Cheaters Go to Hell - Ch. 01

All characters are over the age of 18.

Warning: This is a slow-burn story. I'm a believer in delayed gratification.

_____

Chapter 1

"It's a friend's trip, Ethan," Clara said, rolling her eyes. "You're being paranoid."

I cringed at the accusation. "I'm not paranoid," I muttered.

"You so are."

Her hoop earrings glittered under the bright Arizona sun as she flicked her hair over her shoulder. Her friends were already in the minivan behind her, blasting music on the radio. The bulky frat guy in the driver's seat honked the horn and hollered at my girlfriend.

"C'mon, Clara! Cancun is calling for us!"

The rest of the passengers whooped and cheered, and Clara looked like she wanted nothing more than to be shouting along with them. But I was standing in her way.

She stared me down impatiently, a hand resting haughtily on her jutting hip. "So, are you gonna let me go or what?"

"I never said you couldn't go!" I said defensively.

"You said you were 'uncomfortable' with it, which is kinda the same thing."

My shoulder was starting to get sore from holding Clara's duffel bag for so long, so I readjusted it. "I think anybody would be uncomfortable with their girlfriend going to the beach with a bunch of frat jerks," I said under my breath.

Clara frowned and gestured to her ear. The thumping music from the van was so loud it drowned out my voice. I was about to repeat myself, but I suddenly got the feeling that it would just make the situation worse so instead I raised my voice and said, "Fine. Just go."

I turned around and threw her duffel in the back of the van. Clara's sorority sisters giggled when they saw me.

"Thanks for letting her come, Ethan!"

"I think it's super sweet that you're so protective of her," one of them cooed. "Maybe next time you can come with us!"

"Whatever," I sighed, slamming the door in their face.

Clara gave me a peck on the cheek as she skipped past me. "See you later, baby."

And before I could even reply, she jumped in the backseat with her gaggle of friends, who all squealed with excitement.

The guy at the front immediately turned the music up to the maximum volume, sending out waves of thumping bass and piercing vocals for at least a mile in every direction. It was so loud, I could literally feel the pulse of the drums through the concrete. Then, without even so much as a wave goodbye, they backed out of the parking lot and sped away, leaving me hacking and coughing in a cloud of black exhaust.

When the dust cleared, I watched the van get smaller and smaller in the distance. Even when they were finally out of sight and the blazing sun starting beating down on me in earnest, I stood still, staring out after them.

If Clara saw how stupidly I was just standing there, sweaty t-shirt and all, she probably would've called me embarrassing and would tell me to get my ass back inside. But you see, I couldn't help it: I was trying my absolute hardest not to worry about what my girlfriend was going to be doing for the next week, but it was turning out to be a very hard thing to ignore.

Those frat guys had a reputation, you know? And Clara was the hottest thing on campus. It didn't take a genius to imagine what might happen if they all went to the beach without me. First thing's first, she would probably change into that bikini she was showing off to me last month, the one with the tassels at the hips. And when she dives into the ocean looking all sexy like that, I bet all those guys will just be watching her, ogling her...

Shit.

With a sigh of disgust, I shoved the image out of my mind.

Sometimes, you had a reason to be paranoid.

***

I got back to my dorm looking like someone had just peed on me. Sweat dripped down my neck and back, staining my shirt in dark splotches, and my skin felt sticky all over. This was part of the tragedy of living in Arizona: This state simply didn't give a fuck about easing into summer. Over here, as soon as spring ends, it's straight into the fiery pits of Hell.

So I guess you could say I was already in an irritable mood when Brad decided it was time to be the most insufferable person on the planet.

"Dude, she's totally gonna cheat on you," he said, pausing his game on the TV.

I was standing off to the side with my belly out, in front of the only fan in the dorm, trying to dry off my sweat.

"Don't piss me off," I warned him.

Brad was my roommate, and we'd been sharing the same dorm room since the beginning of sophomore year. His real name was actually Bradwick, but he insisted that nobody call him that because he claimed it made him sound like an English dickhead, which was kind of true. The only reason he was still here with me despite not having any summer classes was because he didn't want to go back to his parent's house in Alabama. He preferred to just 'chill out' in the dorm playing games, which was another way to say that he didn't want to find a summer job.

