The apartment over the Peking Dragon is shit. Dressed-up, smelling sweet, but shit. Before it was the Chinese restaurant, it was a trolley station, so it’s about the oldest thing in Bradys Bend, but it looks like Genevieve has made the most of it. It’s clean and cozy, filled with little touches that show she has pride in it. And it’s so very Genevieve—with all this cute, country-style shit around, like rustic snowmen and gingham checked curtains. It smells like gingerbread, not greasy Chinese food. I walk around the room, looking at all her pictures. She has frames on every surface of her living room. Most are of her and her parents. And of course, there’s a fucking huge bookshelf there, taking up much of the wall, loaded with more books than I could read in a lifetime. I scan the titles. Some of them aren’t even in English.

Though she never dressed the part, Genevieve Wilson is a true, snooty rich bitch, always parading around with her chin in the air, a few notches above everyone else. From what I can remember, Genevieve’s dad is a CPA who offered financial advice to just about every family here in Bradys Bend, including my dad, after my mother died. The Wilsons lived in the nicest house in town. Genevieve’s bedroom was the size of the apartment I’d grown up in over the auto shop, something I knew from the one time she let me sneak in to fool around on her giant, fluffy white bed. They lived a fairytale life. They never fought, because Genevieve was such the good, model daughter, volunteering at the soup kitchen, tutoring poor idiots like myself. While most girls wanted to distance themselves from their parents, Genevieve never did. Sometimes they’d come to my football games and she’d sit right between them, instead of with her friends.

When I look at her next, she’s standing in the doorway to the kitchenette, cell phone at her ear.

“What are you doing?” I ask her.

“I’m calling you a cab. Where are you staying, again?”

“The Milton.” I grin at her. “What? Don’t want me staying here? Are you afraid to spend the night with all this manliness?”

“Yes,” she answers, appraising me from head to toe. There is an honest-to-god fear in her big blue eyes, one she always used to get whenever I strayed my fingers somewhere she wasn’t sure of. “Honestly, yes. I don’t know you anymore.”

I’m surprised by that, because Genevieve always hid her fears, played tough. And she’s a woman now, not some kid. Scared of me? She’s got to be kidding. “Look, girl. I won’t be a problem. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

She ends the call and throws her phone down on the coffee table, annoyed. “No one’s answering. That ‘twenty-four-hour service’ thing they advertised is for shit.”

I point to the shapeless, slip-covered sofa. “This is good. I’ll sleep here.”

“Well, you sure as hell aren’t sleeping in my bedroom!” she shouts, heading to the hallway. It sure as shit brings back every one of the millions of arguments we’d had. If she gets any more riled up, I’ll end up with cat scratches from her fingernails, all over my face.

“Wouldn’t think of it, baby.”

She steps inside her bedroom, mumbling, “Good night,” and slams the door before I can say another word.

“Okay,” I murmur, once I’m left alone, surveying my surroundings. I sit down on the sofa. It’s soft but short; my legs are going to be hanging up over the armrest at the knees. I’ll make do; though lately, I’ve been sleeping in a king bed in my penthouse at PNC Plaza in Pittsburgh, I’d slept in much worse while I was a D-Phi brother at UCLA. I look around for something to make it more comfortable, but all I can find is a heart-shaped pillow that’s half the size of my head. No sheets or blankets, but that’s fine; the apartment is warm.

I pull my ring off, setting it on the coffee table. Then, I strip off my jacket and t-shirt and start to head down the hall to the bathroom when her door swings open. She steps back, surprised. Her voice is accusing. “Where are you going?”

I point across the hall to the bathroom.

“Oh.” She’s holding a pile consisting of a sheet, a blanket, and a pillow, which she shoves into my arm like it’s a hot potato. “Here.”

I look at her. Her bronze hair is up in a ponytail and she’s wearing a ratty t-shirt that barely reaches her upper thighs, revealing those phenomenally long, milky-colored legs whose memory I used to jerk off to on a nightly basis. I lean forward and inspect the faded, cracked decal on the front, and shake my head. “Philadelphia Eagles? Seriously?”

She looks down and bats her eyelashes. “Oh, how did that get there? I just pulled any old t-shirt out.”

Sure, she did. “Feel free to take it off,” I say with a wink.

She lets out a huff of air. “Fuck off.”

“You naked under there?”

Now she’s looking at me like I have a screw loose. Naked Genevieve has been the source of too many of my wet dreams, but Naked and Riled Up Genevieve is enough to make me hard for days. She and I had made out enough to get me hard, about a thousand times. I fidget, standing there, just thinking of the blue balls she’d give me, at least twice a week. She is not skin and bones, more like soft, pale sweetness. Up until our last night together, I’d only ever felt it under her sweatshirts. But our last night, before prom, before she’d broken up with me and I’d left for California? She’d taken off her shirt.

