Nicki
It's not my dad. It's Jason Reed.
"Hey," I call out as he walks toward me, "you came."
I'd impulsively invited Jason to the party just before I left the newsroom on Friday. But I didn't expect him to show up.
Things have been better between us lately. He seems to be happy with my work at the paper. And I've wanted to impress him, so he'll give me better assignments.
Plus, I've been eager to see the profile I did of Provost Sorenson on the front page.
Jason's been saying it would be published any day now.
But so far, that hasn't happened.
"You weren't kidding about it being a big party," he replies, taking in all the people on the porch and the booming music coming from inside. "I can't believe you actually live here."
He's not wearing a costume. Instead, he's dressed in his usual preppy style: monogrammed Oxford shirt and chinos, with an expensive-looking leather jacket and some black loafers added to the mix.
I study him, noticing the tense expression on his face, the way he's clutching his phone.
"So...look, I can't stay after all," he says. "Everything is blowing up on me. There was a stabbing on campus a couple of hours ago and—"
"Oh no!" I interject.
"...we need to redo tomorrow's front page."
I turn toward the house "No problem," I say. "Just let me get my stuff."
Campus crime is not my beat, but I assume he needs me to help get the issue redone and sent to printing as fast as possible.
Then I remember TT.
Damn. She came here to hang out with me. I feel bad leaving her.
But she'll be okay for a few hours. And we can catch up before she leaves tomorrow.
It takes me a second to realize Jason's shaking his head. "No, that's okay," he says.
"We've got it covered."
He stares at the ground a moment before meeting my eye.
"I also wanted to let you know," he goes on, "that the Sorenson profile is not going to be published after all."
My stomach drops at his words. "What?" I hate that my voice is squeaky. "You mean not this week? Or not ever?"
"Not ever. The FAC voted against it."
"But why?" I cringe at my high, childish tone.
Seriously, though, what the fuck? Why would the faculty advisory committee pull my story?
Jason has just opened his mouth to respond when we're interrupted by raucous whooping from the other end of the porch.
Three drunk guys are standing in the porch swing, rocking it back and forth with so much force I'm scared it will collapse and bring the overhanging roof down with it.
Just what I need.
"Hey!" I yell, rushing toward them. "Get off there! Right now!"
I reach the swing and tug on one of the chains holding it up, spilling two of the assholes to the porch.
The other, who has managed to hold on, has the nerve to kick at me.
I grab his foot and twist it, then let go as he jumps off the swing.
"What's your problem, bitch?" he snarls.
"I live here," I spit back at him. "I don't want to have to pay for the damage you assholes cause. Now get out of here before I call the cops."
The grumbling swingers amble off, throwing dirty looks at me as they go.
I make my way back to Jason.
"I'm impressed," he says. "I had no idea you were so kick—."
"Tell me why the Sorenson piece is not going to be published," I cut him off, brusquely.
Right now, all I want to talk about is the profile. I worked so hard on that thing. I was looking forward to seeing my byline for the first time on the front page.
Jason looks startled, then shifts his eyes toward the street.
"Look," he says after a second, "I fought for the piece. I really did. But the committee thought it was too big a conflict of interest."
"What are you talking about?"
He shifts back to me, his eyes narrowing as he searches my face.
"Did you know Sorenson used to work for your grandmother?"
I feel my jaw drop. "What?"
"Years ago. He was her legislative director."
I start to say something, but he holds up his hand.
"And then," he goes on, "when Sorenson ran for state senate, she donated to his campaign. Like, big time. She was a major donor, for twelve years. Every time he ran."
Fuck.
I thought I'd done my research.
I knew the provost had once been a state senator. But I did not know Virginia was one of his donors. I did not know he used to work for her.
And during the interview, Sorenson never mentioned it. Why the hell not?
"The FAC felt it was just too big of a conflict to have Virginia Cooke's granddaughter writing the profile, given their close ties. Doesn't look good for a newspaper to do that.
And they have the final say."
