The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I hear the door slam to our dorm room. My eyes dart to the corner of my laptop screen. It's still too early for the athletes to be back, so I rip my ear bud out of my ear.

     "Hey! I promise I'm not a sad hoe today!" I call only to hear the bathroom door slam shut in response. I slump back down against my pillows as my fingers slide back around my computer mouse. I swirl the cursor on my screen around the semi-transparent play button resting in the center, blocking the paused blurry face of the actor. I go to hit play when I hear the sounds of a flush and running water, but then sit up again when I hear the door open back up. "Do you have any laundry? I didn't realize I already packed most of pajamas."

     Taryne doesn't look up as she enters the room, rather all I see is the slope of her braids cascading out of her side part. "Pulled out my ass," she mumbles. "F*cking piece of sh*t."

     I pull out my other ear bud as I slowly sit up further, pushing my laptop lower on my legs, but flinch when she slams the top drawer of the wooden dresser closed, most likely remembering that she packed it yesterday.

     She moves on to the wooden desk between our beds, rummaging through the two little drawers on the right side, before slamming them closed. She goes back over to her bed, retrieving her phone and backpack purse from where she tossed them, before turning around. Her posture straightens and her chest expands as she slowly inhales a breath through her nose. I expect her to clap her hands together, tilt her chin up, puff out her chest, and say, "ready to go beat a b*tch?" Instead, my lips part just as her eyes finally lock with mine.

     "Come with me?"

     I close my laptop with a nod.

****

Silence followed us out of our dorm, as we waited at the bus stop, and as we sat down on the bus. I didn't ask any questions because I didn't need to ask any questions. That's how we work. No questions asked. No if, ands, or buts.

     But they continue to flood my mind because Taryne stays silent. Even as the bus hits a pothole and sways us both from side to side. She'd usually make a joke about the need to hold on to "the girls" on her chest, or that this is exactly why "they invented sports bras," or "the driver must've caught a show in the review," but instead she remains quiet as her knee bounces every so often. It's only a subtle movement. More subtle than the music blasting out of the ear buds of the guy sitting in front of us. More subtle than the quiet chatter and giggles of the girls sitting in the very back of the bus. But it's still there.

     I pass another quick glance at her face. She washed off all her makeup, leaving her naturally nude colored lips bare as she digs her teeth into them. Her eyes dart up, but I cast my gaze back out the window, focusing on the few scattered lights poking out of the buildings that are still open and the red glow reflecting off the streetlights.

     Taryne follows me off the bus, but I follow her down the sidewalk. Our silence carries us along, while the night carries on around us with car engines, restaurant chatter, and curbside giggles in and out of shops.

     When the automatic doors to the twenty-four hour pharmacy slide open, I almost let myself think about the last time I was here—almost—but I stop myself because the last thing I need are more questions.

     We head towards the left, past the aisles filled with greeting cards, chocolate, stationary supplies, and batteries. My stomach dips a little the second we pass the aisle containing tampons and pads, which is even sillier than the fact that I actually hoped we were here for just one teeny little pad.

     We turn down an aisle with a bunch of different hanging, swaying boxes of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Some boxes are plain white or blue and straight to the point, saying stuff about being extra-large and lubed. Other boxes get pinker and talk about different ways to say positive and negative, but my shoulders finally relax a little when we end up stopping in front of the ones that talk about my choices and plan Bs.

     Taryne's shoulders also droop as she sighs, but she gives the shelving an affirmative nod and a shrug. "I'm a piece of sh*t."

     I reach out and whack her arm before crossing my arms back over my sweatshirt covered chest. Her eyes dance over the boxes before she grabs one, but I dart my arm out again before she can start walking.

     I always forget just how light her eyebrows and eyelashes are naturally. Especially when the bags under her eyes are sometimes so dark. Everything she usually hides behind sarcasm and laugh lines all sits there in the dark purpling pigment of her skin.

     "He's the piece of sh*t."

     She holds my gaze for an extra second before tucking a braid behind her ear with a nod. "I know."

     I finally step aside again to let her walk first. Her black sliders scrape and scuff over the white linoleum floors, following the diagonal pattern of blue boxes littered every few steps.

     I wish I could say I didn't care about the girl standing at the checkout counter, especially because she looks like she's our age. She could be a younger Professor Berkley with her cinnamon skin, long dark hair, and black square glasses. She only has a little silver stud in her nose, and maybe even some dark purple highlights in her straightened hair, that under the neon strobing night club lights, I'd feel bold enough to compliment. But the only reason I'm really here, as in standing here, as in no questions asked, no questions needed, here, is because we are under the blinding scrutiny of long white strip lights and a black countertop sits between us.

     The girl tosses the box over in her hand to swipe it across the scanner before placing it back down between us. It's not even my box, and yet I feel like the corners of it are cutting the insides of my own stomach. I wish someone would come over and punch me in the stomach because it's not even mine, so I shouldn't care. It's not even a big deal, they make it for a reason, for this very reason, and yet I do care about the fact that the girls eyes quickly scanned across the box the same way the box moved across the scanner, and she probably didn't even read it, or maybe she did, or she probably read it and she didn't even care, or maybe she did.

     "It's just ten sixty-six." Her eyes zero in on Taryne as she digs around her backpack for her wallet.

     She does care.

     She pushes down on the register and the money drawer churns open as she grabs Taryne her change. Her eyes dart over to me as she tears off the paper receipt, and she seems to nod. It's subtle. Not enough, as if she was responding to a question, but rather a quick tip of her chin that maybe, just maybe, means she doesn't care. At the very least, maybe, just maybe, she even understands.

     "Have a good night," she chirps.

     "You too." Taryne grabs her box, and I allow my lips to curve the slightest bit in the cashier's general direction before following Taryne back towards the front of the store.

     She makes a left down the makeup aisle, stopping near the lipsticks. She yanks a water bottle out of her bag before letting it drop at her feet. She cradles the bottle in her arm as she cracks open the box, while I lean in towards the shelf and read some of the lip gloss shades. Bare attraction. Statement nude. Blushing ambition. The model in the picture must be wearing forbidden kiss.

     The plastic crackles between Taryne's fingers as she guzzles down the water. If we were under neon strobing night club lights, someone would be bound to start shouting, "chug, chug, chug." Instead, all we have is the faint chime of an old pop song cheering us on through crackling speakers.

     The water bottle cracks some more as it shrinks down in her hand before she finally straightens her head and pulls it away from her lips, exhaling through her nose.

     "Now that that's over with," she chirps as she twists the cap back on. She shoves the empty bottle back in her bag, to recycle like the environmental major she is, before zipping the bag back up and swinging it up to her chest. "Are you going to go fix things with that boy, or should I?"

     I continue to tug at my upper lip with my thumbnail as my mind reminds me of the aisle of fake flowers, somewhere between the chocolate and the greeting cards, while all my questions come flooding back.