Authors: Katie McGarry
Our feet never leave the ground, but, I swear, I’m flying.
Ryan whispers to me again, “I’m dancing
with you because I love the look on your face.”
Figures. “Love watching me make a fool out
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of myself?”
“No. I love seeing the girl Scott and Lacy say you can be.” He stares at me as if he’s seeing beyond my skin and my heart pounds out of my chest so violently that he has to feel it. My nerve endings become raw. Somehow, Ryan’s seeing me and I’m exposed—as if I’m standing naked in front of a large open
window. My hands slip from his neck, but as I try to step back, he clutches my waist, rejecting my escape.
“Ryan! I wondered when you’d get here.”
The sound of an all-too-familiar voice creates the same electric shock as when I stuck my finger into a wall socket when I was four. My body seizes, then moves in warp drive away from Ryan.
Gwen wears a red sundress with printed
white flowers. Her lip curls at my wannabe Chuck Taylors, worn jeans, and black T-shirt.
She links her arm with Ryan’s. “You wouldn’t mind if I steal Ryan for a moment, would you?
There are some things we need to discuss.”
They look nice together. Well matched. Like a couple should. “He’s yours.”
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SECONDS AGO,
BETH AND I SHARED
something… a moment, a connection. I saw it in her eyes. Something real. Now it’s gone.
Beth turns from me and heads in the direction of Lacy, Chris, and Logan. “Beth. Wait.”
She faces me again, but walks backward—
away from me. “Don’t worry,” she says with a hint of bite. “I’m not disappearing.”
“Let her go,” says Gwen. “You can chat with her later.”
I let Beth go, but only because I remember how persistent Gwen can be. She’ll follow me until she completes her mission. “What?”
“You don’t have to be snippy,” she chides.
“I’m not.” Near the tree line, I notice Tim Richardson and Sarah Janes. Sarah sways and laughs a little too loud.
“Yes, you are.”
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Useless conversations. That’s another
reason we broke up. “Is Sarah wasted?”
Gwen glances over her shoulder at Sarah
and refocuses on me. “Yeah. She was trashed before we arrived. So, I was thinking, we should walk onto the football field together for homecoming. The crowd likes couples.”
“We’re not a couple.” Tim places a hand on Sarah’s ass and she stops laughing. “Are Sarah and Tim an item?”
“No. She thinks he’s dirt, but she’s drunk and, well, he’s Tim. Back to me and you. We were a couple and maybe we should try it
again. You know, when you’re done
experimenting with Beth. I mean, you don’t have to go to all of your practices, do you?
Ryan…Ryan? Why do you keep staring over
my shoulder?”
Sarah puts her hands on Tim’s chest and
pushes him. He doesn’t move, but I do.
“Excuse me,” I mumble to Gwen.
She blocks my path and I halt, irritated she’s still here. “What?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
Something about homecoming and Beth.
“Can we talk about this later?” Sarah pushes
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Tim again. “Your friend needs help.”
Gwen steps to the side and I advance to the tree line. Tim becomes touchier and Sarah keeps smacking him.
“Hey, Tim,” I say. “I think Sarah wants to head back to the party.”
“No, we’re fine,” Tim responds.
Sarah swats his hands away. “Get off of
me.”
“Tim,” I say in a low tone. I’ll back up my words with action and he knows it.
Tim releases Sarah and his chest puffs up as he watches her stumble back to the party. I ready myself by widening my stance. Tim
owns a reputation for his dedication to the football team and his anger when he’s drunk.
“What’s your problem, Ryan?”
“Don’t have one as long as you give Sarah her space.”
He sloppily points at me, then sways. “You made her think she wanted space.”
“Come on, Tim. Let’s go back to the party.”
Tim rolls his shoulders back. He’s looking for a fight. I’m not.
“You know what I think?” he asks.
“I think we should head back.”
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“I think you’ve got a problem with girls.”
My back straightens. “What did you say?”
His lips turn up into a smirk. “Yeah,” he says. “You have a problem with girls. You dumped Gwen and she’s hot. You gay, man?”
