—Corey—
I was sitting at my desk in my bedroom a couple of nights later, outlining a paper for my Shakespeare class.
“Callahan?” Hartley appeared in my doorway.
At the sound of his voice, my chin automatically snapped in his direction. “What’s up, Hartley?” I heard the cheer in my own voice, and felt my body lean forward.
Hell and damn. How long would it take until he stopped affecting me like this?
Hartley stepped into the room, rubbing his hands together. “Will you go somewhere with me Friday night? It would be just the two of us.”
My heart gave a little lurch of joy, before I reeled it back down to reality. I turned to my computer screen. “Sorry — I can’t. I have a game.”
“A what?” He came all the way into the room, standing between my chair and the bed.
“A game,” I repeated. “Inner tube water polo. It’s an intramural sport.”
Hartley grabbed the back of my chair and spun me around to face him. He sat down on the bed so we were eye level. “You signed up for that?” His face broke into the most beautiful smile. “That’s awesome.”
I chewed my lip, trying not to fall into that smile. “Actually, it’s a bit lame,” I said. “But I thought I’d give it a shot.”
He wouldn’t break our gaze. “Callahan, you are amazing.”
“Really?” I rolled my eyes. “I fall out of the tube a lot.”
“You…” He looked down, and shook his head. Then he nailed me with another dimpled smile, and I felt the force of it like a blow to the chest. “You worry a lot about people staring at you, right? And then you’re like, ‘oh, fuck it. I’ll just play a sport that requires me to wear a bathing suit, and get dunked every time I have possession of the ball.’” He flopped back on my bed and laughed. “The other team better watch out. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. You just kill me, Callahan.”
“Uh huh,” I said.
I started to swivel back to my computer, but Hartley sat up and caught my hand, stopping me. “Hey, what if we could hang out on Saturday instead of Friday, would that work?” His eyes were earnest, waiting. “I’d have to check something first…”
I was suddenly too conscious of our proximity, and of his hand holding mine. The air seemed to thicken between us, and his gaze locked on mine as if we were the only people in the world.
The trouble was, we weren’t.
Whatever activity Hartley had planned, I knew it wouldn’t be good for my heartache. Just the two of us, he’d promised. But that was only an illusion, wasn’t it?
Slowly, I withdrew my hand. I shook my head, and the moment was broken.
“What? Callahan, why not?”
With a shaky breath, I opted for the embarrassing truth. “I just can’t,” I whispered. “Maybe I’m an idiot, but I’m having a really hard time being your friend right now.” I swallowed. “So, maybe another time.” I leaned back in my chair.
Hartley worked his jaw for a long moment. “Okay,” he said eventually. “I see.” Then he stood up and walked out of the room.
The sound of the door closing hit me like a punch to the gut. My eyes filled, and I fought the urge to yell his name, to call him back, to tell him I was willing to go wherever it was he wanted to take me.
The hope fairy flung herself face down on the desk and then proceeded to beat her tiny fists on the surface in frustration.
For a few long minutes, I agreed with her.
Pushing Hartley away felt like a huge mistake. He’d always been a good friend to me, and throwing that away seemed foolish.
Except, it wasn’t.
I took a very deep breath. The truth was that following Hartley around like a lovesick puppy was preventing me from making other friends. And as great as Hartley was, I didn’t want to spend the whole year lapping up the scraps that were left over when Stacia was busy reapplying her lipstick.
Damn her for coming back.
No, that wasn’t really the problem.
Damn him for loving her.
I returned to my homework, but the words blurred together on the page.
On Friday night, I donned my bathing suit again and wheeled over to the swimming pool. This time I remembered to fetch a tube before ejecting from my chair.
A tiny, microscopic part of me wondered if Hartley would show up to watch my game. Intramural sports didn’t really have spectators. But hope is tricky. She sneaks up on you even in unpredictable locations.
He didn’t come, of course.
The game was tough, because the Turner team showed up with a seventh player who was quite the ringer. Big and fast, he seemed always to be in exactly the right place to intercept our passes. And he had absolutely no qualms about dumping me off my tube when I had possession.
Bastard, I thought to myself the fourth time he’d sunk me. And then I laughed at my own hypocrisy.
Fortunately, the Turner goalie wasn’t on his game. With one minute left, I sent a goal into the net from a wide angle, tying up the game 3-3. When the whistle blew, Daniel called it over.
“What? No overtime?” I yelped.
“Someone else needs the pool now,” he said. “So we do overtime in our pint glasses. There’s a pony keg chilling on my windowsill. Get dressed, everyone.”
As I rolled along with the players into the Beaumont courtyard, I realized how long it had been since I had been a member of a team, even one as goofy as this. I’d really missed it.
“This is a great start to our season,” Allison said, bouncing along beside me. “Turner is always tough to beat. We lost to them the last two years running.”
“Who do we play next?” I asked, as if it mattered.
“Sunday we meet Ashforth House. They’ll probably forfeit, because the captain is a pig, and none of the Ashforth women want to get into the pool with him.”
“Icky,” I said.
“Exactly.”
