Page 92 of Lovefool

Tamara’s conviction rains down on me with no break in sight. A minute muscle twitch under her eye, a purse of her bright-red lips.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

A growl crawls up my throat, and I have to clench my fists to refrain from hitting something. All the while, Tamara’s self-righteous equanimity keeps poking at my sanity, waiting for me to lose my cool. Like a child’s incessant finger inciting a dog’s vicious bite.

Hurting Buford would hurt Sutton, and I’d never do anything to hurt the love of my life. Ever.

But if someone else was in my position, I’d tell them to be honest—to defend what is right. I’m directly contradicting my own beliefs.

You’ve preached about doing the right thing ever since Audie died. You’ve continuously abided by the unspoken law to give a voice to the voiceless and shine a light on the duplicity that teems in the dark. Even if you don’t want to publish this article, you know you have to.

This story is going to get out. You can’t stop it. Are you going to be the one at the keyboard, or are you going to play dumb and pretend like you had no idea this was coming?

This isn’t my fault.

No? You should’ve spoken to Sutton about it before it unraveled into something you couldn’t control. You should’ve taken the appropriate steps to amend this whole situation in private. You’re just as much at fault as Buford.

That’s not true. I—I can fix this. I can make things right again.

If you’re going to be a coward, at least stand by your principles. It doesn’t matter what you do, Sutton will never forgive you.

And maybe he shouldn’t.

29

MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION

LAKE

I’ve spent the entire day drafting an article that sugarcoats as much of this team-destroying scandal as possible.

I don’t want to lose my job. I want to make a difference—that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Nobody cares about student mental health or the uptick in sexual harassment surrounding Greek life. People would prefer to stay ignorant than address the faults of our school.

I beat Sutton back to the hotel room. I can’t face him right now. I know I’ll eventually have to see him, but I’m trying to stop my world from its inevitable collapse with the misguided belief that I actually possess the power to.

I don’t hear him come in. The second I exit the adjoining bathroom after dry-heaving over the sink for the past ten minutes, I’m greeted by the sight of his six-foot-five figure situated near my open computer.

I take conspicuous stock of his body, picking up on his quiet contemplation like a hunting dog who just got wind of a bloody, metallic scent.

Disappointment instantly eclipses his face. “When were you going to tell me?” he asks, turning my laptop around to show me my nearly completed article.

Guilt stings like broken glass lodged in an arterial vein. “I was going to tell you. I…I just didn’t know how,” I blurt out before I can reassess my approach, perturbation racketing up the notches of my spine.

“You think Buford is colluding with sports bettors and throwing our games so he can make money?”

Fuck. Shit. I don’t want to do this. I just want to forget all about the stupid article, go to sleep wrapped in the arms of the boy I love, and then cheer him on at the next game and celebrate his win, even if he doesn’t bring home a physical trophy. I’m not here to play judge. I’m not here to balance the scales and confront the peculiarities of morality at ten in the evening.

I’ve always been prone to overthinking, but this may be the first time that my anxieties aren’t so far-fetched.

I inhale sharply, failing to ensure my tone is less defensive as it slips freely from between my teeth, unhindered. “I don’t ‘think.’ I know. I saw it happen in front of me. I watched a guy give Buford a wad of cash, so I looked him up online, and he’s a known sports bookie who was investigated for paying players to throw games.”

It takes a Sisyphean effort to stay completely still—to plant my heels into the floor and prevent myself from running away from yet another problem I’ve offloaded onto his shoulders.

The air in the room shifts. I’ve successfully polluted our sanctity with my accusation.

He pauses, his brows meeting. “Buford is an idiot, but he wouldn’t accept bribes. That would be fucking reckless. And illegal.”

With my patience on its last thread, I lose the possibility of any mature response, suddenly aware of the red-blooded desire inside of me that wants to start chaos. It’s a nasty habit to kick.