Unfortunately for me, this meant that not only did I have to suffer Clara's absence, I would also have to come home everyday to this bastard rubbing it in my face.

"No, I'm being serious. She's 100 percent going to fuck one of those frat guys," Brad continued.

"Shut up, Bradwick," I shot back, using his full name as an insult.

"And I know this sounds weird," he added, ignoring me. "But you should actually take it as a compliment that so many guys are so interested in her. It's kind of a compliment, if you think about it."

If he hadn't been my friend, I probably would've clocked him in the jaw after that.

"Uh, no," I said, looking at him like he was stupid. " I'd prefer it if nobody else was interested in her besides me."

Brad shrugged. "Well, it's not her fault she's got the nicest rack on campus."

"I said, shut up," I groaned. "And don't talk about Clara like that. You're part of the problem."

"No, I'm not. Because the real problem here is that Clara is out of your league. The fact of the matter is, if you were just a little more intimidating, nobody would have the balls to mess with her like that."

Feeling slightly less sticky and gross after the fan, I launched myself into my paper-thin mattress, landing face-first on my pillow. Brad unpaused his game and continued to ramble on about how I wasn't being 'Alpha' or whatever, and that I needed to learn how to be more dominant.

And the worst part? I didn't even have an argument to defend myself with because a part of me knew that he was right.

And not just about Clara's boobs, which were, in fact, very nice (though it was still creepy how bluntly Brad talked about them). But he was also right about the fact that Clara was waaaay out of my league. Almost comically so.

You see, Clara was the quintessential college beauty. She had that golden, bouncy hair straight out of a Pantene commercial, those athletic, toned legs, and most of all, a beautiful face that screamed youthful innocence with a hint of sass. These qualities of hers had launched her straight to the top of the social ladder, and she even became a captain of the cheer squad in November of her freshman year, which I heard was some kind of record. And on top of all of that, I was fairly certain that at least a quarter of the large crowds that came to watch our school's football games were only there to see her during her halftime shows.

Compared to her, everyone else seemed like background characters in a show named after her. And I was no exception.

My only hobbies were reading books and playing games, though the latter had taken up a much more significant portion of my free time during these past few years. My face was average, and I wasn't particularly muscular either. The one thing I had going for me was that I was on the taller side, which Clara always said was the best part about me. But even then, it's not like it made up for the fact that most girls thought I was about as interesting as a piece of unmarked cardboard.

But somehow, against all cosmic odds, I'd managed to score an audience with her during a Halloween party last year. I'd been dressed as Han Solo and she'd gone as a sexy Princess Leia, giving me the perfect excuse to strike up a conversation with her. We talked about nothing important, in the way people do during loud parties. Several guys interrupted us to ask her on a date, and she swiftly rejected all of them to continue talking to me. She made me think I had a shot. So all it took from there was a little liquid courage to ask her out myself, and to my utter surprise, she said yes.

To this day, I still don't know why she chose me.

But you know what they say: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

So for the following few months after that miraculous Halloween, I didn't question a single thing and paraded around campus like I'd won the lottery. I mean, I was going out with the hottest chick on campus! It was better than the lottery. I flaunted her around whenever I could, and my head was so far up in the clouds, I don't even think a space rocket could've taken me any higher.

And I guess that's why I didn't notice any of the warning signs.

January bled into February, and some of the things I'd willfully turned a blind eye to began to surface, like the fact that she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with several suspicious fraternities. Or that she didn't really want to go on any dates, or do anything romantic in general. Even holding hands was sometimes too much for her.

By March, it felt more like we were acquaintances than actual boyfriend and girlfriend.

During those several months, there was only one time that Clara had been even remotely intimate with me. And it hadn't even been the physical kind either. It was New Year's Day, and I was over at her dorm after another house party (she tended to throw a lot of these). It was around 1 a. m., the countdown was over, and everyone else had already left, leaving behind a train wreck of plastic cups and empty bottles. Clara and I were sitting on the couch in the middle of this alcoholic aftermath, letting the TV run absentmindedly. She'd snuggled up against my chest, and had been quiet for a while. I remember recognizing how rare this moment was for us, and how I felt like I was walking on glass.