The group stopped in front of an entryway, and I knew exactly what would happen next. Daniel waved his ID in front of the scanner and opened the door. I heard someone say “fourth floor.” So my Friday night would end right there. I could always go home to McHerrin and swap my chair for my sticks, and then come back here and make the climb. That would take about half an hour. But I knew myself. Once I got back into my room, I’d find some reason to sit down and watch a movie instead of climbing those tricky stairs.
My teammates began to file into the entryway, and I turned my wheels toward home.
“Aren’t you coming, Corey?” Dan called to me.
I looked over my shoulder. “Maybe next time,” I said.
“Want a lift?” Bear towered over me. “I think piggy-back would work.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, and then closed it again. It was exactly the sort of weird attention I was always trying to avoid.
“I know how you feel about overtime,” Dan said, opening the door wider. “We’ll park your chair inside the entryway door.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, feeling my neck get hot. “What the hell.”
For a while, it seemed like a fine decision.
Our goalkeeper carried me up the three flights of stairs in about sixty seconds flat, depositing me on the sofa in Dan’s common room. Allison brought me a beer, and I drank it. It was cold, which helped. And it was served in an actual pint glass. Dan hadn’t been joking about that. “A little bit of England right here at Harkness,” he said.
I’d done it. I’d surrounded myself with new faces, and found a Friday night activity that did not involve misplaced lust or digital teammates.
The trouble was that I was stuck there on Daniel’s couch. I spoke to whoever happened to sit beside me, or stand nearby. But without crutches or my chair, I had all the mobility of a potted plant. Sure, I could have scooted around on the floor, but that would have made me look like a freak.
Daniel swung by frequently, refilling my beer whenever it got low. But he was busy playing host, and didn’t linger. Worse, the beer began to take its toll on me. Not only was I tipsy, but I had to pee. Badly.
I had no exit strategy.
Across the room, Bear chatted up Allison with glassy eyes. When I thought of climbing onto his back again for the three flight descent, it seemed about as safe as hopping into a drunk’s car. Without a seatbelt.
More time passed, and I considered my dwindling options. I could scoot on my butt out the door and down the stairs. It would take about fifteen minutes. Probably only a dozen people would stop to witness my humiliation.
I looked toward the doorway, measuring the distance.
From the threshold, I was startled to find Hartley looking back at me. “There you are,” he said, his face dark. “Why is your chair downstairs?”
“I got a lift,” I said, suppressing a burp.
“No sticks?”
I looked down at my hands. “Nope.”
“Wait, are you drunk, Callahan?” He walked in, bending down to put his face close to mine.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I whined, my words slurring a little.
“Jesus, I think it’s time to go.”
“No.”
He looked exasperated. “I’m not leaving you here, Callahan. How are you going to get down the stairs?”
“I don’t know. Someone will help me.” Someone who isn’t you. Anyone but you.
He scratched his chin. “I could go home and get your sticks. But I don’t think you should be practicing stairs right now.” Hartley bent down and put his hands on my hips.
“No, Hartley.”
He let go, but his brown eyes were exasperated. And who was I kidding? I was totally stuck, and he was bent on helping me. “Piggy-back works better,” I said in a small voice.
Without a word, he turned around and knelt in front of me on his good knee. I wrapped my arms around his chest, and he reached back to hook his hands under my knees. I rose into the air on his back and he limped for the door. The room spun gently, and I realized I was more drunk than I’d thought.
“Okay,” he said. “Leaning on the banister, and going slow, we’ll make it.”
Going slow. Because of his healing knee. Very slow.
Damn.
“Hartley?” I quavered as his back pressed into my bladder. “I really need to pee.”
“Seriously?”
“Would I lie about a thing like that?”
He stopped walking, poised on the landing between Dan’s door and the neighboring room across the hall. Between the two rooms was a shared bathroom. Hartley put a hand on the door.
Before he pushed it open, the neighbor door swung in, revealing Stacia in a sexy silk nightie. No wonder he’d seen my chair downstairs — she was Dan’s neighbor. “Hartley? What the hell? You said you were just brushing your teeth. Aren’t you coming to bed?”
“Looks like no,” he said. “Excuse us.”
When he pushed open the bathroom door, the automatic lights blinked on, blinding me.
“Just set me on the toilet.” I said in a tiny voice. “Please.” And then kill me. Because this is mortifying.
He eased me down and then stepped a few feet away, his back to me.
“Um, Hartley? Can you leave?”
“I’m not looking.”
“Please.”
“Christ, Callahan,” he said, the weight of the world in those two words. “Don’t fall in.”
Someone just kill me already.
I waited until he left the room before fumbling madly with my pants. I yanked at the waistband, hitching myself out, hoping my body would cooperate and hold on for another ten seconds while I wriggled the way a snake sheds its skin. Thank goodness for elastic waistbands.
In the hallway, Stacia and Hartley began arguing. “My friend needs help, Stass. It is what it is.”
“I don’t see why…” she said.
“You don’t see why,” Hartley cut her off. “Because helping people isn’t your style.”
“This was supposed to be our night together,” she said.