I’d never seen two more perfect tits in all my life. All pale, even her nipples were the color of rose petals. Her skin was the color of cream. She was like the front of a dimestore romance novel, entirely lickable. I’d fumbled in my shock, flicking my fingers over the nipples, cupping my hands over them, feeling the weight, until she blushed and pulled her bra back on. It’d had some pretty tense moments on the field, but that? That had, hands down, been my most intense five minutes of high school.

Just thinking of it, and seeing her here with her bare legs, my cock starts to swell. I haven’t been a virgin since . . . hell. When? About twelve minutes after she dumped me at my senior prom? But that doesn’t matter. My cock is jumping like it wants to pick up right where Genevieve and I left off. I fucking feel like a virgin again.

I wink at her. “Let me guess. Fuck off?”

“Yes,” she says, as I stride back to the couch. I throw the stuff down and when I look back at her, she averts her eyes from me. “You can—um.” She stops, takes a breath. Points behind her. “Bathroom is that door. Feel free.”

“I know.”

I realize her cheeks are flushed. She’s breathing hard, obviously struggling not to lower her eyes to my bare chest. She clearly doesn’t want to let on that she likes what she sees.

Fucking Genevieve. Angry, and innocent, and fucking beautiful.

Before I can thank her, she retreats to her room and slams the door again.

I pull off my boot, and my jeans, then lie out in just my boxer briefs on the sheets she’s given me. They smell like her, of her no-nonsense soap and detergent.

As tired as I am, I don’t sleep. I lie in bed watching lights from cars on Main Street slashing through the blinds, onto the ceiling, and thinking of the doctors in Philly. In another few weeks, I’ll have the surgery, and I’ll be back on the field, a month after that, with time to get into the playoffs, if they make it that far without me.

On my way back home to Pittsburgh, I saw the sign for Bradys Bend. And without thinking, I turned off and headed this way.

Truth is, I’d always hated this town. We’d always talked about running away. But I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I was actually here.

Maybe, home isn’t a place but a person. Maybe, deep down, I’d wanted to see Genevieve.

Genevieve. Goddamn, being with her was the sweetest, worst brand of torture there ever was. She could be the total spoiled little snot, with the worst temper, and yet I kept coming back for more. I think of the last time we were together, at prom, when we’d fought so hard that she punched me, nearly knocking out my teeth. She’d told me she was going to be happy that I was going to be all the way across the country at UCLA, because she had her senior year and getting into UPenn to worry about, and didn’t need me as a “distraction”.

But that first year, away from her? It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I’d been miserable, all alone, across the country from everyone and everything I’d ever known. I knew that if I could just hear her voice, she’d make it better, even if all she did was yell bloody murder at me. I’d thought about breaking down and calling her every day, that first semester. I met other girls, went out with other girls, fucked other girls, even considered some my girlfriends. But I’d never wanted any girl as much as I’d wanted her, before or since.

Gradually, though, I let football fill her place.

But the way I’m feeling now? It’s clear it never fully did. That she never really left me.

And now, she’s right in the next room over. Probably cursing my name. And maybe she really doesn’t give a shit about me.

I think about tearing open that door and telling her how much I’d thought about her. What would she say?

I bet her answer would be another one of her famous right hooks. Damn, that girl can throw a punch.

So instead, I just lie on my back, restless, until an image floats into my mind. Genevieve, straddling Magee, naked, grinding into him. I cringe at the thought. I’ve texted with Magee a few times in the past few years, and he’d always had a thing for Genevieve. Would he have mentioned if he was banging my ex-girlfriend? Probably not.

Shit.

I can’t take anymore. I switch on the light over me and creep around the room, looking at every one of her pictures, from the time she was a baby, until her graduation from high school. Funny, there are no new ones, as if her life ended after she said goodbye to Union.

I limp over to the bookcase, reading some of the titles again. Le Fleurs du Mal. La Vie Suspendue. Shit, just looking at these titles should be enough to put me in a coma. There are a few college textbooks there, too. I catch sight of a paper sticking out from the pages of Elements of Modern Journalism, and pull it out, remembering what she’d said about not doing well in the class.

The paper is an article, with the title, Home is where your family is.