My face is on fire. I'm pissed. At the faculty committee. At Jason. At my freaking grandmother, who manages to somehow be at the center of everything I do.
But mostly, I'm mad at myself. How did I fuck this up so badly?
I went around bragging about the profile. I told everyone in the newsroom about all the research I'd done.
And now I look like a complete fool. Like a total rookie.
The music coming from the house ends, and I hear Bey tell the crowd the performance is over. As usual, there's a round of groans and angry cat calls.
Like we can just ignore the noise ordinance and keep blasting music all night long.
"So, I have to get going."
Jason steps off the porch with a sigh. "Hey, Nicki, don't worry about it. There'll be other front-page stories."
"Thanks for letting me know." I try to keep my voice cool and neutral because it feels like I'm going to cry. "I appreciate it."
Jason heads for his car, and I turn toward the front door.
I need to find TT, make sure she's all right.
And as soon as the band finishes breaking down, I know Bey will come looking for me.
She'll want my feedback on the music. She'll want to hold me in her arms. Take me to her bed.
She's always happy—and horny—after she's been playing.
I want to be there for her, too.
But first, what I really need is a few minutes alone to pull myself together. To stop feeling like my screw-up with the profile is the end of my journalistic world.
I step to the end of the porch and jump into the side yard, then head through the open back gate.
There's no moon tonight, and the single-bulb light that usually shines in the back is apparently burnt out, so it's pretty dark out here.
I can see several forms still hanging out on the deck. I don't want to talk to anyone.
"Assholes," I mutter, cranky, "go home. Party's over."
I spot an open space on the deck and slump down, leaning against the railing and folding my arms over my chest.
The person next to me, wrapped in a hoodie and a blanket against the plummeting temperature, fills a shot glass from what looks like a bottle of tequila and raises it in my direction.
"Here's looking at you, girl."
She downs the shot, and I peer around the hood she's got pulled over her face.
Because I recognize the voice. It's Megan.
She fills the shot glass again and knocks it back.
This is so not my night.
"You okay?" I ask.
I don't know why I'm showing concern. She's been awful to me ever since I moved in.
But during that time, I haven't seen her take even a sip of alcohol. She's sure making up for it now. I can tell something's up.
She scoffs at my question, and I get a whiff of tequila breath as she moves closer and wags a finger in my face.
"Why you, Nicki?" she slurs. "Huh? Why the fuck does she want you? Because you're a freshman? Because you're maybe a tad prettier?"
Her lips curl as she gets even closer. "But so what?"
She looks around, addressing the people nearby. "So. Fucking. What?" she asks loudly.
Then she jabs a finger at me.
"She's not more interesting than me. She has nothing in common with her. What do they even talk about? She's nothing but a spoiled, boring brat."
"Hey!" I raise my hands, fingers spread. "What is wrong with you?"
"Oh honey," Megan guffaws, punching the air in my direction as if she can't quite pinpoint my location. "If you only knew."
People are giving us looks. Most of them leave the deck.
Shaking my head in irritation, I reach across Megan to grab the bottle, then take a swig.
Probably not the wisest move. But it sure feels like a tequila night. Why did I even bother being nice to her?
"Seriously, Megan," I say, coughing a little. "What did I ever do to you? You've been a total bitch to me ever since I moved in."
She doesn't answer, just smirks and rolls her eyes.
I take another swig, feeling the tight knot of tension in my stomach relaxing.
I totally should not be doing this.
"Tell me something," I say, setting the bottle down between us and changing the subject.
"Do you know what happened to Bey in Afghanistan? How she got all those scars?"
I've been wondering this ever since I found out Bey and Megan had been a thing. But I haven't had the nerve to ask.
Megan stares hard at me, her eyes unnaturally bright.
"Did she tell you?" I press her, noting her smug look of satisfaction. "Did she?"
She lets me just hang there, drawing the moment out.
"You mean you don't know?" she finally replies. "She didn't tell you?"
She shakes her head in mock astonishment. "Wow."
I consider wiping the look of pleasure off her face with the tequila bottle.
