Page 22 of Overtime

“Are you gonna give me what you owe me or not?”

I’m not sure, but I think my eyeballs just popped out of their sockets. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, I heard you. I just can’t believe you said it.”

“What is this, huh? Why are you stringing me along like this?”

My rage is replaced with a blanket of guilt. Stringing him along was the absolute last thing I intended.

“I’m sorry. I never meant for you to feel that way. I thought we were just having fun. I mean, do you really want to get serious with me? Come on.”

My attempt at placating him falls embarrassingly flat even to my own ears. It’s amazing—the lies we tell ourselves to justify our bad behavior. Hearing my own rationalization out loud is a definite wake-up call that the ends, in this case, absolutely do not justify the means.

“You know what? No. I didn’t want to get serious with you, but it felt like that’s what you needed to give it up to me, and I was trying to be a nice guy about it.”

And…right back to rage. “Is that all I was ever worth to you? An easy lay? Am I the basketball team’s bet? The football team had so much success in the fall trying to see who could lay their chosen target first, so you guys figured you’d do a replay? What do you win if you fuck me, Eddie? If I announce to everyone at school on Monday that we’re not dating anymore, is another player gonna try to shoot and score in your place?”

“No!”

That’s the only denial he gives, which doesn’t make me feel a whole lot of confidence this isn’t a replay of the football team’s fall project. We geeky girls who don’t fawn all over the jocks are nothing more than a dare to them. Prizes to be won and deflowered in the name of sowing their wild oats and making themselves feel like no female can resist them. Just the thought of potentially being used for that game fires up an unholy level of righteous indignation in my veins.

The silence between us stretches on in the night. Snow flurries dance outside the warm cab of the truck, creating a dichotomous peacefulness outside while tension brews between us. It’s strangely poetic.

“Eva, I’m sorry.” He reaches for me and, because there’s nowhere to escape from him in his truck, pulls me against his side.

I dart my gaze in every direction but at his crotch, which is way too close for my comfort.

“Let’s just start over?”

Nope. Game over. I cannot hear one more single question that isn’t really, endure one more night of making out with him while thinking of someone else, or put down one more attempt to have sex. I can’t do it. The fluctuations between guilt and annoyance are simply too exhausting.

“I don’t think so. Can you please just take me home?”

“Aww, come on, baby. Don’t be that way. Think of it as our first fight. Now, we get to have make-up sex.” He grabs my jaw, pulls my face to his, and slobbers all over my mouth.

I shove him and scramble away as quickly as possible. My options are limited, but my choice is clear. I open the passenger door, then climb out of the truck, fumbling in my purse for my cell.

“What the hell, Eva? Get back in the truck?” Eddie tears around the front of the hood and stops just inches away from where I’m shivering in the biting winter wind.

“No. Go home. I’ll get my own ride.” I’m too busy scrolling through my contacts and deciding who to call for rescue to pay attention to what Eddie’s up to.

He grips my arm to the point of pain as he drags me back toward the royal-blue Chevy Silverado.

Panic is a healthy emotion, contrary to popular belief. As long as it doesn’t overwhelm, a person can channel that terror into action. Most of the time in a fight-or-flight situation, people allow fear to consume them to the point of paralysis. After years of group-therapy sessions for abused kids and some personal training from Mike, I’m practically a pro at replacing terror with fury. Survival of the fittest—adapt or face extinction.

Eddie turns to me as he hauls me toward that metal sex trap. “Baby, get back inside. Let’s just talk it—”

He doesn’t get another word out. My fist makes contact with his left eye socket.

The vibration of impact sends pain skittering up my forearm and into my elbow. Mike always says that’s how you know you’ve landed a solid blow to your opponent.

Sure enough, Eddie sinks to his knees, clutching his face. “What the fuck, Eva?”

“No means no, Hinton. I’m not having sex with you. I asked you to take me home. You didn’t give me any other choice.”

Seconds ago, I was completely sure of my actions. Totally convinced I was being threatened to the point of needing to protect myself. But, now, with Eddie rocking back and forth and pretty much crying on the ground, I feel like I might have overreacted. Second-guessing my actions seems to be my calling in life.

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