“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be ready.”

I hang up and smear some lipstick on my mouth. I am still thinking about Caleb and I have force myself to stop.

Tonight was just going to be Jim and me and a good time. No obsessions. I slip on a pair of black pants and a green off-the-shoulder shirt, and pull my hair into a ponytail.

Jim picks me up outside of my apartment. I hop into his car, a restored 1969 Mustang painted green with yellow racing stripes, and smile at him across the seat.

“You’re like a Percocet on a bad day, Libby,” he says, surprising me and kissing me straight on the mouth. I pull back and shake my head.

“Mmmm, I love it when you compare me to prescription drugs.” I plug in my seat belt and begin messing with the radio. Jim likes Phish and that’s practically a sin in my books, since they’re just Grateful Dead wannabee’s.

Jim winks at me and perches a cigarette between his lips. Usually, I don’t tolerate smoking—it makes me feel gritty and it doesn’t help that my mom died of cancer. But, there is something about the way Jim smokes that makes me want to watch him. I look on in anticipation as the wick of his lighter spits out a tiny tongue of fire. He lowers his cigarette to the flame and inhales. I can almost hear the tip of his camel hiss in delight as it accepts the fire. This is my favorite part—he takes a long drag, his eyelids flutter like a junkie, then he pushes the grey smoke out of his nose and it curls into the sky, like a graceful, ashen, ghost. Beautiful.

I sit back satisfied. Jim is darkly handsome. He is wearing eyeliner and jeans that cling to his body like lizard skin. His hair is shaggy and dyed black, which makes his sharp blue eyes seem almost lavender. I always thought the British accent belonged more on him than on Caleb. I fan away smoke and hum along with the final bars of an oldie my mom used to love.

“Why are you so happy tonight?” he asks, tapping an inch of cigarette ash into an empty can of Red Bull.

“There is something devastatingly wrong with the universe when you are happy enough to hum.”

He scoots his car into traffic almost hitting the bumper of the truck in front of us.

“I dunno. I just am.”

Jim raises an eyebrow.

“Come on, Libby. I know when something is up.”

I pause. Then I say, “Caleb’s back.”

There was shocked silence. Gladys Knight was on the radio. Jim’s fingers are absently tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

“He’s back.” This comes as a statement instead of a question. I can hear the distaste in his voice and I don’t blame him. Caleb had always been a thorn in Jim’s flesh, especially when I eventually chose Caleb over Jim.

“Olivia,” he turns the radio off and stubs out his cigarette, which means I’ll get to watch the whole lighting process again in a few minutes. “In what way is he back?”

I have no intention of telling him about the amnesia.

“I don’t know. He’s just back and I don’t really care why.”

Jim narrows his eyes and appears to be looking suspiciously at the road.

“I don’t know what it is with you and that asshole. Four years and a bad breakup later and you’re still in a f**king chemical romance with basketball Ken.”

I don’t want to hear it. Not from Jim. Not from Cammie. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this twist to my story. A thousand girls could tell me that they would have done something different than what I did the day I pretended not to know Caleb, and I wouldn’t care. This was my re-do.

“It happened by accident. I didn’t go looking for him, so just shut the hell up about it.”

We pull up to the front of the club and I hop out before the valet can open the door. I wait for Jim as he unwinds his long body from the car and tosses his keys to the attendant. He is pissed. I can see it on his face. More than once he’s accused me of using him as a fall back when Caleb’s not around. I walk in front of him, ignoring the beating his eyes are giving me. I feel kind of badass tonight, so it’s not hard. It’s none of his damn business anyway—meddling, eyeliner wearing, punk. Jim hates weakness, and by God, Caleb is mine. But I have faith that by the time we start dancing, he will get over it.

The Wave is filled wall to wall with vibrating bodies. Jim grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng of dancers until we reach the bar. Most of the girls turn to look at us. What is a razor edged rocker doing with a softie like me? I bristle under their curious eyes, fanning out a couple of dirty looks.

