Chapter Twelve
Annika
Keeping my head down, I cross the main quad to the coffee shop. Kampus Koffee is a staple for college life. Most students spend at least a few hours here every week. If they aren’t standing in line to get a shot of caffeine, it’s because they have a nice variety of couches to lounge on and tables to study at. It’s also open later than the cafeteria and the snack bar. To top it off, they have the most amazing pastries. Perfect for a late-night carb load if you don’t have a car to leave campus.
But getting here has been harder than I anticipated. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder every time I hear someone behind me. Whenever I hear footsteps, I have to see who is behind me. Is he coming for me? Or is someone late for class and hoofing it?
I hate that I feel unsafe walking across campus. I’ve never felt this way before. But in the last week, it seems to be getting worse. I can’t seem to shake the fear. It’s to the point now where I only shower every couple of days, not because I don’t need it. But because I can’t. The thought of undressing in a public bathroom is damn near debilitating. Hell, I’m not sure I’d be able to get naked in a private bathroom with the doors locked and a panic alarm. It’s so bad that the last time I had to wash my hair, I finally gave up the fight and showered in my clothes, which of course made me feel even more humiliated. And then angry for feeling humiliated.
I’m stronger than this. I’m more logical than this. I’m not a weak person. I was raised to be a fighter, but dammit, I feel like I’m losing this battle. I don’t even remember what happened that night, but for some reason, I’m still shaken all the way to my core.
I’m sure part of my emotional state is my lack of sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, I have nightmares. Sometimes, it’s that Ron guy following me out of the club. When I look at him, he smiles, and the wider he smiles the more distorted his face becomes, until finally I’m looking into the eyes of the devil himself.
Then there’s the version of me being assaulted over and over. I’m not unconscious this time, I’m awake and aware. I feel every touch and every whisper of his breath. It’s a continual loop until I finally wake up, not knowing if those are actual memories or my imagination at play.
And sometimes I see Jaxon in the distance trying to rescue me. But the more he runs and tries to get to me, the farther away he gets. All the while, I hear a sinister laugh in my ear as Jaxon gets smaller and smaller before he disappears completely.
To say I’m not doing well is an understatement. And if Jaxon is as observant as he was last time I saw him, he’s going to pick up on it, which I don’t want him to do. I don’t want anyone to know.
Swinging the door open to the coffee shop, the bell above me rings. Not that anyone can hear it. The place is packed. Glancing around the room, I see Jaxon sitting in the corner, playing on his phone. As I wait in line, I take the chance to get a good look at him.
He’s not big for a football player. In fact, he’s not big for any kind of athlete. His dark hair is cut short enough to run his fingers through it, but not long enough to be in his face. He rubs the back of his neck as he reads something on his phone. He doesn’t have an imposing presence. He just looks like every other guy on campus. Yet for some reason, my whole body relaxes when I see him. It’s almost an automatic response. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs that were trained to associate food with the sounds of a bell. I associate safety with him.
“A salted caramel mocha, please. Medium.” The barista writes my name on a cup before taking my money and moving my order down the line. It takes a few more minutes to get my drink, and I see Jaxon look up a couple more times, but he doesn’t notice me. Why would he? The giant hoodie sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants I’m wearing are designed to keep me as invisible as possible. A fact I’m proud to remember from last year’s psych class, but not proud to be living.
Lauren keeps harassing me to go to this on-campus clinic because I won’t get dressed in anything other than the comfiest clothes I can find in my drawers. She’s sure I have the flu. I got so sick of her nagging, one day when I came back from class, I finally lied and told her I went and sure enough, I was positive for influenza. I don’t know what she thinks the symptoms actually look like since I had no fever, no body aches, and no vomiting. But I guess considering I’ve been lethargic lately and I have huge dark circles under my eyes, I can pass for someone with a serious illness. The room carries the overwhelming odor of Lysol now from her “disinfecting.”
