GIN AND JUICE pt 5

(Italics are the text messages )

The bell tower struck 9 PM, muffled through the library floors of brick and mortar, when you finally threw down your pen, no longer able to pretend to concentrate. It had been like this all day. The harder you tried to focus on your assignments, the more violent the guilt roiling inside you would become. This was the exact opposite effect you hoped to achieve by lying to Shawn.

Lying to him was supposed to absolve you of any feeling of responsibility for his problems. You had your own problems to worry about and you really didn’t need to add those of a maybe-alcoholic quarterback with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And yet.

You were here at the library avoiding him. Not that he was trying to contact you or anything, but it was game day. Now that you knew his name, knew who he was, he seemed to be everywhere. On the breath of the girls in your dorm, printed on posters across campus, shouted over the stadium’s booming PA system. Shawn Mendes, Shawn Mendes, Shawn Mendes. Even if you never talked to him again, you could never escape him. He was a part of your life whether you liked it or not. So, you escaped the whispers and the posters and the announcements and came to the library with its beige walls and quiet hours.

Except, thanks to Shawn himself, this most sacred of spaces had been tainted. Tainted with the memory of your lies, with the memory of his blank face, with the sinking feeling that you had made a grave mistake. When he looked back at you, before he left you in that cold and empty study room, you could almost feel his disappointment. He had wanted you to tell him something different.

You told yourself that the lie was protecting him. If he didn’t know that you knew his secret, he could live without that kind of liability hanging over his head. If it was true that only you knew, that he had never told anyone else, then you were a threat to him. A Heisman-hopeful with a binge drinking problem that bordered on alcoholism? That kind of information was a goldmine in a small college town with an elite football program. You’d heard about the other scandals—the sexual harassment, the academic fraud, the gambling—but none of those had included self-destructive, potentially harmful behavior. None of them had included the leading passer in the nation.

In the time between your fateful night in the bathroom and the library meeting, you had done some research on Shawn Mendes, first-team All-American. His record was impeccable. He started as a true freshman. The team only lost one game last year. Shawn had strained his thumb in practice and had devastated his passing technique, but they won out after that, bringing home a bowl series trophy. People talked about him like he could be the next Tom Brady, not that you knew what that meant but it sounded pretty fucking impressive.

Now, you could see what he meant when he talked about expectations, the weight of them, and the constant pressure. Everyone wanted a piece of him and he was only twenty years old. It was no wonder he’d turned to alcohol to numb that buzzing in the back of his mind—the constant screams that shouted his name. If it weren’t for the blackness that tasted like gin and felt like hell in the morning, he might have tried to silence them in other, more sinister ways.

What if you had misread the situation? What if his blank stare and lack of charm yesterday were a signal that he didn’t want to be placated but rather wanted you to hint that you knew something behind the mask, behind the layers of charming armor? You thought about all the women that must have thrown themselves at him in his life like you said you had, wanting sex or social gain or the promise of more. You thought of that night in the bathroom when he told you how all of those women weighed him down with everything else, like adding finger weights one by one until his hands were too heavy to lift off the ground.

You got up out of the chair you’d been occupying for several hours and escaped the air of confusion and simmering regret. It was time for caffeine.

The bitter scent of fresh ground coffee assaulted your nose as you walked into the deserted library lobby café. The bored barista took your order—black iced coffee with two sugars—and you stood at the counter, tapping your nails against the marble while you waited.

“Recap from today’s sports news, Shawn Mendes falls down on the job overthrowing a crucial pass in final second nailbiter…”

Your head whipped around to face the television. You watched the replay, holding your breath. He ran back from the line, found his target, and released the ball—an action he must have completed hundreds of thousands of times—but you noticed, just before letting go, he closed his eyes, losing sight of the receiver wide open in the endzone. You saw him falter, a second too long, and the pass sailed over the receiver’s head.

It was going to be a hero throw, but instead it led them into overtime. The team was gassed from regular play, demoralized and shocked by Shawn’s inability to convert the pass. They lost 21-28, their rivals sailing in a touchdown in the final minute. The news feature ended with a long camera shot of Shawn on his knees in the turf with his head in his hands. It wasn’t until a fat tear splashed onto your hand that you realized you were crying. Not for the team or for the school, but for him, the boy you knew would blame himself and feel that much more pressure to make up for his mistake.

God, you had been so selfish. It was a realization that burned in your heart like kindling in a fireplace. It was crippling. You hadn’t lied to protect him. You lied to protect yourself.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket and, as if he knew you’d been thinking of him, Shawn’s name flashed across the screen.

Shawn: I know you lied.

* * * * * * * * * *

He had lost count of how many shots he’d taken. Most of the team had come to the house he shared with Geoff, Andrew, Mike, and Zubin to blow off steam after the loss. He knew they didn’t blame him for shanking that pass, but he blamed himself. But, of course, where football players congregated, so did jersey chasers and dude-bros looking for sloppy seconds. The house was packed.