I read the first paragraph, and realize it’s all about how she missed her life at Bradys Bend. It’s damn good. One thing about Genevieve is that as good as she was at algebra, she was a thousand times better at writing. She mentions her parents, and how they were her roots, but it’s honest, and funny, and classic Genevieve. I laugh at some of her observations, because she’d had some of the same ones, living alone, far across the state of Pennsylvania, as I’d had that first semester, living across the country.

Then I scan to the bottom and frown. The asshole professor gave her a C. On the bottom, he’d written. To truly captivate your reader, you must dig deeper.

Fighting the urge to seek out the professor and shove the whole damn paper down his needle throat with my fist, I put the paper back inside the pages of the book and limp back to the couch. I’ve never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but as I lie back, I wonder how stupid Genevieve could be, to let one asshole’s opinion derail her future. Even if she had to come back home for her father, it didn’t mean she had to shut all her dreams down. There’s community college, and online courses she could take. Shit. Something. I lie there, thinking about it, until the sky begins to lighten. When I check my phone, it’s nearly six.

I get up and wash my face in the bathroom, then put on my clothes from yesterday and, yawning and wiping my unshaven jaw, start to make breakfast. As expected, Genevieve keeps quite the stocked pantry, all organized and perfect. Alphabetized, for fuck’s sake. I make eggs and bacon, with wheat toast. As I’m scraping the pan, she pokes her head out from the hallway. Her face is blank.

“Hey,” I say to her. “You awake?”

She gives me a look and crosses her arms. “How could I not be? You moving pans around in the kitchen was a noise loud enough to wake the dead. I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Anyone ever tell you what a ray of sunshine you are in the morning?” I say, unfazed by the scowl she’s giving me. I point at the pan. “Want some?”

She lets out a sigh. Her voice is glum. “I guess. Since it’s mine. But then you’ve got to leave.”

“As you wish,” I say with a smirk.

She steps into the kitchen so that I can see her. She’s wearing a giant robe and fuzzy slippers, like an old lady. Through the slit in the robe, I can see she’s still wearing the same Philadelphia Eagles shirt. Genevieve was never one to put on airs, especially for me. The only time I ever saw her in make-up was during my senior prom, and she’d worn Chuck Taylors with her gown. She reaches into a cabinet and brings down plates. When she slides them onto the table, she pulls out a chair and slumps into it, like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“You have a coffee maker?” I ask her, spooning some eggs onto her plate.

She picks up a fork and pokes at them like they’re poisoned. “I don’t drink coffee,” she mutters, not looking up.

“You don’t drink coffee?” I ask, stunned.

“Yeah. It tastes gross,” she says like she’s twelve. “If you absolutely must have your caffeine fix, go to Sheetz. I, however, have no vices.”

I snort. “No vices, huh? Is that what caffeine is?”

She nods. “There’s OJ in the fridge. That’s enough for me.”

I get it and pour us each a glass. When I sit across from her and start to dig in, I can feel her watching me. Finally, she says, “I’m surprised you still know how to cook. I thought you probably have a maid to do that for you, now.”

I swallow the eggs down with a gulp of OJ. “I have a maid, yeah. But she doesn’t cook for me. I like to cook for myself.”

She narrows her eyes. “She lives with you? So she services you in other ways, too?”

I suck on my teeth. “No, in fact, she’s only in three days a week. Helen is sixty, and a grandmother.”

She shrugs, and in the cold, bitchy voice that is total Genevieve, says, “I didn’t really think you’d let that deter you.”

I finish shoveling my eggs into my mouth and drop the fork on the plate. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Obviously you have a lot of women after you,” she says, her voice casual. “And from what I’ve seen lately, you’re not exactly discriminating.”

I knew it. So that’s what this is about. The girl who was blowing me in the parking lot, the girls I was hanging out with at the Roll-A-Rama, who were just random girls who’d graduated from Union High a couple of years ago. They were fans who’d hooked onto me, and I was too nice to tell them to get lost. Genevieve is never going to let me live these things down, so I shouldn’t even try. “You jealous?”

She rolls her eyes. “Disgusted, is more like it. I mean, why bring three porn stars to the National Porn Awards? One wasn’t enough?”

I exhale. So she’d heard about that. Of course, the whole world probably heard about that. “It wasn’t three porn stars,” I say meekly. It was two and a model. “And those awards are actually a big honor. It sounds sleazy, but it can be an art.”

She just glares at me.

Fuck me for thinking that I could actually justify porn as art. To Genevieve, of all people.

“And they were friends and insisted on going together. I was just their arm candy.”

Her expression doesn’t soften. “Did you partake of their services afterwards, too?”

