Page 40 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Promises made battle against personal wants.

Responsibility clashes against recklessness.

Selflessness is pitted against selfishness.

The doors slide shut, and I close my eyes then press L for lobby.

When the doors open, my composure is held together by a thread. I need to get out of here, need time and space to think. Blinded by emotions I can’t process just yet, I accidentally run straight into a young coed, knocking her binder to the ground. I scramble to help her pick up the papers that have fallen out, focusing on the words on the pages—teaching credential requirements and adult development something or other—because it’s so much easier than meeting her eyes. Embarrassed, frazzled, and moments away from crying, I mumble an apology to the polka-dotted sorority letters printed on the front of her sweatshirt.

“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sound sympathetic when all I feel is responsibility heavier than the weight of my world.

To my dad.

To the Aces.

To Easton.

And as I push open the doors to the street and suck in a huge breath of morning air, the first tear slips down my cheek.

I hate myself for it.

But I hate myself more when my phone vibrates in my purse. The panic I felt upstairs pales in comparison to how I feel when I look at the screen of my phone.

And in an instant, every reason I had for sneaking out and leaving Easton upstairs becomes validated.

The ring through my Bluetooth swallows the silence of my car. I startle at its sound, then cringe, because without even looking at it, I know who’s calling.

I ignore it.

He calls back.

I ignore it again.

He calls back again.

After three more rounds of ring, ignore, repeat, I’m more aware than ever that sneaking out was total chickenshit. And as much as I’d like to push ignore again, I can’t. I have to face him, I have to try and smooth this over without damaging our working relationship, so I bite the bullet and answer.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” Easton’s voice fills the line. Its confusion laced with disbelief mixed with anger and a touch of rejection.

“Good morning.” Keep it professional, Scout.

“It would have been an even better morning if you were still here. But you’re not. And I’m a little confused as to why.”

“Easton.” His name is a sigh. An olive branch. It’s anything to explain what verbally I can’t.

“Don’t ‘Easton’ me, Scout. Where are you? Because you sure as hell aren’t in my bed.”

My dad’s sick. Sally texted five times while I was lying in your bed, trying to tell me he was having a hard time breathing. Asking me if I could come home and visit with him, not only to brighten his mood, but to remind him why he needs to fight harder to get over the funk he’s in.

“I had some errands to run,” I lie.

I’d rather be with you, too. I’d rather have met you under different circumstances. That would have made all of this ten times easier.

“Errands? Wow. That’s a way to make a guy feel confident in his abilities. ‘Hey Easton, it was so great last night, but I’d rather go to the store to pick up some toilet paper than have sleepy morning sex with you,’” he says, but his attempt to sound like me does nothing to hide the irritation lacing its edges.

I glance over my shoulder then change lanes as I work up the courage to say the words I need to say but don’t really want to say. “Last night was a mistake,” I whisper as if I don’t want him to hear. Because I don’t.