Jim lays a fifty on the slimy bar and orders four shots of tequila. I ready our limes, and smile at him.

“Are you still mad?” I ask.

The bartender slides the shot glasses towards us and we both claim two. Jim shrugs.

“Does it matter?”

I pour the first one down my throat and suck on a lime to pull the flavor. Tequila is gross.

“I don’t want you to be mad. I hardly get to see you.”

Jim does this triple blink thing that makes him look really annoyed and then he kisses me on the cheek.

“Let’s just have fun.”

He orders two more shots and we clink our glasses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.

“Let’s go do some dance floor humping,” he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head.

We dance until my feet feel numb and my hair is damp with sweat. Jim touches me more than he usually does. I equate it to Caleb’s return. Men always need to piss on everything they feel is theirs. I let him pull me close. I am too drunk to care. It reminds me of the scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby crashes the employee party clutching the watermelon. We are dancing face-to-face, dirty. Jim doesn’t believe in the bumping and grinding, the token dance of teenagers. He calls it dirty spooning. We dance face to face. I find something very honest in that.

We don’t leave until the D.J. starts packing away his equipment.

“You okay to drive?” I ask him. I felt like I am bobbing in space.

Jim snickers. “I’m as sober as a Preacher on a Sunday morning,” he twangs in a mock Southern accent.

On the ride home I keep my eyes closed and let the wind blow over my face. We don’t speak much. Jim plays an old Marcy Playground CD that we used to listen to in college. Sex and Candy. I giggle when he sings loudly to the words.

When we pull up to my apartment, he hops out of the car and follows behind me to the door.

“Was this a date? Why are you walking me home?” I laugh. I dig around in my purse for the keys while he watches.

When I look up, he is staring at me funny.

“Jim?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “Are you okay?” I think that maybe he is sick. His face is blank and a little flushed, like someone who is deciding if they are about to throw up. I pull to a stop when he suddenly jerks forward. At first I think he is going to be sick but at the last minute he veers right for my face and tries to kiss me. I turn my head so his lips land in a wet mess on my cheek. When he pulls back, his eyes are red. “What are you doing?” I ask. Jim and I never go there. It’s an unspoken rule of mine.

He is so close that I have to bend my head all the way back to see his face. We haven’t kissed since college.

“Is it because I’m not him, Olivia? Fucking, Caleb?”

I shake my head. I feel so fuzzy. I can’t seem to formulate words quickly enough.

“It’s not like that with us, Jim. Why now?”

“You know sex doesn’t always have to mean something. It can be done for fun.”

His eyes are blinking, blinking, like he’s trying to expel me from his vision. What am I supposed to say to that?

“I think that friends should stay friends—without the complication of sex.”

“Friends,” he croons, in a nasty hiss. “I’m sick of being your f**king reprieve.”

I shudder. It is very true, but ugly to hear.

“You’re a real c**k tease, you know that?” I look up in surprise. He has called me that in a joking way many times, but never in this tone of voice. He is blotchy faced and red eyed and he is scaring me in that deep part of a woman that tells you to run. I take a step back.

“Jim, you’re drunk,” I say slowly.

“I’m drunk and you’re a bitch.” Then he is all over me with his mouth, pushing against my tightly pulled lips, his hands between my legs. I make a muffled cry from behind my attack and I try to push him away. He doesn’t budge beneath my shoving and I realize there is nothing I will be able to do to stop him. I try to plead but everything seems to roll right off of him. He is groping at me trying to pull my pants down. My neighbor’s door is less than ten yards away on the other side of the building. If I can break free, I can run for it. Then comes a moment when he is distracted and his grip loosens on my arms. I take the chance to wrestle my hands free and I slap him hard across the face. He draws back in shock and his hand cradles the place I hit him. I am prepared for him to come back harder, stronger, but he just looks at me. There is nowhere for me to go. I am cornered against my own front door. I consider screaming, but the only person who might hear me is Rosebud and what could she do? So, I try to reason with him.