And Shawn was drunk.

The pleasant numbness had already touched his fingers and toes. It would work its way into his lips soon. His tolerance was high, so it wouldn’t last. He’d have to rectify that situation fairly soon if he wanted to disappear. Sitting in a chair in the corner, he could feel the stares and glares of the buzzing swarm of bodies around him. The whispers reached you even through a solid barrier of teammates. He could feel all of their failed expectations. Championship dreams, Heisman hopes, all seemingly impossible now.

That pass, the moment before, when he went against all of his instincts and closed his eyes against that piercing blue, haunted him. Even now, he could feel himself scanning the crowd of girls hovering near him hoping he’d catch a glimpse of her, even though he knew he wouldn’t.

He pulled out his phone, hovering above her contact. He wanted, needed to know why she lied. What was she hiding? Who was she protecting? The alcohol had loosened his fingers and he didn’t have the strength to stop them from typing.

I know you lied.

The ellipses popped up immediately.

Her: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Shawn: Don’t bullshit me, I remembered you from the party. I remembered spilling my beer on you. I remembered your wide, blue eyes. You’re telling me that the girl who wouldn’t speak to me, could barely look at me without blushing, made a pass at me later? Why didn’t you say anything?

His heart was beating at a hummingbird’s pace. What if she ghosted? She obviously didn’t want him to know her. His heel tapped rapidly along the ground. How long would she make him wait? He set his phone on the table and got up to refill the jack and ginger he’d been nursing. The rise from sitting to standing almost put him on the floor.

“Yo, man,” Geoff called, “you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, man,” he reassured, smirking at his friend, “just got up a little too fast.” Geoff rolled his eyes and came over to clap him on the back, “man, don’t beat yourself up over what happened. Even the best have their days. Nobody’s perfect.”

Shawn grimaced at him, “I’ll keep that in mind. But for right now, I think I’ll just get fucked up and sleep it off.” Geoff stopped, giving him a look that suggested worry. Shawn had to switch directions. He scanned the room with the best salacious look he could muster in his current state, “dude, are you getting some *** tonight?”

He watched the worry disintegrate from Geoff’s eyes, replaced with something akin to hunger, “yeah, man, I got my eyes on this one girl. I’ve been playing real sad over the game and she wants to comfort me. It’s going real smooth.” Shawn internally rolled his eyes, not interested in the games the guys played with girls. Geoff broke off to find this girl he was manipulating and Shawn continued to the kitchen to refill his drink, still swaying pretty heavily.

When he returned, he noticed the screen on his phone had lit up with messages.

Her: I…why didn’t you say anything?

Her: I thought you didn’t remember me…

Shawn: I asked your nasm,e…and then ysu leifd to mE.

His phone screen started to blur, letters swimming together as his thumbs tried to type. The liquor was starting to overwhelm him, coursing through his completely numb hands and feet, warming his cheeks, making his lips tingle. He knew his movements were lethargic, feeling the urge to move his head seconds before it responded.

Her: What?

Her: Are you drinking?

Shawn: yeS….whuif’s iT to yoiu?

Her: Shawn, where are you?

Shawn: my houbse. a blcok off campus rowe.

Was she coming to talk to him in person? His heart started a fresh wave of nervous beating, like a jackhammer against his chest. He walked toward the door, as if she would magically be outside when he jerked it open.

Shawn: it’s the grween house.

He stared out onto the porch, the still neighborhood street a stark foil to the commotion inside the house. Shutting the door behind him, he half-fell down the porch stairs and deciding that if she was coming, he was going to wait here for her. His phone vibrated in his hand, the message causing him to suck in a low breath.

Her: I’m on my way.

* * * * * * * * * *

The street was lined with cars, but the outside of the two-story forest green house seemed quiet, old walls masking the chaos sure to be contained within. You walked up to the door but stopped short at a dark, slumped figure leaning on the stair handrails. The same figure that had slumped against you snoring just a week ago.

“Shawn!” you shouted, rushing over and taking his face in your hands. His eyes opened, a little glassy but focused, and he gave you that wide, blinding smile, a reaction becoming familiar in these situations.

“You came,” he said, his voice taking on a dreamy tone, like he didn’t believe it or he thought he may have dreamt your conversation. You released his head and took his hands, pulling him up off the stairs and into a standing position, “yes, I came, you big drunk idiot. Let’s get you inside.”

You could barely stand with him leaning on you, but you managed to get the door open. Several people in the entryway stopped to stare when you trudged in bearing half of Shawn’s weight. Indiscriminate whispers roared in your ears as you made your way to the stairs. You tried to block them out, gingerly climbing each step with Shawn in tow, knowing they were more about his condition than you being with him. They weren’t looking at you. They weren’t looking at you. They aren’t looking at me.