After a while, well past the point when my arm had gone numb, I breached the silence carefully.

"Another year, huh? Pretty exciting," I said. A nice, inconsequential comment, I'd thought. Perfect for easy conversation.

We were both still staring forward, letting the bright lights of the screen flash against our irises.

"There's nothing exciting about it," she said calmly.

I hadn't expected that response.

"Why not? I'm looking forward to spending more time with you," I said.

Clara snorted softly, like I'd said something funny. I thought she was in a good mood.

"You're really not excited about anything?" I asked, prodding her further.

"Nope."

"Not even a little?"

"How could I be? I don't have any seeds," she said.

"Seeds? Are you gonna start a garden or something?" I joked, not getting it.

Clara didn't seem to find that one very funny. She shifted in my arms. "Have you ever heard that thing about seeds and flowers?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, it's this thing I once heard in middle school. Basically, a flower is something you can show off for a little while. Maybe you get one at the store and put it on your windowsill for a week before it dies."

"Right."

" -- But a seed is different. If you've got seeds, you can grow as many flowers as you want. You can tend to them, grow them, and after they fruit, you end up with even more seeds."

The guy on the TV was talking about something completely unrelated, so I muted it.

"So why aren't you excited for the new year?" I asked.

"I just told you," she replied, shooting me a look. "I don't have any seeds, so I don't have anything new to look forward to. This next year will be exactly the same as the last: Putting the same old flowers on my window, day after day."

"But you have your cheerleading," I pointed out. "And you're popular. You're beautiful. You're smart. I would say you've got a lot of seeds."

Clara sighed. "You aren't getting it. Cheerleading, popularity, beauty; none of that means anything after a certain point."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I found that I had nothing to say to comfort her. She pressed her cheek into my chest. It felt nice.

"Sometimes, I wish I was never born," she continued. To me, it felt like an abrupt thing to say, but I got the sense that this was a common train of thought for her. "I don't even know why I'm here."

"Don't say that," I said automatically.

"Why not? It's true."

"It doesn't have to be."

"... Whatever."

Clara turned the volume back up, and the news anchor's voice filled the room again, drowning out any hope of continuing the conversation. She continued to lay on my chest, and I remember how warm and alive she felt against me.

As I laid on my bed, the memory of that New Year's Day floated through my mind, like it always did after I had a fight with her. I'd developed a habit of clutching onto that moment like a priest grips a rosary. That secret side of Clara -- the side with fears I couldn't even understand -- became the totem of my love for her. She'd trusted me with something, and I thought that was enough.

And so I administered that memory, almost like a little antidote, to make it less painful when she did things like going to the beach with her frat friends, doing God-knows-what without me.

Long after Brad had already stopped his rant, I grunted into the pillow. "We're just going through a rough patch."

Brad laughed behind me. "Sure, buddy."

"I'm serious. We're gonna work out. I know it."

I couldn't see him but I knew he was shaking his head at me. "Poor bastard."

The sound of his video game continued to play in the background, and I don't know when, but I eventually fell asleep. Naturally, I had a nightmare. I don't think I need to tell you who it was about.

***

On June 3rd, a week after Clara and her merry band of schmucks left for Cancun, my summer classes finally began. Six consecutive days of moping around the dorm with only Brad for company had left me almost excited about school.

Almost.

But the truth was, there weren't a lot of things that could be worse than summer school in Arizona. First of all, the campus was made almost entirely of blank white concrete, which did a wonderful job of reflecting every single sun ray directly back up at you, turning the sidewalks into a functional oven. Second, the place was completely deserted. During the fall and spring semesters, I'd often found the clustering throngs of students a hassle to navigate through, but now that they were gone, I realized that they'd been providing a pleasant visual din to blanket the general ugliness of my surroundings.

So when I finally arrived at the university library, where my Anticolonialist Literature seminar was taking place, not only was I drenched in sweat, but I was also feeling intensely unmotivated to do any classwork. It didn't help that Anticolonialist Literature sounded boring as hell.

