“Wait,” she called out. I stood still, but I didn’t turn around. She jogged over and stopped so that she was once again standing in front of me, facing me. There was something in her eyes that I was unfamiliar with—something decent. She opened her bag again, took out a green bandana, and poured the last gulps of water from her water bottle onto it. She then braced her left hand against my temple and used her right hand to rub the wet bandana against my forehead. She was trying to wipe away the vandalism—trying to make it so what happened to me wouldn’t be so visible. I wanted to cry. At first, she wiped gently. Worry filled her face, scrunching her features. She pressed deeper—rubbing hard.
“It’s permanent marker,” she sighed. I looked away, swallowed, and looked back.
“You reap what you sow, right?” I meant it as a joke but it came out wrong. It wasn’t snide, it was sorrowful.
She searched my face again, and then to my surprise, she hugged me. I was tense at first but when she didn't let go, I relaxed into her. I was so exhausted but not because some assholes doped me or because I had the word “dickhead” scrawled across my forehead or even because she had a boyfriend. I was exhausted because I spent so much time trying to get it right, trying to be the son my father wanted. Her head rested against my bare chest and just like I thought—me against her and her against me—it was like a salve. It was like the bronchia in my lungs were truly functioning for the first time—like I’d never taken a real breath before. Everything in my body relaxed. I pushed my nose into her hair and pulled her tighter to me. My heart was pounding against her ear. It was too much—too raw, too real. I bit my lip hard.
When we separated, she reached up and ran the back of her hand across my jawline. It was personal. Intimate. She was kind. I mattered, and she didn’t even know me. “Maybe, you’re right,” she said softly like we were kissing. “Maybe you reap what you sow or maybe the world is just full of assholes.” When she dropped her hand, I knew for sure. I could never have this girl and not because she had a boyfriend. This girl was bigger than me. She was better than me. I didn’t deserve this girl.
I stepped back. If I couldn’t have her, I had to get away from her. “I gotta go.” The words came out hard, cruel even. I tried to soften it, “I... um… I’m sure my buddies are wondering where I am.”
“I could help you back to your site?” she offered.
“No, I got it. I’m good.”
She offered me the bandana, “To cover your head?”
“It’s okay. It’s fine.” I deserved to be branded even if she didn’t want me to be.
She pushed the bandana into my hand. “Just take it.”
I did. I stuffed it into my pocket. I wasn’t going to argue with her. I stepped to the side, preparing to walk away, but then it occurred to me that I would never see her again and I didn't even know her name. I had to touch her one more time. I wanted to kiss her, but I couldn’t, so I grabbed her waist, pulled her to me, pressing my lips against her neck. The tone between us shifted quickly. A tiny shudder escaped her lips. I didn’t expect it, and I reacted before I could think, shifting my lips, taking her earlobe between my teeth and pressing my thigh between her legs. The second shudder was deeper—more of a growl. I growled back. My own sound shook me. There was heat coming off her and I wanted so much to absorb it, to run my hand up her thigh and slip my fingers deep into her wetness, to make her shudder over and over again until there was nothing left. But, I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to take this girl and poison her with my shit. I wanted to know that I had left this girl intact. I wanted to know that she was out there—that something good, something whole and normal existed.
“Fuck…” I pulled back, ran my hand through my hair, then started backing away, still facing her. “I’m sorry… God, I’m so sorry.” I was shaking. She just stood there. She didn’t smile or try to play it off like it was alright. She didn’t say anything. She just watched me. She looked sad, her face still. I turned and kept walking. I walked straight across the site. I passed through the campgrounds and didn’t stop to take a breath until I was standing beneath the Ferris wheel; it was turned off so it felt creepy like a ghost town or a post-apocalyptic world. It wasn’t really light out yet and everything, everywhere was still. I pulled the green bandana from my pocket, held it to my nose and wished it to smell like her, but it didn’t.
When I got back to the tour bus, there was a sock duct-taped to the door and my buddy, Pete, was sitting on the ground. I’d known Pete most of my life. His dad was a corporate lobbyist for big oil, so we were both prep school brats together in DC. We didn’t mean to go to the same college, but it ended up that way, and then it was like a done deal—same frat, same friends, lifers. People often thought we were brothers, even though we really didn’t look alike. Pete was blond with brown eyes and brown facial hair. I had dark hair and green eyes, but we were built similarly, tall, athletic—nothing that says obsessive bodybuilder, but nothing that says couch potato either. Pete was just my family and people could tell. He was the guy I’d call if I needed help getting rid of a body.
“Jesus, Drew! What the fuck, man? Where have you been?” He was never one to pull punches, and I respected him for it.
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t want to talk about what happened, so I rubbed my face with my hand for a second and then asked, “Where’s Candice?”
Pete nodded towards his Land Rover. “Sleeping with Kate.” Katie Sullivan was our third. We grew up with her too. She was a year younger than us and an athlete who could whip both our asses in all things, particularly tennis. I swear, if she could have pledged our frat, she would have, just to remind us who was boss. She was good—oddly stiff and very controlled, but good. “She’s pissed, dude.”
“Candice?”
“No, man. That one is like all worried and shit. Katie’s pissed. She’s more familiar with your…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Shall we say, extracurricular behaviors.” Our whole life, Pete made a constant joke out of the PR spin machine that was my life. “She had to take care of Candice all night. It was not cool, dude.” He paused, smirked, and pointed towards my face, “Although, I think that shit on your forehead might help your case a little…” He snickered.
“What’s with the sock?”
“Conner.”
Conner was the other friend we’d come to Bonnaroo with. He was also in our fraternity. Pete and I had met him as pledges. We trusted him because when we were pledging, he was always the brother who stepped in when he felt shit was going too far. He was a funny guy, the kind of guy everyone liked—the ladies included. The whole ride down from DC, Conner kept making “If the tour bus is a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’” jokes, and apparently, he wasn’t kidding. I sat down next to Pete and leaned against the bus. He looked at me with a serious expression. “You look like shit, dude. You okay?”
I nodded and then we were quiet. Pete always seemed to know when to be still and when to push. The bus door inched opened and a petite olive-skinned girl with black hair emerged. She was moving very slowly, stealthily, sneaking out. Pete and I watched her. She looked disheveled, there was a red lipstick stain around her mouth and her mascara had smeared and run. I realized that we needed to say something or else we were going to startle her.