The Score
Page 57
“Please.”
The sincerity in his tone causes me to cave. I pick up the envelope. It’s sealed, but the flap is tucked in so I use my fingernail to pry it out. I peek inside and see a single sheet of paper, which I extract and unfold as I fight my growing trepidation.
Shock hits me first. Followed by suspicion. Followed by deep distress, because…what the heck am I supposed to say to this?
I’m staring at a confirmation receipt for two airline tickets to Los Angeles, California. The flight departs the day after graduation.
I bite my lip and lift my gaze to Sean’s.
“You and me, baby,” he says fervently. “This is what I should’ve done in the first place. It was stupid to try and force you to move to Vermont. What I needed to do was swallow my pride and move to LA. With you.”
Oh God. Why did I insist on meeting in public? Public is bad. Public means everyone is about to witness Sean’s agony and humiliation when I say—
“No.”
Uncertainty passes over his face. “What?”
“You’re not coming to LA with me.”
Sean’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. I give him a moment to digest what I just said. Unfortunately, it’s the same moment my phone buzzes. I dig around in my purse and…wonderful, a text from Dean.
Him: Game’s done. Hurricanes rocked it like a hurricane. Beau can’t meet up til later. Quickie?
God, I wish.
Me: Can’t. In the middle of something brutal over here.
“Why not?” Sean finally asks.
“Because…” I’m distracted.
Him: Everything ok?
Me: Yeah. Having coffee with Sean.
There’s an interminably long delay.
Sean is still waiting for me to answer. I’m waiting for Dean to answer. I realize I probably shouldn’t have said anything to Dean, but I’d been typing on autopilot.
He comes back with:
WTF?
Me: I know *sigh* I’ll explain everything later, k?
There’s no response after that, and Sean is looking increasingly irritated. “Who are you texting?” he demands.
“Hannah,” I lie.
The worst part about dating someone for as long as I dated Sean? They always know when you’re lying.
“Bullshit.” Anger infuses his eyes, dark and fierce. “Is it that guy? The one you slept with?”
“No, it’s not.” This time I don’t care if he sees through the lie. “And even if it was, it’s none of your business. We’re broken up.” I take a breath. “And that’s the reason you can’t come to LA with me.”
Sean’s mouth flattens. His face and neck take on a deep flush. Even the tips of his ears are red. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I just think…it’s time we moved on from each other.”
“Move on from each other, or move on to other people?” His snotty tone raises my hackles. “Like this guy whose name you won’t tell me?”
I could be a jerk and toss out another “it’s none of your business.” I could also philosophize and give him the whole “if you love someone, let them go” spiel.
I do neither. I simply slide the tickets toward him and say, “I’m sorry. I hope you’re able to get a refund for these. And I really hope you figure out what your passion is, whether it’s working for your dad or doing something else.” Damn it, I’m choking up. “I really do want the best for you, Sean. I want you to be happy.”
He doesn’t answer. He sits there. Stone-faced.
I scrape my chair back. My hands shake as I put on my coat. I don’t bother telling him we can still be friends, because I know he doesn’t want to hear that right now. Besides, I’m not about to make any promises I might be unable to keep.
“Bye, Sean,” I say softly.
*
Twenty-four hours after my heartbreaking encounter with my ex-boyfriend, it becomes glaringly obvious that Dean is giving me the silent treatment.
I texted him after I left the coffeehouse, asking if he still wanted to meet up.
No answer.
I texted again later to ask if he went out with Beau.
No answer.
I texted to say goodnight.
No answer.
I texted to say good morning.
No answer.
Now, as I sit on my bed, home alone on a Saturday night, I’m finding it hard to cut Dean any slack. Last night, I was fully willing to take responsibility. Of course Dean had assumed the worst when he found out I was with Sean, and I don’t blame him for getting pissy about it. A few hours of sulking is a perfectly reasonable reaction to thinking I might’ve gotten back together with my ex.
But twenty-four hours? That’s bullshit. If Dean is mad at me, fine, let him be mad. If he’s done with me, fine, I guess he’s done. At least have the balls to tell me. Ignoring someone until they get the “hint” is downright insulting, and I don’t have patience for that.
I grab my laptop from the nightstand because I desperately need a distraction right now, and nothing is more distracting than watching adorable videos on YouTube. Hopefully there’s a baby giraffe out there that decided to cough, or a baby hippo that felt like splashing around in a pond.
Somehow I end up on Twitter. And gee, look at that. Dean is alive. Now he can’t use “I was dead” as an excuse for why he’s snubbing me, because a Briar student is live tweeting tonight’s home game and just mentioned a “Di Laurentis” goal.
I close the browser and hop off the bed. Maybe I’m a masochist, but seeing Dean’s name makes me want to see Dean. I want answers, damn it. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me if the fling is over.
It takes me nearly thirty minutes to walk to the arena, which is on the opposite end of Briar’s huge campus. At the ticket booth, I flash my student ID to get the discount rate. The student teller says, “Standing room only” as she slides a ticket under the glass.
A minute later, I’m in the area reserved for standing patrons. The second period just started.
I peer at the ice trying to remember Dean’s jersey number. My mind draws a blank, so instead I scan the names on the back of the black-and-silver jerseys. Dean’s surname contains so many letters it should be easy to spot, but nope, I’m not seeing him on the ice. Maybe his line isn’t playing right now? But he doesn’t seem to be sitting on the home bench either.
