“Really?”
She nodded. “It’s called expedited partner therapy. If you’re pretty sure who gave it to you, then we do it this way. Otherwise, he’s just going to keep spreading it around.”
“I know,” I whispered.
Reaching across the table, she patted my hand. “Hang in there, Bella. And feel free to call my cell phone if you have any questions. It’s on my voicemail message if you call my office phone.”
“Thank you,” I told her.
“Keep in touch, okay? Because my gut says that you’re taking this hard.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. Convincing no one.
Now that I had a proper diagnosis, I couldn’t put off telling Whittaker the bad news.
That night, for the first time all week, I took a long look at the clothes in my closet. If I was going to march into the Beta Rho house and ask to speak to the star running back, I wanted to look good doing it. One of the charities my mother supported gave designer clothes and makeup to cancer patients, with the theory that they’d heal faster if they felt they looked better.
Thinking of those poor women reminded me that it could always be worse.
“It could always be worse,” I said to myself as I picked out a little denim skirt, a pretty tank top and a cardigan.
“It could always be worse,” I whispered into the mirror while applying a slick of lip gloss. (For me, that was going all out.)
“It could always be worse,” I repeated as I trotted down the stairs and out into the evening air.
The walk to Beta Rho didn’t take nearly long enough for me to compose a suitable speech. When I climbed the wooden steps onto their porch, I noticed how quiet the house was for a Saturday night. For a moment I was thrilled by the prospect that Whittaker and all his pals were out. But as soon as I rang the doorbell, footsteps approached.
The guy who opened the door was a sophomore they called Dash. “‘Zup,” he said, giving me the generic frat-boy greeting.
“Hey,” I returned. “Is Whittaker home by any chance?”
“I’m pretty sure he is. Come on in, and I’ll find him for you.”
Dash trotted off like a good little newbie. Until tap night in a couple weeks, he was still a low man on the totem pole. When the new crop of pledges showed up, Dash would be the one doling out the orders and ordering someone else to watch the door.
I’m sure he could hardly wait.
I stepped all the way into the living room. On a giant sectional couch, three brothers — all of them football players — held game controllers in their hands. “S’up, Bella,” somebody said without removing his eyes from the screen.
“Not much. Pretty quiet here tonight, isn’t it?”
“Game tomorrow,” came the answer.
Ah. “Coach ordered you to get some Z’s?”
Apparently something crucial happened on screen, because I did not get an answer. And anyway, Whittaker appeared, wearing Harkness sweats and flip flops. “Hey, girl,” he said, giving me half a smile. “What’s shakin’?”
I didn’t blame him for looking a little confused. We’d only hooked up that one time after Casino Night.
Now, I stood here regretting it. The sex had been pretty darned average. And afterward, of course I’d had to put myself back together and descend the very public staircase toward the front door, while his frat brothers smirked at me.
And now here I was again in this creaky house with sticky floors. Stupid girl.
“Can we talk for a minute?” I asked him, trying my best to sound casual.
I saw a flicker of fear cross his face. “Is this the kind of talk I’ll need tequila for?”
“Sure, but only because tequila is for every day,” I replied.
He gave me a wry grin. “Yo! Dash!” When the younger guy came into view, he asked for two shots. Then he steered me into a breakfast nook off the kitchen, away from everyone else.
Dash carried in our two drinks, lime wedges and salt. After the guy disappeared, Whittaker turned to me with a question in his eyes. “What’s up?”
I cleared my throat. There would be no more stalling now. “It’s not a big deal,” I lied. Because it was to me. “But I found out that I recently acquired chlamydia.”
His eyes widened. “No way.”
“That was my reaction too.”
He drained his shot glass, then set it down with a thunk. “You think I gave it to you.”
“It appears that way. But if you didn’t give it to me, then you could have caught it from me. So you need to take the pills anyway.” I put Ms. Ogden’s card on the table and told him what she’d said about prescribing over the phone.