Halfway Girl Read online

  Halfway Girl

  TESSA BAILEY

  Copyright © 2019 Tessa Bailey

  Kindle Edition

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Getaway Girl

  Chapter One

  Birdie

  College is exactly how I pictured it.

  I don’t know if that’s disappointing or a huge relief.

  I’m sitting on a ratty-ass couch in a frat house with a red solo cup wedged between my knees, scooting closer and closer to the torn arm as the couple making out beside me become connoisseurs of each other’s mouths. The scent of shit cologne and fruity body wash and Pabst Blue Ribbon is so strong, it’s a wonder no one has keeled over from it. Maybe I’ll be the first if the utter unoriginality of my surroundings doesn’t do me in.

  The song changes and Halsey’s voice rasps out from the portable speakers wedged in between empty cups and paper plates on the coffee table. I tip my head back and let it rest on the back of the couch, trying not to fantasize about the quiet haven of my dorm room. If I was there right now, I’d have my sketchpad on my lap, creating new stage looks for my beauty pageant coach sister-in-law Naomi. Maybe I’d be listening to The Moth podcast or studying for my Trig test next week. Whatever I decided to do, it would be for myself.

  This party? This whole scene. It’s for someone else entirely.

  A lot like me, Birdie Bristow, rushing a sorority. It wasn’t something I planned, but walking through the quad one day after class, I heard one of the sorority sisters on a bullhorn talking about the attributes of their organization. Kindness, charity, community, drama. It was impossible to ignore how familiar those things sounded. How they reminded me of someone whose memory I’m determined to preserve. So I stopped at the Kappa Kappa Gamma table and signed up for rush week. I’m in the midst of it now and I feel trapped in someone else’s body, but I have to admit, the sisters have been pretty nice. Only one of them flinched when I walked into the opening day luncheon with my shock of blue hair and Cool Story Bro T-shirt.

  The saliva soul mates press even closer, the guy’s Drakar Noir punching me in the throat and I shoot to my feet, throwing an absent salute my roommate, Carline, who is dancing across the room. She signals to the packed kitchen, then mimes taking a sip from an invisible cup.

  “Movie? No. TV show!” I nod. “Okay. First word…”

  Her forehead creases. “What?”

  “Charades.” She’s nonplussed. “Never mind.” I wave her off, muttering to myself as I weave my way through my peers toward the kitchen. “Next time she listens to Hootie and the Blowfish ironically, I’m not going to pretend like I get it.”

  I wave a cloud of marijuana smoke to the side and sidestep into the kitchen. Two huge kegs hold the place of honor on a rickety wooden island straight out of Ikea. Dudes sporting backwards hats and football jerseys play bartender, pouring foaming golden liquid into the almighty red chalices and pass them around while women—many of them fellow Kappa Kappa Gamma pledges—dance in the limited space around them. Carline was clearly urging me to have a drink and loosen up, but my mouth opens to ask where I can find a bottle of water instead. I’m passed a full beer before I have the chance, though, and a chilled wave of lager coasts down over my knuckles.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I start to reverse back out of the kitchen, planning on dumping the beer in the dead potted plant by the frat’s front door—but a dude I’ve never seen walks into the kitchen. And how the hell did I miss him? He’s big. Like, pull a big rig with a chain tied around his waist big. At least half a foot taller than everyone in the room, he’s wearing a football jersey that indicates he’s a senior with a white S—and while the garment is probably the biggest size produced, it’s struggling to contain his huge chest and overall wideness. Everyone has to cram together to give him berth as he carries a metal keg over his head into the kitchen and sets it down with a thunk on the island.

  A cheer goes up among the mass of bodies, but the big guy doesn’t smile or acknowledge it. There’s a line of concentration between his eyebrows so deep, it could cradle my finger and it only deepens as he scans the room with a guarded look. A couple of his teammates slap him on the back, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like pebbles bouncing off a boulder. Why am I still in the kitchen staring at him?

  I don’t know. Maybe because he’s the one thing tonight that’s out of place. Wait. Sorry, make that two things, since I am also distinctly out of my comfort zone. But he’s in a football jersey in a frat house—the epitome of belonging—and he couldn’t look more uncomfortable.

  He reaches up with a paw complete with five thick fingers and tunnels them through his short, midnight-black hair. That hand pauses midway through its journey when we make eye contact across the jam-packed kitchen…and my stomach performs a pirouette.

  Oh.

  I’ve been caught staring and I still can’t look away. Maybe I have contact high from all the pot smoke circulating through the house. It’s just that he’s also not looking away and my body seems to appreciate having his attention. My belly is still flopping like a hooked fish and I have the oddest impulse to angle my body in an advantageous way. Or fix my hair, even though it’s not broken, as far as I know. I’ve brushed it at least once in the past couple days, right?

  What am I wearing?

  I wet my lips nervously and try to remember my outfit without glancing down, because that would make me look either crazy or straight up thirsty. Oh right. Black leggings and a black tank top. Lime-green bra, the straps of which are probably showing. Boots.

