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The wall is supporting most of my weight as I enjoy the lax state my body is in. I’m still sweaty and disgusting, but I feel good. So, so good.
He’s backed off a couple of inches. There’s enough space between us for me to touch his chest. To drag my hand down his abs and then lower, until I’m palming the outline of his erection. Blowjobs are not my favorite—uncomfortable and unpleasant—but I’m weirdly unbothered by the prospect of getting on my knees for him. Another way to prove mine is, in fact, fine.
Before I can decide my next move, he takes another step back, forcing my hand to fall.
My eyebrows knit together. That’s a first.
“I have a meeting with Wagner.” The name sounds familiar. I’m pretty sure he’s Kluvberg’s head coach.
Then he’s turning and walking away, obviously intending to leave.
“Wait, what? What the hell was this?”
“You’re welcome,” he calls over one shoulder.
The door slams shut behind him a few seconds later. I stay in place against the cinderblocks, trying to figure out what the heck just happened. He sought me out, made me come, and then kinda turned me down. Technically, I was the only one who got anything out of our encounter, but I feel like he gained the upper hand somehow.
I stare at the shut door, feeling unsettled instead of satisfied. I came, but our encounter feels…incomplete.
I think he did it on purpose.
And I have no idea what to make of that either.
CHAPTER NINE
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from a Georgia number while I’m lying on my bed scrolling through social media. My stomach drops like I just missed a step.
It’s Sandra, calling about the bridesmaid dresses. Or a telemarketer.
But I’m almost certain it’s Sandra, thanks to Hallie’s warning. And very tempted to not pick up, but I know it’ll only prolong the inevitable. This wedding is happening.
I exhale, then answer. “Hello?”
“Saylor! Hi! It’s Sandra. How are you? Is this an okay time to talk? I can call back later or tomorrow or—it’s Sandra.” She laughs awkwardly. “I already said that, didn’t I?”
She’s nervous.
I don’t have any problem with Sandra, the person. I have a problem with Sandra, the woman my father is marrying. She’s caught in the crossfire of our shitty relationship, and my solution has been to avoid her as much as possible. That won’t be an option at their wedding.
“I’m not busy,” I tell her. “And I’m fine wearing whatever, so no worries about the dresses. Just pick out what you like best.”
“Oh. You, uh, know why I’m calling?”
“Yeah. Hallie mentioned it.”
There’s a pause. “Oh.”
I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned that Hallie called to prep and lecture me. But it’s not like Sandra doesn’t know my older sister is more of a mother to me than she ever will be. She tries to smooth over the tension between me and my dad, but I know she’s not oblivious to it. What he’s told Sandra about the aftermath of my mom leaving is his business. I’m not going to justify the state of our relationship to someone who’s essentially a stranger.
“Well, I’d love if you picked out your own dress. I’m not the fashionista you girls are, and I want it to be something you’re comfortable wearing. Hopefully something you can wear again, even.”
I roll my eyes, wondering if she’s recycling one of her old wedding dresses or if she bought a new one. Bridesmaid dresses aren’t meant to be worn multiple times, but I’m not going to argue with Sandra about it. Even if it means I’m getting stuck with homework.
“Okay, fine. I’ll order something.”
Maybe Sandra expected me to argue, because there’s a long pause before she says, “Great,” like she was scrambling to come up with something.
I’m so uncomfortable it feels like ants are crawling across my skin, listening to the empty air.
