Game On (19 page)

And now I really, really hate him.

It's weird, when you've known someone your entire life, when that someone lives right next door to you for years and years, and you never know what's going on behind her walls—both the walls of her house and the walls she built on her own.

“Yeah,” I say. “Crazy. So why would you even put up with that?”

She winces, as if the words actually hurt her. “It's not that easy,” she says. “He didn't start off like that. When we started dating, he was sweet. He did everything for me. And I know you hate each other,” she adds, glancing at me. “But he was actually nice to me. And then—”

Her mouth hangs open, as if she's trying to piece her words together. “I don't even know what happened. He'd go from hot to cold. Tell me he loved me, and follow up with I'd never get anyone other than him. That no one would ever want someone like me.”

Yeah, so he's an idiot.

“You're too smart to fall for that,” I tell her. I meant it as a compliment—I mean, it's no secret that she's a genius—but if looks could kill, I'd already be six feet under.

“
It's not something you
fall
for. It doesn't matter how smart you are. It happens because there are shitty guys out there who don't give a crap about anyone but themselves, and the girls they date become some twisted sort of prized possession that they don't want to share with anything, or anyone. You don't see it until it's too late, until your heart's attached, until you believe the shit they're pouring into your brain, and it's like bleach. It poisons you. Eats at you, until you really believe you're not good enough for anyone else.”

Her face flushes, but her gaze doesn't waver for a second. And now, it's official: I'm a complete and total asshole.

“So what happened?” I finally ask. “To make you dump him?”

Tears stream down her cheeks, and it hits me that I'm so tired of seeing this girl cry. Not in a frustrated way—more of a “whose ass do I need to kick” way. Except I do know whose ass I would have to kick, and that's not exactly an option.

She sniffles. Wipes her eyes. “I think I finally realized I didn't
need
to be good enough for anyone else. That I just need to be good enough for me. And…” She trails off, looking back to the ceiling. “I was just tired,” she says on an exhale. “And love shouldn't make you tired. It should make you feel alive. Right?”

Her eyes meet mine, and something inside my chest lurches. I would say that it's my heart, but that's stupid. Hearts don't do that unless you're in deep with someone. And that—that's not us. She's hot. She's smart. She keeps me on my toes and calls me on my crap.

But that's not us.

The timer on the oven beeps. Without a word, she hops up and strides to the kitchen.

Distraction
is good. Distraction gives me a chance to process whatever the hell just happened. Hearing that Harris is a douche is nothing new; hearing that he's a stalker-douche who tore down one of the smartest girls in town is an entirely different level of asshole-ism.

Bri returns with two plates full of pizza. She plops onto the floor, places our food on the coffee table, and reaches behind her for the remote. She cranks the TV's volume right as her show starts, the one with the two brothers who chase demons or ghosts or whatever it is they do. Confession hour is clearly over. But sometimes, you don't have to talk—sitting with someone can be all you need. All
they
need.

So I slip to the floor and sit beside her. I eat my pizza. And I watch her show, which turns out to not be so stupid after all. Though these angels don't really mesh with the ones I learned about in Sunday school. These are some vengeful bastards.

Once it's over, she turns off the TV, sending the room into a quiet darkness. She tilts her head toward the door. “I'm sorry I'm a total buzzkill tonight. You can leave now, if you want.”

She's not a buzzkill. If anything, this is probably the most fun I've had in months: sitting on a living room floor watching a not-so-stupid show and eating frozen pizza with a girl I don't know as well as I thought I did. It's a night I'm not sure I want to end. It's not the crazy-inducing quiet; it's the comfortable quiet. The comfortable quiet I've never really had before.

And that's why I ask, “What if I don't want to?”

Her eyebrows pull together. “Huh?”

This is stupid. I'm about to do something really stupid, and it could go so many different ways, but I hope it doesn't go the way of her calling the cops. Or running for one of her dad's shotguns.

I sit on the edge of her couch. “What if I want to stay here tonight? With you?”

“
And why would you do that?”

“Because there's no sense in both of us being alone when it's the last thing we want.”