By the time you reached the second floor landing, you were panting, not just with the exertion of half-carrying a six-foot-three solid wall of muscle up stairs, but with the weight of your creeping anxiety.You turned slightly to a still-slumped Shawn and elbowed him in the ribs. His head lifted slightly, a question mark on his face.

“Shawn, which room is yours?” you asked, hoping he was lucid enough to point you in the right direction. He lifted his head again, the effort showing through the strained veins in his neck, and nodded toward the last door on the right.

Mostly dragging him the rest of the way there, you twisted the knob on the door and threw it open. You made the last strides to the bed barely upright before depositing Shawn on top of the comforter. You stood there in the middle of his room trying to catch your breath. He laid flat, one leg bent and resting on the floor, open-mouth breathing loudly and obviously spinning.

Backing up to the wall, you slid down to the floor, bringing your knees to your chest and taking focused breaths. In 2..3..4. Out 2..3..4. You sat breathing in silence, losing count of the minutes, feeling the anxiety quiet inside your head and heart. The bed creaked and you looked up from your knees, locking eyes with him. He had moved to a sitting position, finally able to control his upper body without a crutch.

“Has the worst of it passed?” you asked, cocking your head, comparing how he looked to that first night. He didn’t look clammy or ready to puke, so you guessed that was something. His back was bowed forward, hands on his knees, but he didn’t seem to be having trouble keeping himself upright. In what was becoming a signature nervous gesture, he scrubbed the back of his neck with one of his obscenely large hands.

“Hi,” he said, looking at his feet, clearly embarrassed about what had happened, “why are you on the floor?” You unclasped your hands from around your knees and opened them up, sitting cross-legged and relaxing your arms. You took a deep, cleansing breath, exhaling in one long stream until all of the tension slowly dissipated from your body.

It was time to start telling the truth.

“I’m on the floor because I struggle with anxiety. Because, when I helped you up the stairs, several dozen people watched and whispered. Even though I know they were whispering about you, a tiny part of my brain tries to convince me they were whispering about me, and it’s terrifying,” you finished, unable to meet his eyes, sure that he probably thought you were crazy and needed to get you out of his room as soon as possible. You wiped at your face where a single tear had leaked out, left over from the release of stress. You felt a light pressure on your right and inhaled audibly. He had moved from the bed and come to sit on the floor with you against the wall, drawing his legs up and crossing them, a perfect mirror of your position.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, deep remorse coloring his tone. He still smelled of cheap beer and an unholy concoction of liquor, but he seemed to be regaining his faculties much faster than he had last weekend. You both sat there on the floor, leaning against the wall, and just breathed together. After a long while, he turned his head to look at you. You could feel his eyes on your face, trying to pierce your own armor that you’d put up long ago and forgotten how to take down.

“So…I don’t exactly understand why you came here,” he puzzled, “you freaked out when I said I was drinking, but this is college…everyone drinks.”

“But not everyone drinks like you do.”

You felt him still. The tension rose between the two of you. He knew immediately what you were talking about. He knew now the truth of last weekend. He knew that he’d never left that bathroom. Here it was—the truth you’d come to tell him.

“You asked why I lied to you? I lied because last weekend I found you passed out cold on the bathroom floor on the verge of alcohol poisoning. I lied because when you came to and started purging the alcohol from your system, you also purged some truths that you prefer to keep hidden, truths about the welcoming blackness that comes when you drink, and drink, and drink,” you paused here and took another deep breath before making a final point, “most of all, I lied because instead of becoming another burden to you, another person with another set of expectations, I wanted you to forget me. And I was trying like hell to forget you.”

You finally turned and met his gaze. His honey eyes held so many emotions in one glance that you almost couldn’t hold it. You saw anxiety, shame, frustration, alarm, guilt, weariness, but most of all a deep relief that threatened to crack him open from the inside.

So, you had been right before. This was what he wanted all along. He hadn’t admitted it to himself yet, but you knew then that he had wanted, needed to open up to someone for a very long time. His face split into the first true smile you think you’d seen from him. It was brilliant, sparkling, like the first rays of sunshine after early spring rain.

“Can I touch you?” he whispered, approaching you like a frightened doe in the woods. You nodded your head hesitantly, unsure, but feeling safer next to him than you had the entire semester.

He reached out and lifted your hand from your knee. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he rubbed his thumb against yours, the intimacy of the gesture causing your cheeks to bloom a deep pink. He stretched out his other hand to cup your face, “I really do like that blush.”

It felt like flipping a switch that you didn’t even know existed until his hands were on your skin, like a spark deep within you that burst into flames when his rough fingertips grazed your temples. The chains around your heart that had rattled for him before started to fracture, the force of emotions smashing through the dam in your chest.

But none of it could match the feeling of his lips crashing against yours.

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