“Was it? I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Say you’re coming in!”
“Look,” he said. “Leave your door open. We need to talk anyway.”
“Well, that sounds like fun,” she snapped. The door slammed.
I peed for what seemed like ten minutes. Then I inched my clothing back up, hurrying, yet trying not to slip into the toilet. When I flushed, he knocked on the door.
“All clear.”
Hartley came in and knelt down in front of the toilet, and then picked me up again. Stacia’s door was closed, and he got started on the stairs without comment. But it was slow going. Bracing himself against the banister meant letting go of my right leg. I used all my quad strength to try to tuck it in. But it sagged anyway.
From my perch on his back, my nose was inches from his neck. It was the same neck that I had once stroked with my fingers while we kissed.
Hell and damn it all.
When we made it to the third floor landing, Hartley set me down with a sigh. “Half-time break.” He sat down next to me and dug his thumbs into the muscles of his injured leg.
“The extra weight is killing you, isn’t it?” I asked. Another night, another disaster. All I’d wanted was to have a beer with the team, but I’d made a mess of things.
“It was already sore,” he said.
“Liar.” I grabbed my own calf and set it down onto a stair below me. Then I did the same with my other one. Then I pressed myself up with my arms and dropped my butt down onto the next step. Then I started over — move one leg, move the other, scoot down a step. And so on.
I got to the bottom quickly, pausing only once when a group of girls opened the front door and charged up the stairs. “Hi, Hartley!” they sang out as they went by.
“Evening, ladies.” His voice was warm and casual, as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be than sitting in a grimy stairwell with his gimpy friend.
After they passed by and out of sight, I descended quickly to the bottom stair.
“You know,” he said, stepping around me, fetching my chair and pulling it over to the bottom step. “You made that look easy.”
“Great,” I said, wiping my dirty hands on my pants. “But I just hate…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence for fear that I’d start crying. I hated being that girl who crawls away from the party. I hated being the girl who needs rescuing. I hated being Hartley’s little gimpy pal. Watching The Princess Bride over and over again was much more palatable than this brand of mortification.
“I know,” he said under his breath. He bent over to pick me up, but I pushed him away. I did a transfer maneuver that would have made Pat proud — pulling myself into the chair in one smooth motion.
Hartley turned me around, pushing my chair toward the door.
“We have to do the stoop backwards,” I reminded him.
“We do everything backwards, Callahan,” he said.
I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and I didn’t ask.
—Hartley—
When we reached the flagstone path in the Beaumont courtyard, Corey tried to wave me off. “You can go back upstairs,” she said.
“You’re drunk, Callahan. I’m going to walk you.”
“You’re babying me,” she complained.
“Huh. Well then I’ve babied every single one of my friends at some point, and most of them puke on me. Bridger does it weekly.” We went on in silence for a couple of minutes before I had to ask, “what were you thinking, Callahan?”
“I wasn’t, okay? I just wanted to go to the party, for once. Why do I have to plan every minute of my life three hours in advance? Nobody else does.” The courtyard was so quiet that her voice echoed off the walls. “Damn it. I’m whining.”
“Everyone has their shit to shovel,” I mumbled. “How was the game, anyway?”
“Fine. Tie. 3-3.”
“Did you score?”
“Of course I did.”
I laughed. “Can’t believe I even bothered to ask.”
“Seriously,” Corey agreed, slurring the word a little bit.
When I got her to her own room, I hung back in the doorway. She wheeled into the empty common room and then turned her chair around to face me.
The silence between us felt unnatural, and her pretty face was as sad as I’ve ever seen it. I fought the urge to cross the room and… I don’t know what. The urge to take care of her was nearly overwhelming. What I really wanted to do was gather her up and hold her. It didn’t seem fair that the best person I knew would be so sad and lonely on a Friday night.
She tipped her head to the side, revealing a span of creamy neck. “I’m sorry I ruined your evening.”
“You couldn’t ever.” Without thinking, I took two steps into the room. Fuck. What I really wanted to do was run my fingers through her hair, and kiss the place just behind her jaw. And then, kiss a few dozen other places.
Fuck. Me.
All I did, though, was to place a single kiss the top of her head. She smelled like strawberries mixed with chlorine. “Goodnight, Callahan,” I said, my voice rough. Then I did the necessary thing. I turned around and headed for the door.
“Hartley?”
I turned around only when I was safely at the door. “Yes, beautiful?”
She rested one soft cheek in her hand. “Why do you always call me Callahan?”
The question stopped me cold, because I didn’t really want to think about the answer. “Why do you always call me Hartley?” I countered.
“Everyone calls you Hartley. But you’re the only one who calls me Callahan.”
It was just my luck that she could be drunk and logical at the same time. The reason was simple, but I wasn’t going to say it. I called her Callahan because it made her sound more like one of the guys. I’d been trying to set a tone for our friendship. But it was just another lie I’d told myself. I was finding out that there were quite a few of those.
“Because it’s your name.” I cleared my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some of my own shit I need to shovel.” At that, I turned around once and for all, and got the fuck out of there.