  Okay, Birdie. Whoa. Turn the crazy train around. A. Since when are you interested in athletes, and B. Since when do you think one of them would be interested in you?

  Taking this whole sorority girl persona a little too far, aren’t I?

  I take my first real sip of beer tonight and turn on a heel, traveling back through the marijuana smoke and reentering the living room. There’s a weird twist in my chest and I can’t completely check the urge to look back over my shoulder at the big guy. And he’s still watching me. Although now he seems embarrassed over getting caught, dropping his gaze to the ground and shifting on his size nine hundred feet. I twist back around with a grudging smile on my face. Jesus, I really need to get out of here. My brain is being a dumbass.

  Noticing the saliva soul mates have ventured into groping territory, I set my mostly full beer down on the cluttered coffee table. “Leaving this for you guys in case you want to refuel…”

  They make no move to stop kissing.

  “Cool.” I wave at Carline across the room, letting her know I’m heading home, and give her the international signal for you coming? She gives me a subtle head jerk in response, indicating the football player she’s been seeing off and on for a couple weeks. In other words, I’ll probably have the room to myself tonight. I’m kind of looking forward to it, because I’m overdue a phone call with my brother, Jason, and my new sister-in-law. I don’t want an eavesdropper—especially when I speak with Naomi. Probably because she’s the only person in the world I can be one hundred percent honest with at all times. When I tell her I’m rushing a sorority, she’s going to have questions. Uncomfortab
le ones that make me think too much about why. I’d rather not have my roommate eavesdropping on that conversation.

  I swallow hard. On second thought, maybe I’ll call Naomi next week.

  “Big J!” A loud shout from the kitchen draws my attention and I pause on my way to the front door. “Where are you going, man?”

  One of the keg-operating football players is addressing the black-haired, gargantuan-pawed giant and he seems reluctant to respond. “Upstairs,” he says finally. “You need something else before I go?”

  Holy shit. His voice is like an earthquake. It’s deep, rich and…rumbling. Strong. It makes my nipples gather into tight buds inside my bra, forcing me to swallow a gasp.

  “Uh, yeah.” Keg dude grins. “Can you bring up one more keg from the basement? It would be a pity if we ran out too early.” Some foam spray catches him in the forehead and he wipes it off with the shoulder of his hoodie. “I’d go, but I’ve got my hands full pouring drinks.”

  I wait for Big J to call bullshit on his teammate and point out the real reason he doesn’t want to carry a keg up from downstairs. He’s not physically capable. At the very least, it would require a major physical effort, whereas it’s probably like lifting an apple for Big J.

  I’m not sure why I continue to stand there in limbo, caught between the living room and the door. But there I am. Arrested by Big J’s reluctant nod, the way everyone in the kitchen essentially ignores him. Not one person addresses him or says hello as he wades through the people half his size, careful not to step on anyone’s feet. No one even says thank you to him for being their beer delivery service. Why is this irking me so bad?

  I back into the shadows as he passes through the living room. He hesitates at the top of the stairs, turns and scans the room. Whatever he sees—or doesn’t see—makes his big shoulders sag. And then he’s gone. Vanished down what I assume are the basement stairs.

  My empty dorm room is calling me. I’ve almost made it alive through the rush process and have a good chance of pledging Kappa Kappa Gamma. I’ve earned a night without people or talking or wearing pants. Yet I continue to shift in my boots, a tug in my belly guiding me toward the basement door. It’s not fair that he’s fetching and carrying for his teammates and no one is helping him. Or even thanking him.

  He wouldn’t have been Natalie’s type.

  The thought doesn’t come out of nowhere. My sister’s tastes and personality are considered, no matter if I’m picking a sorority or deciding which satellite radio station to play in my dorm room while cleaning. Not for the first time lately, the looming question of What Would Natalie Do? makes my palms damp, makes discomfort rise.

  I give myself a quick mental shake and refocus on the guy who just vanished down the stairs. I did partake of the beer, didn’t I? Albeit only a small amount. A thank you is in order. Right. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Say thank you, ask if he needs help and then I’ll go home.

  That’s what I tell myself. But as my bootsteps echo on the hollow stairs and I descend into the basement, my heart sure is pumping hard in anticipation of a casual thank you…

  *

  Jerimiah

  Who was that girl?

  My boots make heavy thuds on my way into the basement, loud creaks a sign that the stairs don’t appreciate my huge, lumbering ass. I appreciate the darkness that wraps around me so completely when I reach the bottom, though. I don’t even bother with a light. There’s no stainless steel refrigerators around to show me a reflection. Or fellow students to stare at me without speaking, their sympathetic expressions speaking volumes all on their own.

  Except…that girl—the one I didn’t recognize—she didn’t have an ounce of sympathy on her face when we locked eyes. Not a flinch. Or a wince. She’d just looked. I’m not sure I can remember the last time I’d felt seen like that, even in a crowded room full of people.

