Page 41 of The Do-Over Girl

“Don’t say that,” Nash says to the girl, then he looks at me with a smirk as if this is some big joke. “Let me take care of this, and I’ll make it up to you.”

“Take care of—”

“Tonight, he’s all mine, Kali,” she says, draping herself on him. She leans in and kisses him—on the lips. My stomach churns, and I want to throw up. He does nothing, doesn’t push her away.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Nash tells her, puts an arm tightly around her, and starts to leave.

“You’re leaving?” My voice bites with shock and disappointment. Frustration and humiliation combine to make me angry—mostly at this girl and at Nash for letting her kiss him—right in front of me, in front of everyone.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Kali.” His voice bites back at me, and I feel like I’m bleeding.

The crowd murmurs, and it seems like everyone at the dance, almost a hundred people, the entire senior class, watches. Nash takes the girl and turns, and they start walking. She laughs and whispers something in his ear.

“Don’t leave me here, Nash.”

He turns back to me. “I promised Archie I’d take care of her. You can walk home from here. You’re only a couple of blocks away—”

There’s another collective intake of breath from the crowd, and my face heats up. I try to whisper. “Are you telling me to walk home because taking care of Archie’s drunk girlfriend is more important? And who knows what the hell she has in mind?”

She laughs. “You know what I have in mind, Kali.”

Nash ignores the girl and doesn’t correct or shush her or say a word to her as he stares at me.

“Are you accusing me of something, Kali?” His words are quiet and dangerous, and I gulp.

The place is pin-drop quiet, and all eyes are on me; every person in the room, including teachers and other chaperones, is listening.

What the hell? I’ve done nothing wrong, and he’s deserting me on this special night for this girl who’s made it clear she wants more than a ride from him.

“If the shoe fits.” My voice is firm, and I stare back at him.

I challenge him to tell me otherwise; I need him to tell me otherwise. We’ll be apart in a few weeks. He’ll be off playing college hockey, and who knows how many other girls will want to do a lot more than kiss him.

His face tightens, and I can see his veins pop. His jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark with anger and hurt. But I’m the one who’s hurt. He’s the one leaving me here.

“This was supposed to be our night, Nash.” My voice is quiet, almost pleading. He says nothing. He just stares at me like I’ve done something wrong. But I’m the innocent one here, the one who’s being wronged.

The crowd starts murmuring again, and I hear the indignance, the accusation. The girl Nash has his arm wrapped around hiccups and aims a triumphant smile at me.

I break. What comes out next comes from a place of anger, hurt, and humiliation, but I swear I’d do it again. I was justified.

“If you leave with her, Nash…” I collect my breath, my heart pounding, my tummy jittery with nerves and nausea. Then I say the words I can’t stop. “We’re done.”

His eyes flash, and I see the shock and pain as the sound of my words seems to echo in the hushed gym, bouncing off the tall ceiling and moving the glittery streamers hanging from the rafters. I watch his face, not even breathing, frozen, and see the shuttering of his emotions, his expression changing to his infamous icy game face.

Excited murmurs rise from the crowd around us like they’re watching a drama on a stage like there aren’t real human beings with emotional lives at stake.

He stares at me like that, cold and determined, with no cracks in his resolution, no hint of apology or remorse, for one, two, then three stuttering beats of my heart.

In a voice that reverberates with finality, he says, “You can’t tell me what to do. You don’t own me.” Then he turns, grips the girl’s arm like he owns her, and stalks away, half dragging her with him as she stumbles drunkenly. Without ever looking back.

He’s gone before I blink, and the room erupts around me like applause at the end of a performance.

Hands clutch at me, condolences are murmured, and accusations are thrown, but it’s all an incoherent jumble as I turn and run for the exit on the other side of the gym. It leads to the front door, and I run in my party dress and heels all the way home, not caring about anything, feeling nothing except dead inside.

Now

It didn’t occurred to me until later, when I reached NYU and he didn’t answer my call, that Nash was afraid of our plans that night, afraid of commitment, maybe afraid of an accidental pregnancy tying him to me and holding him back from his dreams.