When I pushed open the glass doors, a blast of cold air hit my skin. At least the A. C. was working well.

I walked past the front desk, and the librarian sitting there gave me a dirty look, like I was bothering her by coming in. I wanted to tell her that I didn't want to be here either, but I didn't have the energy.

As I walked further into the library, past the public desk-top computers, the rows of bookshelves eventually opened up to a small clearing in the middle of the room, where a semi-circle of twenty-or-so chairs had been set up. At the head of the semi-circle was a large rolling blackboard, where a bald-headed professor was writing his name in chalk. Opposite him, all the best seats had already been taken by the other students who had had the sense to arrive earlier.

So without many other options, I chose one of the chairs near the front.

And that's when I noticed her.

The girl in the next seat was wearing a faded red spaghetti top with a pair of denim short-shorts, and she was listening to music on her iPod as she waited for the lecture to begin. Her dark bangs were swept low and choppy over her eyebrows, and her eyes were half-lidded, as if she were thinking absent-mindedly about something. Even sitting down, I could tell that she was tall; her long, bare legs crossed under the tiny wooden desks. When she noticed me coming, she scooted her purse out of the way.

The rest of the students filed in shortly after.

When the seats were full, the professor clapped his hands together to gather our attention. For some reason, I found it difficult to look away from the girl next to me.

"Alrighty, good morning, folks," the professor began. "Now, I know none of us really want to be here, but..."

And he went on to say that he was sure that this semester would be a great one, and that he hoped (in vain) that we were all as excited about anticolonialist literature as he was. But none of his words were really sticking in my head. As his monotonous voice slowly became background noise, I found myself involuntarily glancing at the girl again, staring at the profile of her face. It wasn't even as if she was obviously beautiful; she had sharp, defined features, while her eyes drooped slightly at the corners. If I had to choose a word to encapsulate her impression on me, I would say that she reminded me of a panther; she seemed almost wild. Even her hair looked like she'd cut it herself.

But most prominent of all were her lips; full and dark, and containing the barest hint of a smile, as if she was remembering an inside joke with a friend. Clearly, she wasn't listening to the professor either.

I didn't know why I couldn't stop looking.

Eventually, she turned to face me. Her eyes are so dark, I thought as they locked onto mine.

I felt my ears go warm -- had she caught me staring?

"So, what's your name?" she asked. Her voice was low for a girl's.

I blinked. "What?"

The girl pointed at the whiteboard, where the professor had written down some ice-breaker questions for the class. "We're supposed to introduce ourselves to the people sitting next to us," she explained casually.

"Oh, uh, right. I'm Ethan," I said.

Her mouth curled slightly at the corners. "Ok, Ethan. I'm Macy. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, Macy."

"It's funny how you pronounce my name," Macy said.

"Sorry, did I say it wrong?"

"Well, say it again."

"Macy."

She nodded, like she'd caught what she'd been looking for. "Yeah. You emphasize the long 'ee' at the end. Most people just cut it short."

I was about to apologize but she cut me off.

"Don't be sorry, I like it."

"Uhm, okay," I said, not knowing how else to respond. She was kind of throwing me off.

I noticed that the other students were beginning to move on to the next ice-breaker question, so I cleared my throat and did the same. "What's your favorite animal?"

"People," she said easily.

"Uh... I dunno if that counts."

"Why? Humans are animals, aren't they?"

"Well, technically. But I think that goes against the spirit of the question," I pointed out. Macy rolled her eyes and I immediately felt lame, like I'd missed something.

"Fine. What's your favorite animal then?" she asked.

"Dogs," I answered.

She scoffed. "Pretty basic answer for someone who just preached to me about the spirit of the question."

I frowned. "What's wrong with dogs?"

"You're just not very dog-like, that's all," she said, shrugging. "I think you're more like a cat."

I made a face. Was this girl seriously correcting me on what my favorite animal should be?

I looked her up and down. "Well, you remind me of a... an ostrich," I said, lying. Like I said, she was more of a panther, but at this point, that felt too cool to tell her.

She arched a perfect eyebrow. "An ostrich? Explain."

"Because you've got long legs like one. You know how they have really long skinny legs? And they kinda walk funny--"

"I know what an ostrich looks like," she said, cutting me off again.

