Page 45 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

My frustration and embarrassment boil over, so I grab hold of my towel and shower caddy, clutching them to my chest while I rush to the shower to erase the scarlet letter I’m embodying. When my hair finally resembles normal again and the burning mortification has stopped climbing up my neck, I wrap my body in my towel and carry my things, wrapped in Logan’s sweatshirt, back to my room. I set everything on the bed before looking Claire in the eyes, but eventually turn and take a seat on the edge, ready for my judgement day. Surprisingly, she doesn’t seem to be on pins and needles waiting for gossip. She’s back to her laptop, some murder mystery playing that I don’t recognize.

“You feel better?” She doesn’t look up from her screen when she asks.

“Yes,” I say, but then quickly reverse. “No.”

She exhales with enough force to drop her shoulders a few inches then shuts her laptop screen and pushes it to the side. Scooting to the edge of her bed, she folds her hands in her lap before blowing up at her grown-out bangs that skirt her eyes.

“You like him,” she says.

I shrug.

“I don’t know.” I’m lying, protecting what I’m afraid of, holding things close.

Claire scoots off her bed and climbs up on mine. She unfurls his sweatshirt, moving my hair care bottles and day-old clothes to the side so she can hold it up and read the back.

FORD – 34

“Rachel, this might as well be a letterman jacket,” she says, tossing it to my lap. I catch it against my body and stave off the temptation to bring it up to my nose and breathe in Logan’s scent.

“You can talk to me, you know. I’m not Stella. I am not going to drive a wedge between you and Logan or steal him away from you. Really? I just want to be your friend. Your real friend.”

My face tingles with an anxious rush to my bloodstream and I do my best to smile.

“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, so I give in to holding his hoodie close, burying my face in it for a few seconds so I can choke back my emotions. I miss Stella, yet I don’t miss Stella. I guess I never mourned the end of our friendship, and I’ve been in denial over the hole it left behind.

“You like him,” Claire says, pulling me out from hiding. I peek around his sweatshirt and find her encouraging expression, so I drop the hoodie back to my lap and bite my lip.

“I really like him,” I admit.

A giddy grin spreads from cheek to cheek on Claire’s face, and my body rushes with tingles. It’s as if a weight cleared my shoulders simply by saying it out loud, and also, a parade kicked off inside my chest.

“And the sex must be good,” Claire adds, which pops my eyes wide. Instead of being embarrassed though, I give in and embrace having a girlfriend again.

“Sooooo good,” I add, moving the hoodie back to my face to muffle my delighted scream. Claire grabs my heart pillow from the corner of my bed and muffles her own reaction, I think mostly to make me feel at ease.

I tell her the rated PG parts, about him showing up dressed in a suit, and how he looked in the suit. I mention the gallery, and how special it felt, how he read into the works of art and showed this emotional side I never knew he had. And then, without divulging Logan’s insecurities, I walked her through what happened at the dinner, and how snobby everyone was. It’s Logan’s story to talk about how he felt. I would never put words in his mouth or speak on his behalf unless he wanted me to. But I sense from Claire’s heavy expression that she has some idea of how the evening may have made Logan feel out of place.

When I get to him carrying me up the stairs, I stop at the door closing, insinuating just enough for her cheeks to turn cherry red. The rest, I save for me.

“So, are we going to his game, then?” she asks.

I slip into a pair of leggings and a sports bra, my body sore from our long and very active night. I can still feel his touch when I close my eyes. And the ache between my legs is a sweet reminder of what it was like to feel so close to him, to be connected.

“I was planning on going. He won’t play today, but I thought the support would still be nice. Plus, I miss football.” I slip his hoodie back on, hugging myself with the oversized sleeves. I towel my hair dry a little more, then braid it to one side.

“Can I come?”

I twist around mid-braid, surprised she would be interested. Then again, why wouldn’t she? Claire isn’t me. She’s far more social. I’m not one-hundred-percent certain, but I think she even sits on a committee for live-action reenactment play. I’ve seen her cardboard sword in our closet.

“That would be awesome,” I say, finishing up my braid.

Claire slips on a dark blue Tiff Science Department sweatshirt that reads BIO BITCH across the front, and we both put beanies on since the clouds are out today in full force. I offer to drive, but Claire insists we make the seven-block walk to the stadium as a tradeoff for beer and a bratwurst. It sounds like a good idea until we’re about four blocks in and the wind picks up. I wish Logan would drive by and see me, but even though he’s not playing, I’m sure he’s already on the field.

We make it to the basketball arena, the gathering spot for students and fans to make the march to the stadium. I wait on the concourse while Claire stands in line to buy us two water bottles, the marching band kicking off the tailgate walk into the stadium from the arena floor. The cheerleaders all kicking their legs to their foreheads, poms shimmering as alumni and season ticket holders clap along with the fight song. Huge cardboard letters spell out TIFF TUFF.

“You thinking about joining the squad?” Claire nudges my elbow with the water bottle. I take it from her and chuckle.

“Do you think they have a position for someone who trips on stairs and whose splits make it clear to a forty-five-degree angle?” We both stare at the arena floor where six girls are all perfectly straight in their splits, arms over their heads as if it’s nothing.

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