Rage ignites inside me and as my muscles
tighten to rush forward, delicate fingers wrap around my arm. “He’s not worth it,” Beth says in a smooth voice.
Chris and Logan slide in between me and
Tim, a barrier of skin, muscle, and bone
between me and the guy I want to pound.
Tim continues to taunt me. “Real men aren’t saved by girls.”
“You’re drunk,” Logan announces to him in a bored voice.
From the other side of Logan, Tim holds out his hands. “Come and get me, Ryan. Prove that you’re a man.”
My fists curl and I step closer. “I’m game, Tim. Let’s do this.”
Chris pushes against my chest, but the
pressure does nearly nothing to hold me back.
He yells at Beth, “Get him out of here!”
Her fingers intertwine with mine and that soft, feminine voice breaks through the anger.
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“Let’s go.”
My eyes flick over to her. “Ryan,” she says.
“Please.”
Her one
please
breaks through the chaos disorienting my brain long enough to propel me in the opposite direction of Tim. I tighten my grip on Beth’s hand and lead her back to my Jeep, but not before snagging a six-pack of beer from a cooler.
Her fingers still clutch mine as we walk
through the tall grass without saying a word. I release her when we reach the Jeep and we both hop in. My heart bleeds and anger courses in my veins. I turn on the engine and peel out of the clearing.
My brother left.
My brother is gay and he left and he’s never coming back. My father acts as if he never existed. My mother is miserable. My parents—
people who once loved each other—hate each other.
Driving alongside the creek, I wait for a shallow part before crossing. I’ve tortured Beth enough. With this Jeep. With my presence.
Isaiah said I made her cry. My fingers tighten on the wheel. Beth’s right—I’m a jerk.
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I’ll take her home, then ride to the back field of my house. And drink. By myself.
Drinking may not undo history, but it will cause me to forget for a few hours.
I jerk the wheel to the left when the rushing of the creek slows to a trickle. Water barely laps the tires as I cross, but the moment I hit the other side, I know I’m screwed. Mud.
Too much mud. Deep mud. I press on the
gas and pull the wheel to the right to try to force the front tires on solid ground before the back ones sink, but it’s too late. The back tires whine and halt all forward progress.
“Shit!” I slam my hand on the steering
wheel. Knowing that fighting will drag us deeper, I cut the engine. I’m stuck. I yank the hat from my head and throw it to the
floorboard. That sums everything up—I’m in deep and I’m stuck.
My leg sinks a foot into the mud. Beth will be full of colorful words when I tell her we’re going to have to walk. The mud acts like slow-drying concrete, making each step nearly
impossible. My jeans rub and slosh in the filth.
I’m a complete mess, but I don’t have to let Beth get this dirty.
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I haven’t been much of a gentleman to
her. In fact, I’ve been the opposite. Not that her shining personality has made it easy. I open her door and hold out my arms. “Come here.”
Her forehead furrows. “What?”
“I’m going to carry you out of the mud.”
She lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “The
show’s over, Bat Boy. You don’t have to be nice to me anymore.”
Not in the mood for her mouth or an
argument, I slip my arms underneath her knees and lift her out of the seat. She won’t be bitching me out the entire walk home because I ruined her shoes.
“Wait!” Beth wiggles in my arms and
reaches for the Jeep.
Can’t she permit me one nice act? “Dammit, Beth, let me help you.”
Ignoring me, Beth leans into the passenger side. The back of her shirt hitches up, exposing her smooth skin and Chinese symbols tattooed along her spine. My eyes follow the path of the symbols until they disappear into her jeans.
Way too quickly for me, she leans back into my arms, two six-packs of beer cradled against her chest.
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My eyes flicker from the beer to Beth.
She shrugs. “Six wasn’t enough.”
For me, it’s plenty. I don’t want a drinking partner tonight and if I did, it wouldn’t be her. I kick the door shut and wade out of the mud.
Beth’s light. Weighs one hundred; maybe one-o-five wet.
“You’re obsessed with touching me,” she
says.