  There are two places where I feel at home. One is on the football field with a helmet hiding my oversized features. Out on the gridiron, my freakish size is a good thing. Everywhere else, it seems to make people uncomfortable. Sure, I’m not the only big man on the planet. A lot of them are revered. Celebrated. My total lack of social skills and the fact that I stay quiet even when actively engaged in a conversation? Doesn’t exactly make me endearing. It’s that combination, size and silence, that makes me useless for much of anything but carrying kegs up the stairs. Sacking the quarterback. I’m not sure my teammates would have any use for me if it weren’t for those skills. So when they ask me to shoulder a keg…I do it.

  I do it because saying no would make me unnerving and useless.

  Before I reach the final keg where it rests in the corner of the basement, I stop and turn, looking back toward the stairs. There’s only one reason I’m not as eager as usual to linger in the darkness and it’s because of that girl. Who was she? Why did I get that sinking feeling in my stomach when she left the kitchen? My fingers drum against my thigh and I consider leaving the keg behind to go search her out. Immediately, I discard that notion. There isn’t a woman alive that wants to turn around and see me stomping after them long after night has fallen. She’d probably drop dead from fright.

  A little tug in my conscience tells me I’m wrong about that, though. That this girl who looked me square in the eye, almost inviting me to make a move, wouldn’t back down from anything. How would I make that assumption when we’ve never exchanged a single word?

  With a sigh, I stoop down to throw the keg over my shoulder, but the door closes at the top of the stairs before I get the chance. The slam is followed by a drawn out, feminine curse, a rough jiggle of the doorknob and then all goes silent. I straighten with a frown and back up two paces, peering up the stairs where a figure stands huddled against the door. I can barely make out whoever it is due to the lack of light, but the voice tells me it’s a girl.

  I clear the rust of disuse from the throat, already dreading the reaction of whoever has joined me in the basement. It seems like my voice gets deeper every time I open my damn mouth, almost like God is punishing me for not using the gift of speaking enough.

  “Hello?”

  Another desperate rattle of the doorknob.

  “Did you…” I wince at my low, low baritone rasp. “Is it locked?”

  “Yes. Oh my God.” I hear a clap and get the impression she’s slapped both hands over her face. “I lived with my brother for a long time and I got used to closing doors in a quest for privacy and it’s just force of habit.”

  Unlike me, she has a really nice voice. It’s melodic and self-deprecating—and I’m beginning to wonder if my horn dog teammates are rubbing off on me. Twice in one night I’ve been drawn to a girl. Usually when I can’t avoid interacting with a member of the opposite sex, I try to put my head down and keep moving. That’s not an option right now and I can tell by the girl’s continuous jiggling of the door handle that she’s nervous about being locked in a basement with a guy she doesn’t know. A guy who sounds like he swallows fire for a living.

  I take out my cell phone and light up the immediate area with my flashlight app. There is a six-pack of wine coolers sitting beside the keg and I slip one out of the cardboard slot. I replace my phone in my pocket and hold the drink out in front of me like an offering as I slowly climb the stairs, her increasing panic rushing over me the closer I get.

  “Here. It’s okay. Drink this fruity thing.” I twist the top off even though it requires an opener and my palm smarts. “I’ll get the door open.”

  I’m at the top step now and she takes the bottle out of my hand. “Oh, um. Thanks. How are you going to—”

  My foot connects with the door and it flies open, the wood around the lock splintering and pinging on the ground like hailstones. Everyone in the living room whips around, girls covering their mouths, eyes wide. My teammates either look irritated that I’ve interrupted their conversations with said girls. Or they’re indifferent thanks to the free-flowing beer.

  With a swallow, I turn my
attention to the person who trapped themselves in the basement with me—and find the girl from the kitchen. Neck craned, she stares up at me with her jaw on the floor. My gut goes heavy in a way I’ve never experienced before. Like it doesn’t know whether to drop or climb up into my throat. For some reason, I notice her chin first. It’s small and stubborn, a perfect match for her nose. I wish there was better light so I could tell the color of her eyes. Her wide, confused eyes. “Why did you do that?” she asks.

  “You were nervous,” I manage, even though she’s…God, she’s so crazy beautiful up close and I have to focus on not looking at the green cups of her bra that peek out at the neckline of her tank top. “You were nervous being alone with a stranger. With…me.”

  Her brows draw together and she yanks the door closed again, blocking out the party sounds as much as possible, now that there’s a giant chunk missing. That missing wood allows light to filter in so I can see her face for a few more seconds before she bolts. For that reason alone, I’m glad I kicked it open. “I wasn’t nervous,” she says softly. “I was nervous over having to tell you I’d just locked us down here like an idiot.”

  I give her a half smile to let her know I appreciate her lying to save my feelings, even though she isn’t required to. I’m getting ready to remind her the door is unlocked now so she can be free. Instead, I ask, “Why were you coming down to the basement in the first place?”

  She massages the center of her forehead. “To say thank you for bringing up the keg? It seemed kind of like your friends were taking advantage of you and no one was grateful for your, um…contribution.” A beat passes as she bounces her right leg. “I’ve created this whole drama in my head that doesn’t exist, haven’t I? I’m going to go now before I further humiliate myself.”

  She turns to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Chapter Two