Page 16 of Best Man on Campus

“Maybe.”

She brushes past me, looking like a dark-haired angel haunted by a devil, her hair all over the place, her eyes rimmed with smeared makeup and tears. And a sleepless night. I take the blame for the lack of sleep.

“Just go.”

“I’m going.”

She turns to me, standing in the middle of the open space near the door and I stand a few feet away. We’re both still naked. Her eyes wander over my body with a greedy glint. I hold my shit together, not knowing if I should bolt or console her, hold her. But the way her eyes eat me up and the way her pale breasts glisten, the flawless skin of her belly ending in the small dark patch between her thighs, I know holding her will make me hard again and that’s the last thing she needs from me.

“Well?” she says.

I reach for my clothes strewn on the floor. “Do you mind if I take a shower first?” I’m stalling, but I want to return us to some semblance of normalcy before I leave. I’m not too sure how much of her crazy talk is drama or how much is real.

She nods and I can sense her regaining some control. I take my clothes into the bathroom and shower. Maybe I need the cool water to clear my mind, get some distance from the mind-blowing haze of sex with Jazzy.

With a deep breath, all the studying I need to get done today comes back into my head, weighing on me. I emerge from the bathroom to say goodbye. Ignoring the unsettled feeling in my gut at leaving her this way, I approach her in the kitchen area. She’s dressed in skin-tight tattered jeans and a flimsy T-shirt, her uniform. This T-shirt is a St. Paul U hockey shirt. With my number on it.

My chest tightens. Christ. I don’t want to make any assumptions about her having my t-shirt. She could be a regular SPU hockey fan, but the sight of my number on her more than pleases me and I move in. She ignores me even when I’m close enough to smell her sex and wild Jasmine scent. I recognize it from the candle in her bathroom and now I’ll never forget it.

“Jazzy, turn around. Talk to me.”

Elbowing me as she turns, she folds her arms under her too tempting round breasts and glares, shooting sparks and looking like a sharp snake tongue could fly from her mouth at any second to whip me. Maybe I’m being melodramatic. Or maybe I’m a horndog and wishful thinking because I want to stay and wrestle with her and her demons until we get lost in the struggle again, lose all control and go through hell and paradise on our way to soul-splitting orgasms.

“Why aren’t you gone? You angling for a cup of coffee now? Stalling?”

“I’d love a cup of coffee. Thank you.” Now I don’t know what I’m doing because I need to go and she’s right about me stalling.

“Look,” I shove my fingers through my wet hair. “I don’t want to leave things this way between us, with you all—”

“What? What do you think I am? Upset?” she snorts. “I don’t care about you. I don’t care if I ever see you again—no. Not true. I don’t want to ever see you again. And if you had any sense, you’d quit while you’re ahead, unicorn boy.”

She turns away and grabs a Styrofoam cup from a stack that looks like it was lifted from some storeroom and pours coffee with shaky hands. “Take your fucking coffee and go.”

“What if I don’t have any sense?” I take the cup from her and sip while she stares with her anger still wild. “Good coffee,” I say.

“Of course it is. I learned from the best. From Majiski.”

“About Majik—”

She waves her bandaged hand, almost spilling my coffee. “No. We’re not talking about her or anything else. As I see it, I’ve shared way too much and you—you haven’t shared a word from your soul. You’re more bottled up than a genie and I know your life is hardly fucking perfect. In spite of the fact that you have every fucking thing in the world going for you. Which shows you how much life sucks, doesn’t it?”

I smile. She’s right. And wrong.

“It’s worse than even you can imagine.” I’m tongue-in-cheek, but I’m not sure she realizes it. I think she wants to think my life sucks. But it doesn’t. All I’m dealing with is growing pains. Dealing with life choices is normal. Dealing with a dad I admire and resent at the same time is part of becoming an adult. Nothing like whatever trauma Jazzy is trying to overcome.

She walks away, around the sofa bed and back to the window on the other side of the room. After I chug a long, scalding sip of coffee for fortification, I go to her. Standing at her side, I talk in a quiet voice.

“I can’t stand the sight of blood. It makes me nauseous and dizzy. Every fucking time. Bandaging your cut? I was fighting dizziness the whole time. I almost vomited.”

She turns to me, away from the riveting view of the parking lot outside the lone window of her studio. The sun is on the rise, throwing a blood red aura over the horizon.

“I know exactly how you feel about blood. It’s the same for me.”

“I know.”

She snorts. I pull her back to the bed and sit on the edge.

“You’re brave,” she says. “Returning to the scene of the crime.” I almost laugh.