"I just assumed she would have told you all about it," she adds, getting unsteadily to her feet as I glare up at her. "I mean, as close as the two of you are. Or appear to be, anyway."
Two seconds. That's all it would take to grab that bottle and connect it with her head.
Instead of attacking her, though, I take another healthy swig.
Megan leans over me.
"At some point," she says, "she's going to get tired of you, Nicki. You know that, right? And I'll be here when she does.
"She and I are the same age. We've both been through heavy shit that a little girl like you has no clue about. I understand her a lot better than you ever could."
She takes a couple of steps toward the kitchen door, then turns back. "Before long," she adds, "she's going to figure that out."
I'm frozen there for several minutes after she leaves. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry.
I know she was trying to undermine my confidence in Bey, in our relationship. I know she doesn't love Megan.
But does she love me?
We haven't actually said I love you yet. But we're sure acting like we're in love.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them. My head is spinning from the stupid tequila. And I can't stop the doubts bombarding my brain.
If Bey really did tell Megan what happened to her, maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just a temporary good time.
"Nicki?"
I look up. Bey's standing over me with that tender concern I like to think is only for me.
"I've been looking all over for you," she says, squatting to draw a gentle hand across my back. "What are you doing out here?"
And I start to cry.
Like a baby. Like a tequila-besotted freshman who got her feelings hurt. Like a spoiled, boring brat.
Bey drops to the deck beside me. "Hey." She pulls me to her. "What on earth happened?"
And so, I sob out the whole story: Jason and the yanked profile; Megan and the tequila; my question about Bey and her answer.
"Jesus," she growls. "Fucking Megan. She's just messing with you, babe."
She tilts my head up and kisses me, then brushes my hair away from my face. "She's a liar. I never told her a thing."
I drag a hand across my eyes and try to sit up straighter.
"Yeah, but it's more than that, Bey," I blubber. "It's not really about Megan."
I draw in a deep breath, feeling the beginnings of a bad headache. So stupid to drink all that shit.
"It's about us," I go on. "It's about how I feel about you, and where we're going with this. And why you—"
"Why I won't tell you what happened in Afghanistan," she finishes the sentence for me.
She looks away, the muscle in her jaw jumping around. Her expression is hard to read.
"I love you, Bey."
I didn't plan to say it. Maybe it's the tequila, loosening my tongue. But now that I have said it, I'm glad it's out there.
"I don't want just a hookup," I go on. "Or even a casual relationship. I can't do that. Not with you."
"Nicki."
I hold a hand up, so she'll let me go on.
"But if you won't share this with me, if you won't trust me to know about something that was so traumatic for you...something that gives you nightmares...that left you scarred, inside and out..." I let the sentence fade away.
Bey swipes her eyes with her fingers and looks away from me again, and my heart clenches at the agony on her face.
But still, I go on.
"If you won't tell me about it, then how can we have the kind of relationship that I want with you?" I ask, my voice breaking. "How?"
Bey pulls me tight against her body, engulfing me in her arms and kissing the side of my head over and over.
I feel her chest rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. And then another.
Several moments of silence go by, and I wonder if I should just go inside. It's not fair to pressure Bey like this. I'm overly emotional right now.
I'm drunk.
I raise my head to look at her. There's a single tear running down her face.
"Bey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...it's the tequila talking...it's fine...I--"
My words die out as she shushes me, kissing me deeply before enveloping me in another hug.
"It's not the tequila talking," she murmurs. "Not really."
For a while, she doesn't say anything else. The only sound is the cicadas beginning their nighttime concert.
I can feel Bey's heart beating against my own.
"First of all, " she finally whispers against my hair, "I love you, too. I should have already told you that. I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. You have to know that."
She squeezes me even tighter.
"And second, you're right. You deserve to know what happened. So..."
She sighs heavily. Then there's a long pause. Finally, she adds, "...I will tell you."
We're slumped against the deck railing. Bey takes another deep breath.
"But once I do," she goes on, "you may wish you didn't know."
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