"Right. Well you've got legs like one."

Macy uncrossed and recrossed her legs the other way. The movement caused her jean shorts to ride further up, revealing more of her pale thigh. "Oh, I get it. So you've been looking at my legs," she said.

"That's not what I meant," I replied quickly, immediately darting my eyes away from her legs. I hadn't even noticed that I'd been staring again.

When I looked back up, Macy met my gaze evenly, like she'd been waiting for me.

"That's why I said you're like a cat," she said.

"Why?"

But before she could explain, the professor called the class back together and launched into a long-winded self-introduction of his own.

"My name is Abraham McFarland. You may call me Professor or Doctor McFarland, whichever you prefer..."

As the professor went on, Macy leaned in over my shoulder. A stray lock of her dark hair brushed against my shoulder. She smelled like cigarettes and grass and her voice was warm about my cheek.

"Because cats have a tendency to stare," she whispered. "Just like you."

I felt my face go even warmer. I hadn't expected her to call me out so bluntly. Did she think I was a creep now? She must. I fought the urge to look at her again anyways, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw her bouncing one of her legs. Somehow, that absent-minded movement was enough to tell me that she was enjoying watching me squirm.

I raked my brain for some sort of excuse, but nothing came up.

The professor continued rambling at the front of the class, and Macy kept bouncing her leg. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and I began to sweat for an entirely different reason than the heat.

I needed to explain to her that I wasn't actually a weirdo who ogled random girls. And that actually, I had a girlfriend who was very beautiful and who I liked very much. Or maybe I could even play it off like I hadn't been staring at all, and that I just had a bad habit of looking down whenever I talked to strangers, and her legs had just happened to be in my field of vision.

While I was busy coming up with a myriad of excuses, the ninety-minute class flew by and before I knew it, the professor was wrapping up his lecture. I'd missed basically everything he'd said, but I didn't really give a crap. It was probably just about the syllabus anyway.

And right now, the most important thing was to explain myself to Macy. The last thing I needed was to be publicly identified as a creep. God knows what Clara would do to me if she ever found out.

So as the rest of the class began packing their bags and filing out of the library, I stayed in my chair. I saw that Macy was also still sitting at her desk, making no move to put her own things away. She eyed me languidly. I have all the time in the world, her expression seemed to say.

"I wasn't actually staring. It's a bad habit. Also, I have a girlfriend, so I don't do stuff like that. I'm not a creep, I promise," I blurted, accidentally using all of my excuses at once.

"Oh? But I saw you. Your eyes were all over me," Macy replied.

"No. That was--" I started to explain.

"What's the phrase? Undressing me with your eyes? Yeah, I think that's what you were doing. Pretty pervy, I'd say."

I quickly looked around to make sure that none of the other students had heard her. "I'm not a perv," I hissed.

Her lips went tight for a second, and I thought I was screwed. But then she broke out into a sly smile, throwing me off yet again.

"I'm just kidding," she laughed, saying my name like it was part of the joke. "I just thought it was funny, that's all."

"Really?" I asked.

"Really."

"So you won't tell anyone? That I was... uh, you know?"

"I don't make a habit of spreading gossip about myself," she said. "And besides, I like you. I think you're cute."

I had to admit, I was a bit blindsided by the sudden admission.

Macy poked a finger into my chest as she stood up. "See you tomorrow."

And then she was gone, and I was the only one left sitting in the library.

"Do you need something, young man?" the professor asked, startling me.

I quickly gathered my books, folded the syllabus and dumped everything into my backpack. "No, sir."

The professor's eyes bored into my back as I left the library at a speedwalk, but I was much more bothered by something else. I pushed the door open, throwing myself back under the scorching sun.

The entire time, three words echoed in my head.

I like you.

Of course, I knew Macy hadn't meant it seriously; it was just one of those things that girls said casually to lead guys on. I might've fallen for it in high school, but I knew better than that now. But more importantly, Macy's words had caused me to realize something important.

Clara had never -- not in the entire duration of our six month relationship -- explicitly said those three words to me, and somehow, this random girl had beaten her to it.