HABIT, page 23
I push my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, feeling the sharp edges of the envelope in one and my phone in the other. Toby shifts his weight, leaning against his door jamb and crossing his feet and arms. His expression is smug, sinister. It makes everything that’s coming sweeter.
“I don’t think you were expecting me.” I tilt my head to the side and temper my smile. I don’t want to give this away too quickly. It’s been a long time coming, and my father always did like the art of the reveal. I’m a bit like him in that respect.
We both revel in this little stare-down for a few seconds; Toby the first to break with a snicker.
“Come on, Bentley. What are you doing here? You come to let me know daddy is going to push me around if I don’t do what you want?” His nostrils flare as he puffs his chest. That’s fake bravado right there.
“Oh, fuck no. My daddy isn’t doing shit unless he can make a million dollars off of it,” I say. It’s a true statement.
Toby’s eyes narrow, his brow lowering.
“What’s your deal with the new guy? You slumming it?” That was a low dig, even for him.
“Ha! I’m pretty sure this conversation we’re having right now is me ‘slumming it.’” I give the quotey fingers and all.
“You broke code. Not my fault. And you of all people should know why we don’t leave campus,” he says. His sanctimonious lecture pushes me more than I’d like.
“Fuck off, Toby,” I bite back. “You leave campus all the time, and I don’t remember you really giving a shit last spring. You can kiss my ass.”
“Oh, I’ve wanted to,” he says, showing his tongue off through his teeth. It’s revolting, and it cuts my little dance with him short.
“Okay, here’s the deal, Tobes.” I step into the middle of the hallway, emboldened by the fact Cameron is waiting in the stairwell and will bolt in here if things go sideways. “I don’t know if you remember the night you were either exceptionally bitter about me denying you once or just plain fucking creepy, but do you remember this little beauty?”
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the image he sent me a few years back. Of his dick. Along with the one of him posing and flexing his scrawny, transparent arm in the mirror while holding his dick.
“I get a lot of these, and I save them all because you never know. Turns out, though, I maybe kinda knew about you.” I stop to let Toby have his moment, his eyes glued to my screen, my phone clutched in my hand. I can see his mind working as his eyes dart millimeters back and forth. He flits his gaze up to me and steps back with a laugh.
“Nobody will buy that,” he says.
“Oh, I think they will,” I muse. I cup my phone and slide to various screens where I have captured all of the steps, including the metadata behind him sending that image to me. I turn my phone around and let him have a good look as I scroll with my finger, flipping it like a nightmare slideshow cooked up just for him. It kinda is.
The tendons in his neck distend as he sucks in his breath and clenches his jaw.
“You’re bluffing. Besides, you couldn’t post that if you wanted to. I’d sue you so fast. It would be fun for my family to take your millions. All that money you made from smiling and pushing perfume and yoga shit.” He purses his lips with a faint smile, so proud that he thinks he’s insulted me.
“Yeah, I did make a lot of money talking about perfume and yoga shit,” I say. “But—”
I pull my second weapon from my pocket, opening the envelope and unfurling the letter Jeremy wrote for me. I hand it to him and wait while he reads, but after a minute I start to explain it to him because I know he doesn’t understand.
“See, I also did my research before I got into business. And when I set up my platforms, I had some opt-in in place. You probably got the screen when you clicked follow. You definitely got one when you opted to send me a message. Oh wait, I have a copy of it.”
I hold my phone up and scan back to the screen where he clearly got the disclaimer, terms and conditions.
“Anywho, when someone sends me content through one of my platforms, they give up the rights to that content. It states so before and after every opt-in you do. When you followed me? Opted into that. When you messaged me? Yeah, opted in. So, this dick pic? I own it. And I can do with it as I please.”
That part is a bit of a bluff because I’m sure extortion is not written into my terms and conditions. Jeremy did try to explain that to me, but I didn’t want to lose my nerve so I made him power through so I could get here.
