I look over at the brunette as I head to the door. “I’ve been dating him since January, and I almost gave him my virginity tonight. He’s been cheating on you, too.”
I don’t wait for the aftermath. I slam the door shut and rush straight down the emergency stairwell.
Seattle’s wet and winds slap me in the face once I push open the door. They remind me that I left my coat in Michael’s room.
Refusing to return, I fold my arms across my chest and walk to the front of the building.
When I make it inside the lobby, I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. The closest driver is an hour away, and there’s a mandatory surcharge for the distance.
I groan and shut the app. Then I scroll through my contacts, pausing at “Dad” and “Mom.” If they were still alive right now, I’d happily submit to their “We’re so disappointed in you” lectures and threats of punishment for the entire ride home. Hell, I’d even suggest that they ground me for the rest of the year.
Shaking away those thoughts, I continue to scroll through the list—passing the names of my coaches, competitors, and neighbors. I know these people well, but not well enough to call for a favor at this hour.
Upon reaching the end of the list, only “Ugh: Cocky Bastard,” i.e., Hayden Hunter, my brother’s best friend, remains.
Just the sight of his name is enough to make me roll my eyes.
If there were ever an award for ‘Guy Who Thinks He’s God’s Gift to Women,’ Hayden would win it in a landslide every year. To make matters worse, every woman who has ever laid eyes on him would happily cast a vote in his honor and tell him that he has every right to think that way.
With his stunning blue eyes, dreamy dark brown hair, and chiseled jawline that’s practically made for the cover of GQ magazine, he’s definitely one of the most attractive guys that I’ve ever seen in my life. Hands down. But once he parts his full and defined lips to speak, all of his attractiveness goes up in flames.
He’s the ultimate man whore who has had a terrible influence on my brother, and I’ll always regret the day he came into our lives. The day he became the closest person to Travis and made me nothing more than a third wheel.
He has to have at least ten STDs by now. No, twenty.
Clicking on his name, I read through our recent, one-sided thread of text messages.
Ugh: Cocky Bastard: I dropped off a package at your house earlier. It’s from Travis. Maybe he finally sent you what you need: Some goddamn gratefulness. You’re welcome for my FREE help, by the way.
Ugh: Cocky Bastard: Your brother needs you to call him after your evening practice. He says that he doesn’t want you out past eleven since you have a meeting with those TIME and Skate World reporters in the a.m.
Ugh: Cocky Bastard: I can SEE that you’re reading my goddamn messages, Penelope. Can you at least respond?
I’ve never answered anything from him, and I have no interest in starting now.
I reopen the Uber app and decide to wait for as long as it takes.
I’d rather freeze to death than deal with Hayden …
Breakup #1.5
the one that ruined Valentine’s Day
Hayden
Back Then
* * *
Travis: Hey. I’m sure that you’re probably somewhere getting your cock sucked right now, but can you give me an update on Penelope? It’s been FIVE days.
Travis: Did you deliver the training check to her coach yet? That three grand is still sitting in my account.
Travis: WTF? Answer me, Hayden. I’m only trying to check in on my goddamn sister. I’m doing all I can to make sure she’s cared for.
* * *
If you care so damn much, you need to come back home ...
I clench my jaw as I read over Travis’s latest text messages.
It’s only been six months since he traded in the cold rains of Seattle for the sweltering summers of Las Vegas, but with each demanding text he sends, it feels more like a decade.
The morning after his parents’ joint funeral, he placed a UFC Looking to Expand its Sport news clipping on my coffee table, along with a list titled, ‘Things You Need to Help Penelope (Crown) with While I’m Gone.’
With no emotion whatsoever, he said, “I need to focus all of my energy on taking care of Penelope now. I’m trying my shot at MMA fighting and I’ll send as much money as I can back home. You can still work on your dating app and help me with her from afar, right?”
He didn’t wait for a response.
He picked up a duffle bag, drove home to break the news to his sister, and I haven’t seen him since.
In his absence, I’ve found myself thrust into the world of competitive figure skating, and I honestly preferred the days when I never knew it existed. The days when I didn’t have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn and shuttle Penelope to and from dozens of practices, when the phrases “triple toe loop” or “double axel” weren’t things I understood, and when the only ice-skating competition I’d ever watched was on television via the Olympics.
I’m sick of this shit.
Rolling out of bed, I make sure not to wake the woman next to me. Our one night stand—along with her name, is long forgotten, but I’m not the type of guy who will ever let her know.
I uncap a marker and write, “Thx for a good time—Had fun,” on the back of a burger wrapper before setting it on her nightstand. Then I walk around the mattress to pick up my clothes.
After pulling on my T-shirt, I quietly grab my keys and put on my shoes. I double-check to make sure that I’m not leaving anything behind and head outside to my car.
Speeding across town, I pull into the driveway of Travis’s house to “make sure Penelope’s cared for.”
The porch lamps burn brightly, but there’s no glare from Penelope’s bedroom television like usual.
Confused, I take out my phone and send her a text.
* * *
Me: Hey. Can you flash the lights upstairs or turn on your TV so I can confirm that you’re alive? Your brother wants to be sure that you’re alright.
* * *
The “message read” alert pops up, but she doesn’t respond.
Of course.
* * *
Me: Hey Travis. Pen’s safe at home. Just checked. She says that she’ll call you tomorrow.
Travis: Thanks man, I appreciate it.
Travis: How have you been lately? Is your dating app going well?
* * *
I know that he doesn’t give a fuck about my work, so I don’t bother answering his questions.
Instead, I mute our thread and drive out of the neighborhood—heading home for an all-nighter. As I’m turning up the music, Penelope’s name crosses my dashboard via phone call.
I hit ignore.
She calls again.
I hit ignore once more.
When I merge onto the highway, she calls me a third time.
“What, Penelope?” I answer. “I already told your brother that you were at home. You’re welcome.”