“Hi,” I say as I walk up to the table. He looks up, almost startled, and it takes a full second before he recognizes me. When he does, he immediately stands up.
“Hey, Annika. Hi.” He reaches to give me a hug, but thinks better of it and backs away. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I respond, knowing I’m not telling the truth, but right now I’d rather pretend everything is fine.
“I’m glad you texted me. Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair across the table from him and we sit down.
“I’m sorry it took a while to text you,” I say as I get settled in my seat. “Lauren and I have opposite schedules, so I had to wait until she had some free time for her to take me to get a new phone since she has the car.”
“No, it’s okay,” he reassures me with a smile. “I’m just glad you got a new one. And I’m glad you used my number. I’ve been worried about you.”
He has?
“You have?”
“Yeah.” He blows out a breath like he’s finally able to relax too. I want to know why, what is he feeling? But I know where that conversation will lead, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.
Instead, I take a sip of my coffee and stick to a safer topic. “How is practice going? Ready for the game this weekend?”
He chuckles. “Uh, no.”
“No?”
“Third string players rarely get a chance to suit up. And after my shitty practices this week, I’m sure I won’t get called up.”
I can’t conceal my surprise. “Third string?”
He looks a little sheepish before he answers. “Yeah, I’m on the practice squad.”
“But,” I say, confused, “I thought it was only red-shirted freshman on the practice squad.”
He blushes this time, and I feel bad that I put him on the spot. I didn’t mean to make him feel lesser than, I’ve just never heard of a junior not being at least second string.
“Yeah well. I’m not really very good.”
“No, I’m sure you’re good,” I backpedal. “You wouldn’t be on the team if you weren’t.”
“Not really. I tell myself they keep me around because I work hard, and I like what I do. But mostly they keep me around because I have a knack for remembering statistics.”
“What do you mean?”
He shifts in his seat and stretches his legs out, obviously gauging my reaction to this information. I’m sure he’s used to girls who are no longer interested in him because he’s not one of the “good” players. But that’s not me. I love the game, not the players. Always have. And besides, that’s not why I’m here. These days, I have more important things to worry about than how “important” the guy I’m having coffee with is. Like keeping my own sanity.
When he’s finally satisfied I’m not going to run screaming, he explains. “I don’t know if it’s like a photographic memory or something, but I can remember a ridiculous amount of useless trivia facts. That includes just about everything there is to know about football. Yes, I’m third string, but part of my job is helping guys like my roommate…you know Heath Germaine?”
I nod my head. “Starting linebacker, right?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s my roommate. Anyway, I started following the opposing team’s lineup and watching highlights of their plays, including their stats each week. I would make sure to tell Germaine as much information as he could absorb to help prepare him. When the coaches found out I was doing it, and it was working, they asked me to help out several of my teammates.”
My eyes widen. “That is the coolest thing I have ever heard.”
He looks taken aback at my words. “Really?”
“Yeah,” which sounds more like “duh” as I say it. “Any meathead can throw the pigskin around. But only the really, really talented know how to put the bits and pieces of information together to create an actual strategy. You’re like the next Peter Brand,” I say excitedly, referring to the mathematical genius who helped change the way baseball teams are stacked.
Jaxon sits up and looks at me again. I can’t tell if he’s proud or embarrassed by my assessment, but I think he likes that I get it. I think he likes that I appreciate his talent. And it is a seriously cool talent.
“Well, yeah. I love the sport, ya know?” he continues. “Ever since I was a kid, I knew everything there was to know about football. It became me and my dad’s “thing.” When he was on the road, he’d call me just to ask who he was up against in the next game and how it was looking for him. I always knew the answer, so it became like a game to see if he could stump me. He never could.” I see a flash of what looks like sadness cross his face, but it’s gone quickly, making me question if it was really there.
Instead, I focus on what he told me, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion. “Wait, I don’t understand. When your dad was on the road?”
“Yeah. He’s retired from the pros now. My dad is Jason Hart. You’ve probably heard of him.”
