Sage

The dirty beige hallways don’t feel quite the same the day after.

Neither does the cafeteria, which constantly smells of stale pretzels and burnt coffee.

Neither does my body. Nope. It feels lighter and much more capable.

And if I were anyone else, I’d probably say some bullshit about being a different man, but unfortunately for the world, I’m still the same douchy jock. The only difference is I now have sex with my best friend (six times in less than twenty-four hours, but who is counting?), and I don’t want to read too much into this, but damn, it puts a stupid-ass smile on my face, which I can’t seem to wipe off.

Enter: Amber.

I see her coming out of Sabatta Hall just as I make my way to the weight room. I stop. Last night, we left everything hanging, and as much as I felt bad about her miscarriage—the doctor told her it might’ve been due to the fact that she still drank heavily at parties before she’d found out about the pregnancy—I was too fucking wrapped in my own universe with JoJo. Which is shitty, I know. So I stop and clap a hand over her shoulder. She looks tired, and I feel guilty. When Amber found out that she was pregnant, I said I’d support her no matter what. She wanted to keep it, but still hadn’t told her parents. Then the miscarriage happened three weeks ago and I’ve been trying to be there for her, but most of the time, that entails her telling me we need to try to have a baby again.

“Yo. What’s up?” I squeeze her shoulder softly, giving her my most genuine smile. People pass us by, talking to each other, laughing. Amber shoots me a look, flipping her blonde, straight hair on an eye roll.

“What do you want, Poirier?” Her voice is pointed, like her expression. I look left and right, somehow still freaked out about JoJo seeing us. Even though I know she gets it. She’s the kindest girl I’ve ever met. She felt so guilty about what happened to Amber. Like she had something to do with it somehow.

“To check how you’re doing.” I ignore her snark. “See if you need anything.”

“I need you to stop fucking around and give me attention. That’s what I need.” She juts her chin out, defying me. I scratch the back of my neck, trying to figure out if this is a joke. Throughout the last month, I’ve been her designated bitch. Drove her places. Let her hang out with the boys and me at Barnie’s. Even helped her with her studies. She tried to hit on me countless times, and I blocked it, because even though we shared a fling, I really couldn’t see us doing anything more. So this is unwarranted at best and rude at worst.

“Huh?” I cock my head sideways. She slaps my chest. Hard. I take a step back, looking at her like she drank from the crazy fountain, then ate a big dish of psycho.

“You,” she points at me, her eyes narrowing, “are not focused on what’s important. I just lost our child, Poirier. Do you get what I’m saying? I’m mourning. I’m hurt. I don’t need to see you parading your new piece all over campus, telling people she’s your girlfriend. It’s so disrespectful.”

What. The. Fuck.

I straighten my back, shaking off some of my surprise.

“I really have no idea what in the good fuck you’re talking about, woman. Jolie is not a piece. She’s my childhood friend and we’re dating now. It has nothing to do with me wanting to be there for you. When we hooked up, I said it was for fun. We had fun. The condom broke. Not so fun. Shit happened in-between. Fucking terrible, I know. Now we’re dealing with this. Together. Look, I’m still here for you, yeah? But this has nothing to do with JoJo.”

Her lower lip is shaking. People are starting to stop and look. Stall with their phones. Pretend to mess around with their bags. Shit. It’s becoming a scene, and that’s a problem. I take Amber by the elbow and usher her outside, away from the hall and toward a tree overlooking the entrance of the building. It’s a gray day, and no one is out but us. I lean over her—not too close to give her the wrong idea, but close enough so that she knows that I’m serious.

“Anything you need,” I say, “I’m here for you. I mean it.”

“I need you to leave her.” Amber’s tears are now falling like a flood, and I want to stop them, I do, but I can’t. Not the way she wants me to.

“Amber…”

She throws herself at me, her fists curling around the collar of my jersey. She gets into my face. “Please, Sage. Give us a chance. You’re going away next year. Do you think Jolie will go with you? She’s not the kind of girl to leave her family. I know her type. I’ll do it for you, Sage. I’ll leave this place for you.”

My eyes darken, and my thoughts jumble in my head. So when Amber seeks my warmth, burrowing into me for a hug, I give it to her.

Because I gave her something else without meaning to.

And now she lost it.

Because I need to make this right for her somehow.

And because I’m afraid that she is right about JoJo.

* * *

Jolie

You know the part in the movie where the couple gets together and everything works out and everyone gets their happy ending? Well, this is not what happens in real life. At least not to me.