“Anyhow, I’m sure your daddy wouldn’t want to see how liberal you are sharing the family jewels. Do you?” I level him with a stare, casually pushing my phone back into my pocket, ignoring the thumping of nerves in my chest.
His mouth tightens before he bursts out, “Fuck!”
He pushes the letter back to me, but I shake my head.
“No, that’s your copy,” I say.
Toby rips it up and throws the paper bits in my face. I don’t even flinch. I do laugh, however.
“You probably have some phone calls to make, so I’ll leave you to it,” I say, spinning on my heels and marching down the hall with a sway in my hips. I haven’t felt that sway in a long time. I’ve missed it.
When I step through the stairwell, Cameron is waiting for me a few feet from the door. He holds his finger to his mouth and nods for me to follow him down to his and Theo’s room. We wait until we get inside and he shuts the door, then we dance like childish fools because we just pulled off a massive crime. I don’t feel the least bit guilty.
Chapter 22
James
It’s never good when my dad says he wants to meet. It’s even worse when that meeting is one-on-one—and the day before game day. The fact Toby was not at practice today does not help. Our biggest game yet is tomorrow, and if I’m benched or suspended or whatever the hell is in the works, I’m going to be sick.
I’ll be more than sick.
I’ll be devastated.
“Hey, good work today. Good work today. Keep it up. Bring that tomorrow. Bright and early.” My dad pounds fists with every single player as they exit the locker room. I’m on the bench by my locker, fiddling with my shoes.
“What’s up with this?” Theo asks, leaning into me and keeping his voice down as he passes by.
I shrug.
“No clue. Kinda dreading it, though,” I admit.
Theo pinches his brow then looks at my father as if he’ll somehow read some clue that will enlighten us all. My dad’s a lockbox. Whatever he has to say will stay in this locker room, for my ears only.
“It’s gonna be just fine; I know it,” Cameron says, practically singing the words. Theo steps into his space and sniffs him, then looks at me.
“I don’t think he’s high,” he says.
I laugh lightly, but Cameron simply lifts his shoulders.
“Just high on life, fellas,” he says, then whistles and drops his hands in his pockets on his way out of the locker room.
Theo shakes his head as our friend walks out, then looks back to me.
“Text me if it’s something big. If I need to make some people feel uncomfortable, I can do that too.” He nods and I nod back, though I don’t think he’s going to need to do any of that. Whatever that means. The way people put pressure on each other around here is beyond me, and I don’t think I will ever be good at these mind games. I’m fine with that, though. I’ve been true to myself, and my papa always said that’s what mattered in the long run. I hope that means I’ll be able to run a business someday.
The locker room empty, my dad walks back into the main area and glances around. His eyes are full of distrust, and I get it. The way things have been lately, it feels as if there are microphones—and apparently cameras—everywhere.
“Let’s just talk in your office,” I say.
He nods and I follow him into the small room where he closes the door. He sits on the edge of his desk, and I take one of the chairs against the wall, bracing myself for whatever news he has.
My father twists his lips, looking down at the floor as he crosses his arms over his chest and nods, almost like he’s still processing whatever it is he has to share.
“Toby Sullivan withdrew from Welles this morning,” he finally spits out.
I cough. No, I choke.
“I’m sorry, he what?” My eyes are wide, my heart thumping and mind whirling at what this all means. I don’t want to get excited yet because I’ve been conditioned over these last few weeks to always anticipate another shoe dropping, and those shoes are usually spiked.
“The coaching staff was supposed to meet with the headmaster this morning about some complaints brought forward about one of our players. Honestly, I was expecting them to pull out some bullshit about you, attacking whatever they can because that’s basically been their constant obsession since day one. But then I got a call this morning from the headmaster saying the meeting was off, and that Toby Sullivan would no longer be on my roster.”
My mouth hangs open, my tongue planted behind my teeth as my mind races through this freaking karma marathon I’ve somehow possibly won.
