Loser || WlW

Thirty-Seven

   My phone rings from the heap of crumpled clothes on the floor.

I begin pulling at the jeans, trying to find the pocket with my phone until it falls to the floor.

"Ignore it," Grace says, kissing my neck.

"It's Brittany. She's supposed to be on a date." I flip the phone open.

"Are you –"

"It was bad, Jordan. It was so bad." She's crying.

My heart sinks. "I'm on my way," I tell her and hang up. Everything is a blur as I jump to my feet and grab the pile of clothes from the ground. I'm running through her apartment, pulling my pants on as Grace grabs my hand.

"Jordan, what's so important that you have to leave right now?" She's following me, a blanket pulled around her body.

"She didn't say." I slip my hand out of hers and walk toward the front door.

"Jordan, please." She follows me. "It's Brittany. She's fine. She can take care of herself."

I shake my head. "You don't know her like I do. She's not fine."

"Are you in love with her?" Her voice is sad, her eyes focused on the floor. She crosses her arms over her chest.

"What?" My eyes narrow at her. Is this some kind of pathetic attempt at trying to keep me here by shock value? "No, it's like lesbian rule number one. Never fall for the straight girl."

She forces a weak half-smile. "I'll see you around."

I nod once and sprint down the stairs before I run through the parking lot and toward the road. I'm not sure how I do it; I haven't taken a physical education class since my freshman year of high school but I run the whole way to Brittany's house.

My lungs burn as I wheeze in breath after breath. I knock on the door, almost collapsing as the muscles in my legs twitch a million miles an hour.

The door swings open, revealing Brittany, her eyes wide. "Did you run here?"

I nod, still unable to speak between breaths.

She grabs my arm and pulls me into the house. "You're dumb. I could have picked you up." She shakes her head. "Sit down, I'll get you water."

Bottles clink together as she pulls the fridge open. I fall into the cold leather couch.

Brittany is back in a second with a glass of water.

"You look different," I say before I chug half the glass.

She sits next to me and smiles. "I'm not wearing makeup."

My eyebrows pull together. I was so concerned with her well-being; I hadn't even noticed she's in pajamas. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun and her face is makeup-free. She still manages to look amazing in black shorts and a baggy gray pullover.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and ask, "What happened tonight?"

She plays with a loose strand of hair and closes her eyes for a moment. "You know how we were talking the other night and," she lets out a long breath, "you said I should just start over?"

I nod.

"I don't think it's possible in this stupid. Fucking. Town." She lets out a single, hopeless laugh. "I planned to go on a date with some guy I met on a dating app," she explains, "and when I pulled up to his house, he messaged me to come inside. He told me he was just putting his shoes on," she swallows, "but when I got to the door, it was that guy from the other night. The one you punched in the face and he..." She shakes her head.