It takes about one second before my jaw drops. “Holy. Shit. Your dad was only the best defensive lineman in the history of the game! He was fucking amazing! I mean, he wasn’t a Steeler”—an unexpected laugh bursts out of Jaxon—“but I try not to hold that against him, because he was amazing.”
“Hold on.” Jaxon holds his hands up to stop my rant. “Back up. We’re in Texas. You’re not a Cowboys fan?”
I scoff. “Never! Steelers all the way, baby. I bleed black and yellow.”
Jaxon throws his head back and laughs again, and I smile back at him, glad to have made up for my faux pas a few minutes ago and make him feel comfortable again.
“I can’t believe you said that. My dad is going to get a kick of it.”
“Why would your dad care?” I ask with a smile as I bring the now lukewarm coffee to my lips again.
“My dad was at the hospital…” His face falls, and I know I’m mirroring his expression.
It feels like a slap in the face when the realization hits me. It doesn’t matter how much football we talk or if we talk about school or classes or life goals. The fact is, the only reason we know each other is because of a horrible night in both of our lives.
Jaxon looks at me, unsure how to continue, so I help him out.
“Your dad came up to the hospital too?”
Jaxon swallows hard before answering. “Yeah. I called and told him what had happened. He was in town that night, so he met me there and waited with me.”
“The whole time?” I ask incredulously.
Part of me is already mortified that Jaxon was there for so long. Now that’s multiplied, knowing his dad was there too.
But another small part of me can’t help but want to fangirl a little over the fact that Jason Hart came to the hospital when I was there. It’s a really weird mix of emotions and confuses me more.
“Yeah, my parents are great,” Jaxon continues. “He and my mom didn’t want me to be alone, so he jumped in the car before changing out of his pajamas,” he adds with a chuckle. “When we finally knew you were awake and okay, he took off for home.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my cup, still trying to figure out how to process all of this. I finally say the only thing that seems right in this moment. “Tell him I said thank you.”
“I will. And since we’re on the subject…”
I grimace because this is the one thing I don’t want to talk about. And yet, he’s the only person in the world I can talk to about it, so I almost feel like I should. Even if it’s only to feel a sense of camaraderie with someone else.
He leans forward and really looks at me. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I respond brightly, though I swear he can see right through me.
“No, Annika.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to know what you’re telling people. I want to know how you really are. Because I’m gonna level with you. I’m not doing good.”
I take another hard look at him, and I can tell he hasn’t slept in days. He’s got dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. There’s no telling how many cups of coffee he’s had today. His cheeks are stubbled like he forgot to shave. His hair, while cut short, looks like he hasn’t done anything except continually run his fingers through it. If I had been more observant and wasn’t in my own self-preserving bubble, I may have noticed before now. He’s right. He’s not doing okay.
“I can’t sleep,” he says quietly. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that night again and again and again, and I can’t save you. It’s freaking me out, and I don’t know what to do. I guess I’m hoping that if you’re doing well, maybe I’ll be able to let it go and do better too.”
Weighing my options, I look at him again. I really want to tell him I’m fine. I really want to make him feel like he can let it go. But the selfish part of me can’t do that. The selfish part of me needs someone to know I’m not okay either. The selfish part of me really believes misery loves company, and this man in front of me is the only one who will understand my misery. So, I say the only thing I can.
“I’m not doing well either.”
If the slump of his shoulders is an indicator, he doesn’t like that answer, even though it’s the truth.
“I don’t sleep at night, but when I do, I dream constantly,” I begin. “I only shower when necessary, because it’s a community bathroom and the idea of…” I squeeze my eyes tight, not able to finish the sentence. Even saying the words out loud makes me uncomfortable. “I just can’t do it. I don’t know how to get over this or even how to get through it. Right now, I feel like I’m only going through the motions.”
“That’s it,” he adds. “I feel like I’m going through the motions, but I’m not really getting anywhere.”