“Toby . . . is gone,” I simplify.
My dad shakes with a single laugh.
“Seems so. Which would mean you’re running the show. But don’t think this means you get to relax. It’s the opposite actually, James. You need to work even harder, prove to everyone that Toby isn’t going to be missed. You need to show off your run game and your passing, and probably get up even earlier to put in the work.
“Not a problem,” I say, still blinking as I try to make sense of everything I just heard.
“Oh, and one more little thing,” my dad says.
I shift my gaze to meet his and try to read his poker face. This is the shoe. The spiked shoe is coming.
“Penn is coming out again to take a look. No pressure,” he says, leaning forward and patting my shoulder twice. He rounds his desk and takes a seat, pulling out his playbook and thumbing through the pages, probably to shift some of the things he put in place to help support Toby. He pulls his glasses off his desk and slips them on, stopping at the tip of his nose and looking at me over the lenses.
“You can go. Mom made enchiladas. Try to save me some scraps,” he says.
I feel weighed down in my chair, or maybe the feeling is gone from my legs. Whatever it is, I find it hard to get to my feet, but I manage. I leave my dad’s office, pushing his door closed gently and sliding my feet to my locker where I grab my bag and click the door shut. I’m still in a state of shock when I exit the locker room and find Morgan sitting on the nearby bench waiting for me.
“You are not going to believe what happened,” I crow, dropping my backpack on the ground and striding toward her. She sits up tall. I scoop my hands under her arms and swing her around, loving the way she giggles but also pounds me lightly to let her down.
“What am I not going to believe? Tell me, James Fuentes. Blow me away!”
I set her down on the back rest, her feet on the bench. She playfully flings her hair over one shoulder, and I pause for a second. If she hadn’t done that, the moment would have passed. But she did, and there was something in that move that felt like a hint. I hold my smile in place and study her, my eyes darting from hers to her mouth and taking note of every single nuance.
“Morgan?” I tilt my head, but she holds her ground.
I wait her out, my mouth holding its half smile in place, my expression dripping with suspicion. I don’t want to have to ask, but I think I’m going to need to.
“What did you do?”
I pull my mouth in tight and hold my breath as she blinks slowly and gets to her feet. Placing her hands on my shoulders, she slides them around my neck as she leaps down, knowing I’ll catch her. She wraps her legs around me, and I give in and embrace the soft stretch of her leggings and the candy-scent of her sweater.
“I told you I would fix it, right?”
She shifts so our heads rest against one another. Our noses touch.
“I said you didn’t have to,” I say, taking a heavy breath. I don’t want her putting herself in any trouble. I don’t want her feeling like I’m using her for my own game. I’m not her father.
“I know you did, but here’s the thing, James. I’m not just falling in love with you. I love you. And I have learned that when you love someone you do things for that person, maybe irrational things.”
I stop her with a kiss, a hard kiss that makes her tighten her grip on me and pull herself up higher so I can deepen it more. Our lips part thanks to our growing smiles.
“I’m sorry, all I heard was you love me,” I say against her lips.
She leans her head back and giggles, dropping her chin again and meeting my gaze. Her eyes dazzle, picking up the gaslamp lights that glow along the nearby walkway.
“Guess I can admit to loving you too now, huh?” I say.
Her eyes flicker and she sucks in her bottom lip before nodding.
“Yeah, I guess you can.” Her voice is caught between her normal tone and a whisper.
My head falls forward again, resting on hers, and I shut my eyes as I hold her to me. It’s cold out. We’ll be able to see our breath soon. But I can’t seem to will my legs to get us inside. I don’t want to leave this place, this moment.
This girl.
“So, are you going to tell me what exactly happened to fix things?” I ask.
“Hmm,” she ponders.
I sway her in a slow circle, my lips tingling with the need to kiss her again.
“Do you trust me, James?” she finally asks.