I jostle Beth to shut her up. The beer cans clank together as she juggles them to prevent them from falling out of her lap. “Readjusting”
Beth did shut her up, but it positioned her head closer to mine. I stare straight ahead and try not to focus on the sweet scent of roses drifting from her hair.
“You are obsessed with touching me. You
could have put me down forever ago.”
Withdrawn into my own head, I hadn’t
noticed that we’d entered her uncle’s woods.
“Sorry.”
I place Beth on her feet, snatch both six-packs from her hands, and stalk in the direction of her house. Scott all but bought billboard signs announcing that alcohol was off-limits for Beth.
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Lucky for her, I drove along the creek
toward Scott’s property. Otherwise, it could have been one hell of a walk—for her.
Something tells me she’s not the outdoorsy type.
She stays a few steps behind and I
appreciate the silence. Fall crickets chirp and a slight breeze rustles through the leaves on the trees. Right over the next hill is Scott’s pasture and his back barn. A twig snaps behind me as Beth rushes to my side. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you home.”
A light grip pulls on my biceps. “The hell you are.”
I stop, not because Beth’s touch halts me, but because I find her attempt to physically stop me amusing. “You’ve fulfilled your
obligation. You came to the party, now I’m taking you home. We’re done. I don’t have to look at you. You don’t have to look at me.”
Beth bites her lower lip. “I thought we were starting over.”
What the hell? Isn’t this what she wanted—
to be left alone? “You hate me.”
Beth says nothing, neither confirming nor denying what I said, and the thought that my
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words are true causes my heart to clench.
Screw it. I don’t have to understand her. I don’t need her. I turn my back to her and push
forward—through the tall grass of the pasture, toward the red barn.
“Have you ever drunk alone?” she asks.
I freeze. When I don’t answer, she continues,
“It sucks. I did it once—when I was fourteen.
It makes you feel worse. Alone. My friend…”
She falters. “My best friend and I agreed that we’d never drink alone again. We promised we’d have each other’s backs.”
It’s weird to hear Beth talk so openly and part of me wishes she’d go back to being
foulmouthed and rude. She seems less human then. “Is there a reason why you’re telling me this?”
The grass rustles as she fidgets. “Six of those beers are mine and I have a little more than four hours to curfew. I guess I’m saying we could call a truce for tonight and neither one of us have to be alone.”
“Your uncle Scott would crucify me.”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
I glance over my shoulder and watch as she weaves through the flowing grains to reach me.
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“I swear I have more to lose than you do.
He won’t know.”
Mud spots her face, cakes in her hair, and stains her clothes. Half of that mud Beth gained on our trip in. I should have told her what she looked like before we went to the party, but Beth was laughing. Smiling. I
selfishly held on to the moment.
On top of that, Isaiah said I made her cry. I assess the small beauty in front of me. There’s more to her, I know there is. I saw it in her eyes when she laughed with me in the Jeep.
Felt it in her touch as we danced.
I must be losing my mind. “One beer.”
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STRAW IS SOFT TO LIE ON.
Sort of scratchy.
Comfortable.
Great for weightlessness.
It smells musty and dusty and dirty. The
corners of my lips flinch in a moment of joy.
Musty. Dusty. And dirty. Those words flow well together. Staring at the shadows from the light created by the camping lantern Ryan found in the corner of Scott’s barn, I inhale deeply. I’m finally high.
Not pot high. Ryan’s too straitlaced for that.
Airy in alcohol would be a better description.
Three beers. Isaiah would laugh his ass off.
Three beers and I’m floating. Guess that’s what happens when you stay sober for a couple of weeks in a row.
Isaiah.
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My chest aches.
“My best friend is pissed at me and I’m
pissed at him.” I’m the first to break the silence beyond the crack and hiss of beer cans popping open and the rustle and cooing of birds in the rafters. “My only friend.”
In slow motion, Ryan rolls his head to look at me. He sits on the ground with his torso sloppily supported by a stack of baled hay. A glaze covers his light brown eyes. I give him major props. At six beers, the boy has drunk me under the table. Correction—under bales of hay. “Which one?”