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I also spot Tom, Mark, and Dre all sitting beside him, so I’m guessing the party is very much still alive and Sage should be nearby. I walk over to them, the smile on my face at odds with how I feel about wearing my orange and yellow Happy Bunny uniform of buttoned-down mini-dress and black stockings. Tom whistles as I go, and Mark smacks the back of his neck. My smile fades as I realize Sage is nowhere to be seen. I stop by the bar, my shoulder almost brushing Mark’s, and he takes two large steps back and frowns. Weirdo. I know he’s with Chelsea. Does he really think I’m going to hit on him?
“Where’s Sage?” I ask in everyone’s general direction, parking my forearms on the counter. Michael raises his eyebrows silently, his lips pursed. Tom looks the other way, Dre actually whistles as he pretends to text, and Mark is the only person who clears his throat and has the decency to make eye contact with me.
“Did he know you were coming?”
“No, why would he…” I begin to ask, when a high-pitched voice pierces through the air, that’s heavy with warm, stinky alcohol and men’s aftershave. A girly voice. I swivel my head on an instinct and watch Sage standing in front of one of the sorority girls Chelsea approached earlier this afternoon at the library.
The blondest one.
The prettiest one.
The one with the whitest, silkiest cardigan.
The one who called me a slut.
I want to see him tell her that this can’t happen. That it will never happen. I want him to turn his back to her and walk over to me, like in the movies. I want her to chase him, and I want him to block her. These thoughts are not kind or noble, but they’re coming from my deepest, most intimate part. The part who’s seen him playing around with so many girls from the sidelines, wishing he’d just give me a chance. But, to my horror, he doesn’t do any of those things. She’s the one running away toward the door, and he’s the one chasing after her.
“Amber, no, please!” he calls.
Amber.
No.
Please.
Sage never begs. Sage never pleads. Not to me and not to anyone.
He chases after her. I stay rooted to the floor. I watch the door swinging back and forth with the force of Amber’s push. He’s trailing behind.
He catches her.
He’s holding her.
He’s hugging her.
Their images are blurry through the dirty, cloudy windows. I see their shapes dancing together through the dull glass and the mist of tears on my eyeballs. The way Amber pushes him away. The way he keeps on moving toward her. The sheer desperation in his body language. And that’s when I feel Mark’s hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” he says, his voice quivering slightly, “but give him the benefit of the doubt.”
A lonely tear escapes my right eye and runs down my cheek, free-falling into its end and splashing on the tip of my Chucks. I hear the guys shuffling and talking behind me, but can’t distinguish what they’re saying. My legs carry me to Amber and Sage. To the girl who called me a slut and to the guy who said I was in his blood but ran after someone else.
They’re standing outside the barn. She’s yelling at him. He looks miserable. The only good thing about this shitshow of a situation? Trish’s car is still parked at the non-existent curb near the hay, the engine purring, as she talks on the phone, smoking a cigarette and staring at herself through the rearview mirror.
“Oh, great. Now your new girlfriend is here!” Amber shrieks, throwing her arms in the air on an eye roll. Then she huffs. I think I made my opinion about huffing clear. I narrow my eyes at the not-so-happy couple. Sage turns around instantly, his eyes growing wide.
“What are you doing here, JoJo?” The words struggle out of his mouth.
“Standing in your way, obviously. Don’t worry, Sage. I’ll make myself scarce so you can go back to your…” I frown at both of them, standing so close to each other, “business.”
“No, wait. There’s no business with Amber. No business at all. You don’t understand…” He charges after me, but I take hurried steps toward Trish’s car, swing the passenger door open, slide in, and nudge her to start driving. She does. She throws the lit cigarette out the window and pushes the gas pedal like we’re on a police chase. I’m not sure I want to know how she mastered these escaping skills.
“Trouble with the boy?” Her voice is exceptionally cheerful, like she just proved a point. I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. I want to move out. I need to move out. I hate him. I want to kill him. I want to kiss him. I love him. I don’t know what I’m feeling. Everything is wrong and twisted and final. Or maybe nothing happened at all and this has a very simple, logical explanation. I’m confused. I need to drink. I have to think about this sober.
