There wasn’t a fight.”
“But Megan said that she heard—”
“I didn’t get in a fight, Deanne. Okay?” He feels her nod against his neck. “Corson came at me. He was drunk and yelling, but I didn’t do anything.”
Her voice is quiet. “Megan said that it’s going around that you called him . . .” He’s holding her, but her body is stiff now. Fight or flight. “Did you call him the N-word?”
“Jesus, Deanne. No.” Corson standing in front of him, shaking his finger, just say it. The word on the tip of Jessup’s tongue. “I don’t use that word. You know that. You know me.”
“Because if you—”
“Deanne.” He’s pleading. “Please. Come on. I didn’t do anything. Corson was drunk. He came at me because of my brother and my stepdad, okay? It’s not like it’s some secret what happened, my family history. Everybody thinks they know the story.” Good God, his voice is shaking, his jaw trembling, too. Why can’t it just be the two of them alone in this room, the world around them something imagined, a construct of their imagination, no past shackled to his ankle, his life unfettered, the chance for him to hold Deanne like this, hold her tight like nothing could ever be wrong, just him holding her, this girl he has fallen for?
“He was drunk, and he was yelling about my brother and my stepdad, and he was the one saying it, the N-word, accusing me of wanting to call him that. I mean, after the game last night, in the parking lot, he came up to me and said it was a dirty hit before halftime.”
She sniffs. “That was a clean hit. He was behind the line of scrimmage and you got there at the same time as the ball anyway.”
He tries to laugh. It comes out choked. “Coach’s daughter, huh? He said it was a bullshit play, and then he kicked out my taillight.”
She pulls back, looking up at him. Angry, but angry for him, not at him. “What? Really?”
Jessup shrugs. “Yeah. I was even pulled over on the way to the party. Got lucky and only ended up with a written warning. Actually,” he says, realizing he can’t tell her the real reason why he needs a ride, “I’m not supposed to drive it until I can get the taillight fixed. My mom wouldn’t let me take it to work. Any chance you can give me a ride home tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“It’s nothing. But what happened?”
“At the party? Look, he was drunk. Had a bug up his ass. Said a bunch of crap, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t want any trouble. And then he and his friends left, and he was drunk, and he had an accident. Whatever you’re hearing, you’ve got to trust me. I didn’t say anything. It’s not my fault Corson killed himself. It’s not fair. I just . . .”
He’s lying to her. But he can’t tell her the truth. Not if he wants her to stay with him.
They are standing there, in the middle of this bleak room, crappy tiles and a wall full of small employee lockers, old movie posters covering every available surface, a ratty couch. But it’s just them, and she’s looking at him, listening, facing him, both of her hands in both of his, close enough that all he has to do is lean forward a few inches to kiss her. Her eyes are welled up with tears, and he knows his are the same.
“I’m sorry, Deanne. I can’t do anything about my family. It is what it is. I’m not my stepfather, I’m not my brother, but they’re part of my life, and that’s going to follow me around.”
She lets go of one of his hands, wipes her eyes. Takes a deep, shuddering breath, reaches out and touches her thumb to his lips. “You know, Jessup, for a seventeen-year-old boy, you’re not so dumb.”
“Thanks?” He has a crooked smile on his face and he does lean forward a few inches now. Their noses touch, their lips gentle, the air between them disappearing. They are like that for a few seconds before they hear the door opening.