The day starts with Chelsea informing me that she and Mark are not going to the Christmas charity event in New York because she has a job interview for an au pair position in Canada. The woman is heavily pregnant and looking for a full-time nanny to assist her when the baby is born. Mark is going with her, and they’ll be flying back to spend Christmas with her family right after. They’re moving fast, and I’m happy for them, but at the same time, I wanted so badly to spend time with my best friend in the Big Apple.

Then, I get fired by a text message. Travis, my boss, who apparently has the diplomatic skills of a swordfish, sends me the following message:

After getting fired—just when I think things cannot get any possibly worse—I land my butt in a library’s chair, trying to study for my next lit exam, and open up my MacBook. Five seconds into reading an essay about the history of the English language, I rub my eyes, trying to concentrate. When I feel something gooey and warm connecting with the side of my head, I freeze. It slithers down my hair and slaps my face, and my first reaction is to cover my face with both palms. After I hear the knock of whatever’s been thrown at me dropping to the floor, I raise my head and look to my right, where the thing came from.

Amber.

Sitting at the desk beside me.

Smiling.

I look down. It’s a Starbucks cup. I touch my hair, sniff around me, the shock still working its way to my system. It’s my now-cold pumpkin latte with marshmallow. Jesus H.

Bitch.

I know her reasoning behind it, and I get it, I do—it hurts. I can’t even begin to imagine how much. But it is also not my fault.

My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up and make my way to her. She is sitting with her sorority friends, their army of cardigans, pearl necklaces, and mechanically straightened hair in full attendance. I look sloppy in comparison. My Chucks are dirty, my blonde is also red, and my clothes are too casual. And still, they can’t treat me this way. Ever.

“You need to stop this.” I slap my hand on her desk, lifting my chin up to look down at her. She stares up at me with a conceited smile I’m dying to wipe off of her face.

“No, I don’t. You have something of mine that I want back.”

“And I suppose that’d be Sage?” I tilt my head sideways. She shrugs, snorting out an unattractive laugh she’d never allow herself in his presence.

“And his money. And his future. And his status. Basically, everything. The best thing about being upfront with you about it, is that you’re too goody-two-shoes to even tell him I ever said it. Because you don’t talk badly of people, do you, sweet girl? I know all about you and your running-to-see-mommy-every-other-weekend tactics.”

Tactics?

Tactics?!

She thinks I go through life trying to impress someone? My best friend? Is she nuts? I don’t even need anyone to answer this question. Of course, she’s nuts. No one of sound mind would ever think in this direction. I lower my body, lean into her face, and whisper, “I know what happened to you, and I’m sorry that it did. I am. But you cannot break us up, Amber. I suggest you move on, and while you’re at it, take a very long look at your behavior and priorities. Because you’re not being assertive or street-smart here, girl. You’re being a manipulative bitch.”

The words slap her, one by one, and I see her cocky smile melting into a shocked, wide-eyed grimace. One of her friends—a brunette who is wearing a lemon yellow cardigan and a matching headband—crinkles her nose.

“Wait, how do you mean after what happened to you? What exactly happened to you?”

“I…I…”

Another girl, who sits directly in front of her, bolts up from her chair and shakes her head. Her face is so red it is completely possible she might explode.

“Jesus Christ, Amber! Tell me you didn’t go through with that stupid plan! Faking a pregnancy and then a miscarriage? Like, hello, newsflash! Your life is not a bad General Hospital episode!”

I stagger backwards, gripping the end of my desk and staring at a very embarrassed, very angry Amber as her eyes broaden and her chest heaves up and down, the adrenaline of the lie catching up with reality.

Everything turns red.

Then black.

Then white again, because the lie is not mine. Not mine to keep, to be burdened with, nor to carry.

I turn around to collect my MacBook and my shoulder bag and dash outside the library door, making my way to the nearest bus station back home. Amber is after me. I hear her heels clacking against the floor. I don’t turn around, mainly because the notion that I can do something terrible to her—slap her, yell at her, or curse her out—is strong.

She might be that kind of person, but I’m not.

Just as I round the corner of the street, Chelsea’s blue Buick appears from the intersection. She stops in front of me with a screech and throws the passenger’s door open.

“Need a getaway ride?”

“That seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life right now.”

I hop in, then I watch Amber’s disappearing figure through the side mirror as my heart finally returns to its usual rhythm.

“More coffee stains?” Chelsea chuckles, her eyes scanning my blouse. I smile, avoiding the full story.

“That’s right. I’m starting to believe they’re my sign for good luck.”