead. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
She swallows, looking away. “Maybe.”
I blink away my disbelief, trying to catch up to her dismissive tone. “Did I miss something?”
“I need to get to class,” she says again. “I’ll text you.” Without a second look, she disappears inside.
It’s better this way.
She’s making it easier, so why in the hell am I following her inside and up half a level of stairs?
“Rae.”
She turns, her surprise greater than my own as she moves to the wall so someone can get by, her eyes soft and yet tentative as she works her way across my face, looking for a reason.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”
She looks tired. Scratch that, she looks exhausted.
“Blow off class. Let’s grab some food. Catch up.”
Her brow creases. “No. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Statistics is a Netflixer. Get the notes from someone.”
“Because now is convenient for you?” Her voice is soft, a twist of sarcasm that doesn’t dilute her honesty.
“Okay, then when?”
She shakes her head. “Why are you doing this?”
“We’re friends.”
Her eyes fall back in her head as she laughs, but it’s too dry, and her eyes don’t close like they do when she’s genuinely laughing. “I’ll go on Saturday, okay?”
“This has nothing to do with Saturday. I didn’t come in here to beg you to go. If you don’t want to, then don’t. I was doing you a favor because I thought you wanted to meet him.”
It’s like everything in her falls, her shoulders, her gaze, even her pride slips, making me regret the words I’d fired like a missile to ensure it wasn’t my pride that left this war with a wound. Instead, I’m leaving with it mangled as she nods, as though she understands.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know if I need to waste his time because I’m not sure about cetology anymore.”
Whiplash. That’s the only word I can think of to describe the one-eighty of my thoughts and emotions. “What are you talking about?”
Her eyes are windows with drapes that are always left open, telling me exactly what she’s feeling and thinking. While I can’t always know why she’s upset or bothered or amused, I can feel her emotions like they’re my own, and as I stare in her eyes, I lose that sense. She continues looking at me, her eyes wide with a silent plea like she wants me to understand just as badly. A sad smile paints her lips, and her eyes slowly fall shut. “I really do need to go. I’ll see you.”
Her black tennis shoes squeak on the stairs, carrying my thoughts higher before veering to the right.
I drop my head back, debating my options while seeking my own reasons. I slap a hand against the wall, my anger so great it needs an outlet before it leads me back up those stairs. A girl jumps and cries out with surprise, then giggles as she leans into a friend.
Poppy.
Poppy will know.
But I don’t have Poppy’s number or know where in the hell she lives, so instead, I’m left with my unfavorable alternative: Paxton.
He’s been alternating his nights with strangers and the gym to keep his thoughts off of Candace, who recently started dating and plastering shit all over her social media pages to ensure Pax saw. I told him just to block her, but I think he’s becoming addicted to the pain and the excuses it allows.