I can’t answer that. She wouldn’t like the answer, anyway. It had been a wild night, and things had gotten out of hand. I remember thinking that it was the best night of my life, at the time. But afterwards? I felt empty, and shitty, which was why I’d kept away from that circuit, since then. I’d wanted to get as far away from Bradys Bend as possible, but not that far. Things moved way too fast for me, there. Afterwards, I’d gone to church every day for a month.

The pause I take is too long. Disappointment clouds her face. “And now you’re dating Ella whats-her-face. Didn’t she show all her assets off in Penthouse?”

For someone who doesn’t give a shit where I’m concerned, she sure has been paying a lot of attention to the tabloid stories about me. “First of all,” I say, trying to swerve the conversation away from the ugly direction it’s heading in. “Who the hell uses the word ‘partake’ in normal conversation?”

She just shakes her head. My attempt to sway the conversation has totally failed, because she says, “I don’t know. I thought you were better than that.”

“And I thought you were better than Chuck Magee.”

“He’s top shelf, compared to someone who does it on camera, for all the world to see.”

I throw up my hands. “Guess you’re right. I’m not very discriminating,” I tell her, taking another sip of my OJ. “I mean, I dated you.”

I see her fist clench around her fork. “You’re an asshole, Silas St. Clair.”

I nod. “So I’ve heard.” Then I smile. “But this is something new. Usually I hear that after I’ve fucked them. But you always were the smart one.”

She drops her fork. “You’re so disgusting, I don’t even want you in my kitchen anymore.”

I give her a mock hurt look. “After I made you breakfast?”

She looks away. Her voice is calm and controlled. “Get out, Silas.”

“You won’t even—”

I’m silenced by her throwing her fork so hard that it clatters against the cabinets, landing on the floor and skittering across the linoleum. “GET OUT!”

I guess I shouldn’t push my luck. She could’ve thrown it at my face. I push my chair out from the table, stand, and grab my sweatshirt. She stands, too, taking her full plate and tossing it into the sink, its contents uneaten. I make like I’m going to leave, but in a split second, I’m overtaken by that insane need that only Genevieve could spark in me.

I grab her, bringing her to me, and kiss her mouth, hard, forcing my tongue between those lips that are turned down in hate for me. My chest rubs up against those tits, those fucking glorious tits, and I can feel the sunshine-like warmth radiating from her. She struggles against me, pushing me away, and I think it’s because I know she can hold her own that makes it more exciting. I’ve only just started to explore when the sting of a slap snaps me back to reality.

Then, to top it all off, she brings her knee between my legs and with one upward motion, I’m doubled over, gasping in pain. Starbursts cloud my vision as the pain shoots right through my balls.

“Really?” she says, looking at me as I fall to the floor. “You are so gross, Silas. Believe it or not, you can’t just take whatever you want in this world.”

I stay there, in fetal position, letting the ache subside, and laughing to myself. It was worth it. “Just had to do it, for old time’s sake. You know you want me, still.”

“I know I want you to leave. You’re not the person you used to be,” she says, pacing the room. “And that means, you don’t get me.”

I sit up, putting my hands on my knees. “Oh, so I’m a disappointment to you? What, you expected me to stay a virgin, is that it? When you’re the one who threw me away and said I would only distract you?”

“I didn’t throw you away,” she mutters. “I told you. Long distance relationships never work.”

I shake my head. “You’re not the person you used to be, either, Genevieve. Look around you. The Genevieve I knew wouldn’t have been satisfied with this as her life. She would have fought for her dreams, instead of hiding because of what one asshole professor thought. You could’ve been so much more.”

“Well, I have news for you, Mr. Football. Your opinion means nothing to me anymore.” She raises her upper lip in a snarl.

“It doesn’t?” I shoot back at her. “That’s not true. You can’t tell me you don’t still care about me. If you didn’t, you would’ve let me sleep out on the street last night.”

She whirls to face me, and I wait for her to deny it. But she doesn’t.

“Why did you come back here, Silas? This is my home. Not yours, anymore.” She looks out the window, at the empty alley, and points. “Your life is out there. Out, far away from here.”

I stare at her for the longest time. When I left Bradys Bend, I had it in my head that Genevieve Wilson was too good for me. Every game I won, I thought of as a step toward deserving her. As quarterback of the Steelers, I almost felt worthy.

But now, it’s clearly not enough. I thought I’d grown. I thought I’d learned a thing or two. But she’s just as fucking baffling to me now, as she was then. The lack of control is infuriating. What the fuck do I have to say or do to make her want me?

I stalk to the couch, grab my sweatshirt, and without another glance in her direction, throw open the door and make my way down the steps.