I nod in understanding.
His finger circles the rim of his cup absentmindedly as we tiptoe our way through this conversation. “Did you get a call from the dreaded counselor yet?”
His playful tone makes me laugh a bit. “I did. And I set up an appointment with a lovely woman named Neisa. I’ll see her next week. You?”
He smirks. “Not only did I get a phone call and make an appointment with a lovely man named Harold”—the way he makes Harold sound like a pretentious old British man makes me giggle—“but the counseling department called my coach to get him on my case.”
I gasp. “Did they tell him what happened?” I feel like I can’t breathe. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone to know. Why is the counseling department making phone calls?
“They didn’t tell him your name. I wasn’t happy about it myself, but that’s part of the deal when you’re a football player, ya know? It doesn’t matter I’m only on the practice squad. I still have to do all the physicals. Even the mental ones.”
“I know,” I say, feeling panicky by trying desperately not to show it. “It kind of sucks that they outed you like that.”
My hand shakes as I pick up my coffee cup. I try to hide it, but I know Jaxon notices. His eyes whip up to mine, and I can tell he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I didn’t tell him, Annika,” he says reassuringly. “I didn’t tell him your name or anything about you. Neither did Harold. I specifically asked him that question. My coach doesn’t know. No one knows.”
I smile sadly at him, trying to relax, but crossing my arms over my body, trying to shrink just a little instead. “I’ll be ready someday, maybe, but not yet. Ya know?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Believe me, I know.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, neither of us sure what else to say. At first, it was kind of nice to just sit with him. At this point, if the only way I can feel relaxed is to sit for a few minutes in a weird coffee shop art deco chair, I’ll take it.
But as Jaxon begins playing on his phone, it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. We’re not on a date. We’re not even really friends. Maybe this is his way of saying he wants me to leave. Before I can ask, he finds what he was looking for.
“I knew it. Seven o’clock Sunday. Did you know the Steelers are playing?”
I nod. “Of course, I knew. I’m a die-hard fan.”
“Well then, you’re in luck.” He turns his phone around to show me the ad he’s apparently been searching for. “Buck’s Sports Bar has NFL Sunday Ticket and are going to be televising it. So,” he continues, clicking his phone off, “wanna go with me? We’re pretty pathetic lately, and maybe it’ll do us some good to watch some football and get out in the world again.”
My body tenses at the thought of his proposal. Two weeks ago, if he would have invited me to watch a game, I would have jumped at the chance. He’s good-looking, smart, kind, and motivated. But now…now I’m not sure. The last time I went to a bar my entire life changed.
Like he can read my thoughts, he says, “We don’t have to drink any alcohol. Hell, you can sneak in a six pack of bottled water in your purse.”
“I don’t carry purses unless my roommate forces one on me. I’m not girly enough.”
He smirks. If that’s my only reason for declining, he’s not going to make this easy to get out of. “Then we’ll have to sneak them in under our clothes.”
As much as I’m hesitating, the fact that he understands what my concerns are without even having to say it and is willing to humor me, makes me want to go. I need to do this. I need to go out. I need to go out with a man. Even if it’s not a date, it’s a step to taking back control of my life.
“Yeah,” I finally agree. “I’ll go with you. If nothing else, it’ll force me to shower and brush my hair. I’m sure my roommate will be happy to see I’m coming back from the edges of death for once.”
He chuckles lightly. “For what it’s worth, I’ve seen you on the edge of death, and you look way better than that.”
I bust out laughing as his face turns flaming red when he realizes what he said.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes quickly. “I’ve always been told the filter between what I’m thinking and what I say doesn’t always work right.”
I giggle again, glad that I haven’t lost my weird sense of humor in this nightmare. “For anyone else, it might’ve been too soon. But coming from you, somehow it was funny.”
He smiles and takes a drink of his coffee. We spend the next hour talking about mundane things that have nothing to do with anything. And yet it’s everything we need right now.