It’s my turn to consider. I hold my breath and sway her in my arms as if we’re slow dancing. She’s so warm against me. I can feel her pulse against my chest, and the weight of her arms and legs around me, holding me. Loving me.
“You know, Morgan. I do trust you. Implicitly. And if you ever want to tell me the backstory of today, I’ll be here to hear it. But if you don’t think it matters or that I need to know, I’m good with that too. Because yes, I trust you. With my everything.”
Her hands slide to cradle my face and she leans back enough to meet my gaze.
“I trust you with my everything, too,” she says, bringing her lips to mine.
I rotate us so I’m sitting on the bench holding her, and we remain outside until we do in fact see our breath turn to fog in the air. And then we stick around a little longer, neither of us wanting to give in first to the bitter cold. It’s a little bit about being stubborn for sure. But also, it’s a lot about falling in love with someone you trust.
For me, it’s about chasing what my parents have, and for her, it might be about being as different from hers as possible.
For us? It’s about taking what we want. What we deserve.
What we’ve earned.
Epilogue
Morgan
Hi, everyone! Thank you so much for tuning it and watching me live today. I know a lot of you can’t be here to hang out in the middle of the day, so I promise I will force James to do another one of these with me later. But I thought you all would want to watch him officially sign his commitment to Penn State. I’m so proud of him. He’s the first Welles quarterback to go to a big Division I school where he may actually get to start.
And don’t worry. I will be at every game. I got into Penn, too! This is the official letter. It just came, and I’m going to tell James after his signing. Okay, I’m going to set this up on my tripod, so you don’t miss a thing. I’ll be back on later. Love you, stay positive, aim big, and if you are struggling and need someone to talk to, please reach out. I will be here. And if I’m asleep, well, that’s why I started my foundation and why we have hundreds of volunteers. Mwah!
“What do you think? Lame?” I always cringe when James watches my posts after they happen. It’s easier for him to see them live because then I don’t have to watch along with him.
He squeezes me as I sit on his lap.
“I’m so proud of you. That’s what I think of that,” he says.
“Proud of what? Of Penn? Because that’s a miracle. Daddy did not make any phone call for that to happen. That was all this girl’s persistence,” I say.
I am rather proud of my own media kit. I sent my entire revamped brand to Penn, figuring I would take James’s advice and leave it all on the field in my effort. It turns out I’m pretty good at this PR stuff. And Opal and Jayne have invited me to continue working with them while I get my degree.
I know what got my foot in the door for Penn, though. And I have Anika to thank for it. Sometime after the football season ended and my father was back on his feet and ignoring doctor’s orders so he could boss people around, I sat down and took a hard look at my social media business. I closed a few things, making sure to point everyone to one place before I did, promising something new and exciting. I wanted to simplify, but also, my life was worth too much to obsess over things that only gave me stress. If my stomach turned at the thought of opening an app, I deleted it. Then I focused on the content. It all started with that one photo—the one of the four of us. Brooklyn, me, Lily, and Anika. I remember when we took that photo, all of us happy and full of hope.
“You should make more posts like these,” Anika said.
At the time, I figured she meant of the four of us. But looking back, I see that’s not what she meant at all. She meant real posts. Not pushing things for people to buy or places for them to be seen. Simply the real me and my real friends and our real challenges.
I took the photos I’d been saving for a few months and made them into an intro post, and then I recorded my first live video in months. I got real about depression, about my struggles and how so many of us are afraid to talk about it when we’re low. And I didn’t stop there.
I talked about my regrets for constantly pushing myself to look older—sexier. About the way I felt when men twice my age hugged me a little too long, or when their handshakes felt more like suggestions. I talked about the trolls who commented on my posts after my accident. I didn’t blame them for being cruel, but I did remind them of the outcome of their actions. I let their words bury me, but I was done hiding. I will get hurt, but when I do, I’m going to talk about it.