“Go home Jim,” my voice is firm. Those few seconds that he spends weighing his options become a muddy memory for me. I am angry and ashamed and scared as I watch him decide whether or not to rape me.

Please God let him leave.

The space between us grows, as he turns around and stumbles to his car.

I practically fall through my door. When I am on the other side, I bolt the lock, and throw myself onto my couch. I sob into a pillow until my throat feels raw and then I pick up the phone and called the only person I have ever trusted.

“Caleb…”

“Olivia?” His voice is heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you come over…to my house?”

“Right now?” I can hear him shuffling around his room…turning on the light...fumbling with things.

“Caleb…please...I…”

“I’ll be right there.”

When Caleb arrives, his hair is disheveled and he is wearing shorts and a tattered t-shirt.

“What happened?” he asks as soon as he sees me. He holds my chin in his fingers and turns my face from side to side. I tell him about Jim, about the club, and about what he did after.

Caleb paces my living room. His face is contorted in anger.

“Where is his hotel, Olivia?” His fists are clenched at his sides. I am afraid that if he finds Jim, he will find out who I really am.

“No! I don’t want you to go,” I pull on his arm until he sits back down next to me. His anger gradually subsides into concern and he pulls me to his chest. I haven’t been against his chest for a very long time and I feel overwhelmed. He smells like soap and Christmas and himself, and I cry like a baby at the unfamiliar security his touch gives me. No one has held me like this before. I don’t know whether to bolt or cling on for dear life.

“Can you stay here tonight?” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead and smooth’s away my tears away with his thumbs.

“Yes, of course I’ll stay.”

I feel so relieved that I shudder pathetically. He squeezes me tighter. What would I have done if he wasn’t around? Who would I have called? Caleb is here now, but the clock is ticking. I have gotten myself into a situation where I am going to lose him all over again. The first time was bad enough. I burrow into his warmth and enjoy the feeling of being cared for. I fall asleep with my head leaning against his chest, listening to his heart drum out the most beautiful beat I’ve ever heard

Chapter Nine

The Past

The decision was made. I told Cammie about the abortion as we sat bent over our dinner trays in the cafeteria.

“You’re kidding,” she said as a French-fry dropped from her mouth.

“No,” I said swallowing the lump in my throat. “I overheard her talking to that tall girl about it—the one who picks her scabs.”

I stuffed the last of my fries into my mouth and licked the salt off my lips.

“Nadia?” asked Cammie, pushing her plate away.

“Yes, Nadia, but you can’t tell anyone I told you Cam, I mean how horrible would it be if that got out?”

I studied my roommate’s pretty face and frowned. Perhaps, this would be the one time that Cammie kept her mouth shut. What would I do then?

“Do you think Caleb would care, I mean do you think he would have wanted to keep it?”

I stared at her glittering eyes and felt a sinking in my stomach. I never really thought about that one. He would have wanted to keep it. I knew that in my heart. The way he had spoken about his family that night at Jackson’s he told me that he wanted to be a father. I closed my wicked eyes and sighed.

“Why would you think I would know the answer to that question?”

Cammie shrugged. “You kinda know him. I mean you spent some time with him right, I just thought—”

“I don’t know anything about him,” I snapped, standing up and grabbing my tray. Except that I wanted him more than anything else in the world. I looked down at Cammie and felt panic. This was it.

Cammie had diarrhea of the mouth. It was going to be all over the school and fast. I had now officially secured my front row seat on the train to Hell.

Choo choo!

“I’m going back to the dorms,” I said. I wanted her to follow me so that I could keep an eye on her. I wasn’t sure that I wanted…

“Ok. I’m going to hang here for a while.” Cammie smiled sugar-sweetly up at me. Her face looked innocent, but her eyes looked evil. I could see the gossip monster crawling its way up her esophagus and pushing frantically behind her mouth to be let out.