Breaking the Ice

thirteen

The next days passed by in a blur.

I stumbled home that night to find my dad draped over the couch with a melted bowl of ice cream in his lap. The television was playing some sports channel, buzzing with noise, and his phone was laying in his open palm, buzzing with notifications. As I crawled into bed, all I could think about were big, blue eyes and promises under the streetlamps.

Sunday was fine. My mom tried to rope everyone into going to church, but upon being met with my sleepy attempt to hide a hangover, Alex's whines, and my dad's insistence on meeting his work buddies for brunch, she promptly gave up and decided to go to the gym. My dad clapped me on the back and made me go with her, and I begrudgingly crawled out of the door after downing a few pain pills. The workout was mind-numbing, and I found myself swimming in my own thoughts. I swore to myself to tell no-one about Saturday night. It had been a stolen pleasure: a shameful exchange of secrets in random dorm rooms, blurred and warmed by too much alcohol. But I still hoped it would happen again.

School was similarly monotonous. I was going through the motions, doing homework and quizzes and tests. My head ached from staying up late to study, and my teachers seemed to beat me down again and again. My friends were as they always had been, save for their insistent teasing about Iza and Thomas' occasional snide remarks. I ignored the latter for the most part, but it was harder to disregard the former as my friends embarked on their quest to embarrass me.

"Nice to see you finally found a good lay," Hector chuckled and nudged my shoulder as we strode down the hall. My leather jacket was a warm weight on my back—almost too warm, seeing as I was about to fall asleep standing.

"I'm not fucking Iza, don't be gross," I murmured back, regreting staying up to finish a project for my science class.

Jason snorted. "But her body, man. I bet even Simon could appreciate that piece of work, and I bet he hasn't even seen a woman naked yet—"

"Hey!"

"—I don't know how you could resist that," he finished, ignoring Simon's protests and my screwed face.

"Maybe she could. He's not exactly the cutest crayon in the box," Tom chimed, shouldering his bag. "Bet he couldn't pound Iza even if he paper bagged his face."

"Suck a dick," I muttered, running a tired hand down my face as I stopped to open my locker. Thomas grinned wickedly over his shoulder as he continued to stride down the hall, Hector and Simon a little ways ahead of him.

"At this rate, you might have to!"

I sighed, throwing my books inside my locker with a little more force than I intended. Jason gave me a firm pat on the shoulder, tipping to lean his own against his own locker.

"If you're really fucking her, you're doing a piss poor job hiding it," he mused. "Your sex hair and her pretty, pink face at the party said a lot."

I groaned, shutting my locker and pressing my forehead against the cool metal. "I didn't fuck her, okay? She's basically my sister. I think I'd rather fuck a hot iron." I glared at him. "And stop calling her sexy and pretty and shit. If you try and fuck her, I'll skin you."

Jason grimaced. "Fine. Point taken." He shouldered his bag and ran a palm through his fluffy, blond hair. "Can I swing by yours on Friday, by the way? My mom's having her friends over for 'girls' night' again."

I grimaced. Last time, 'girls' night' had consisted of Mrs. Kelly getting all her friends together and finishing something like ten bottles of wine. It had also ended in Jason spraining his ankle trying to run down a flight of stairs and away from a still-full glass of red flying at his face—one which thankfully missed—and having to take a month and a half off of hockey and in crutches. "Yeah, of course. Bring the twins, too."