The sincerity in his tone causes me to cave. I pick up the envelope. It’s sealed, but the flap is tucked in so I use my fingernail to pry it out. I peek inside and see a single sheet of paper, which I extract and unfold as I fight my growing trepidation.
Shock hits me first. Followed by suspicion. Followed by deep distress, because…what the heck am I supposed to say to this?
I’m staring at a confirmation receipt for two airline tickets to Los Angeles, California. The flight departs the day after graduation.
I bite my lip and lift my gaze to Sean’s.
“You and me, baby,” he says fervently. “This is what I should’ve done in the first place. It was stupid to try and force you to move to Vermont. What I needed to do was swallow my pride and move to LA. With you.”
Oh God. Why did I insist on meeting in public? Public is bad. Public means everyone is about to witness Sean’s agony and humiliation when I say—
“No.”
Uncertainty passes over his face. “What?”
“You’re not coming to LA with me.”
Sean’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. I give him a moment to digest what I just said. Unfortunately, it’s the same moment my phone buzzes. I dig around in my purse and…wonderful, a text from Dean.
Him: Game’s done. Hurricanes rocked it like a hurricane. Beau can’t meet up til later. Quickie?
God, I wish.
Me: Can’t. In the middle of something brutal over here.
“Why not?” Sean finally asks.
“Because…” I’m distracted.
Him: Everything ok?
Me: Yeah. Having coffee with Sean.
There’s an interminably long delay.
Sean is still waiting for me to answer. I’m waiting for Dean to answer. I realize I probably shouldn’t have said anything to Dean, but I’d been typing on autopilot.
He comes back with:
WTF?
Me: I know *sigh* I’ll explain everything later, k?
There’s no response after that, and Sean is looking increasingly irritated. “Who are you texting?” he demands.
“Hannah,” I lie.
The worst part about dating someone for as long as I dated Sean? They always know when you’re lying.
“Bullshit.” Anger infuses his eyes, dark and fierce. “Is it that guy? The one you slept with?”
“No, it’s not.” This time I don’t care if he sees through the lie. “And even if it was, it’s none of your business. We’re broken up.” I take a breath. “And that’s the reason you can’t come to LA with me.”
Sean’s mouth flattens. His face and neck take on a deep flush. Even the tips of his ears are red. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I just think…it’s time we moved on from each other.”
“Move on from each other, or move on to other people?” His snotty tone raises my hackles. “Like this guy whose name you won’t tell me?”
I could be a jerk and toss out another “it’s none of your business.” I could also philosophize and give him the whole “if you love someone, let them go” spiel.
I do neither. I simply slide the tickets toward him and say, “I’m sorry. I hope you’re able to get a refund for these. And I really hope you figure out what your passion is, whether it’s working for your dad or doing something else.” Damn it, I’m choking up. “I really do want the best for you, Sean. I want you to be happy.”
He doesn’t answer. He sits there. Stone-faced.
I scrape my chair back. My hands shake as I put on my coat. I don’t bother telling him we can still be friends, because I know he doesn’t want to hear that right now. Besides, I’m not about to make any promises I might be unable to keep.
“Bye, Sean,” I say softly.
*
Twenty-four hours after my heartbreaking encounter with my ex-boyfriend, it becomes glaringly obvious that Dean is giving me the silent treatment.
I texted him after I left the coffeehouse, asking if he still wanted to meet up.
No answer.
I texted again later to ask if he went out with Beau.
No answer.
I texted to say goodnight.
No answer.
I texted to say good morning.
No answer.
Now, as I sit on my bed, home alone on a Saturday night, I’m finding it hard to cut Dean any slack. Last night, I was fully willing to take responsibility. Of course Dean had assumed the worst when he found out I was with Sean, and I don’t blame him for getting pissy about it. A few hours of sulking is a perfectly reasonable reaction to thinking I might’ve gotten back together with my ex.
But twenty-four hours? That’s bullshit. If Dean is mad at me, fine, let him be mad. If he’s done with me, fine, I guess he’s done. At least have the balls to tell me. Ignoring someone until they get the “hint” is downright insulting, and I don’t have patience for that.
I grab my laptop from the nightstand because I desperately need a distraction right now, and nothing is more distracting than watching adorable videos on YouTube. Hopefully there’s a baby giraffe out there that decided to cough, or a baby hippo that felt like splashing around in a pond.
Somehow I end up on Twitter. And gee, look at that. Dean is alive. Now he can’t use “I was dead” as an excuse for why he’s snubbing me, because a Briar student is live tweeting tonight’s home game and just mentioned a “Di Laurentis” goal.
I close the browser and hop off the bed. Maybe I’m a masochist, but seeing Dean’s name makes me want to see Dean. I want answers, damn it. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me if the fling is over.
It takes me nearly thirty minutes to walk to the arena, which is on the opposite end of Briar’s huge campus. At the ticket booth, I flash my student ID to get the discount rate. The student teller says, “Standing room only” as she slides a ticket under the glass.
A minute later, I’m in the area reserved for standing patrons. The second period just started.
I peer at the ice trying to remember Dean’s jersey number. My mind draws a blank, so instead I scan the names on the back of the black-and-silver jerseys. Dean’s surname contains so many letters it should be easy to spot, but nope, I’m not seeing him on the ice. Maybe his line isn’t playing right now? But he doesn’t seem to be sitting on the home bench either.