She watches me as I take off my first practice cleat, and wait. Take off the next, and wait some more. I give her time to stop me, to throw me out, to tell me I'm totally insane.

But she doesn't.

“These past few weeks have been nuts,” I tell her. “And the only time things haven't been nuts, the only time I've felt kind of normal, is when I've been with you. So I'm thinking that I can lie here, and you can maybe lie beside me, or I can even sleep on the floor with you in your room. But for one night, we can forget that we're lonely, and that people are crazy, and we can just be together.”

Silence. I'm met with nothing but total silence. Which means I probably am insane. But I keep watching her, keep waiting, long enough for my vision to adjust to the darkness and make out her eyes, which are trained on me.

“No funny business?” she finally says. “I've got one heck of a kick if you try anything.”

I have zero intentions of funny business. Even though I wouldn't complain if she was up for it. “No funny business. Just you, me, a blanket, and—hopefully—some sleep for you. Sleep-sleep, not waking-up-at-midnight sleep.”

“What about a
Supernatural
marathon?”

“We can have a binge-athon, if that's what you want.”

“That sounds kind of amazing.” She takes a deep breath and says, “I thought we were doing the friends thing again.”

“
We can be friends who sleep together.” My lips curve into a smirk. “Just not, you know, that way. Think of it like one of our old campouts, except inside. With heat. And a TV.” I pause. “Okay, so it's really not a campout at all. But you get the point.”

It takes a minute or two, but she flips the TV back on, bathing the room in its light. She moves to the couch, settling in beside me. Her leg brushes mine as she kicks her feet up onto the coffee table. And while I'm definitely pushing it by doing so, I sling my arm across the back of the couch, behind her. But she does nothing. Says nothing. If anything, she relaxes. And for the first time in weeks, so do I.

“Eric?” she says.

Her voice shouldn't do this to me—shouldn't make my heart slam against my chest. Shouldn't make me weak. Shouldn't make me want to kiss the bare shoulder right beside me, and not stop there.

Damn it.

I clear my throat. “Yeah?”

She's silent for a moment before saying, “Thank you for staying.”

A normal response would be “you're welcome.” So I shouldn't tell her that she feels way too right beside me, and how downright terrifying that is. That despite the terror, I can't help but think that maybe coming here tonight was the best decision I've made in a long time.

But staying was a mistake. She shouldn't be resting against my side. My breaths shouldn't be slowing and I shouldn't want to melt against her and stay here for however long she'll let me.

Having
feelings for someone is awesome, until those feelings are destroyed. I can't go through that again. I can't. But I can't find it in me to move. I don't
want
to move. And that's even scarier.

Instead of telling her all that, I say, “Yeah. Anytime.”

~

The sunlight streaming through the windows wakes me the next morning. Still tucked beneath my arm, Bri breathes steadily, her head resting on my shoulder. She passed out halfway through her binge-athon, and I followed soon after.

That's a problem.

Relaxing causes you to turn your blinders off. When you relax, when you let that guard down, that's when the pain is able to creep in and attack you. I relaxed with the last girl I dated, Rachel, and then caught her in the backseat of Randy's truck on a Saturday night.

I'm not saying that I'm scared of Bri hurting me. I'm saying that, for the first time in over a year, I'm willing to
let
someone hurt me. Which isn't an option. But I can't move. Literally can't, because I'm trapped under the neighbor girl.

Definitely a problem.

More than anything, I wish it didn't have to be a problem, because this? It feels pretty damn good. But she deserves better. Even if I can't take my eyes off her, even if I
am
willing to let her in, I can't let her do the same.

She inhales sharply and stirs. Her eyes flutter open. And despite the tightening in my chest, I can't help but give her a small smile. I'd be lucky as hell to wake up like this every morning.

But I can't. And judging from the cloudiness of her face, she feels the same.

“
I should go.” I say it quietly, but in the stillness of the morning, the words sound louder than a bullhorn.

She pushes away from me slowly, looking like she's still trying to wake up. Nodding, she says, “That's probably a good idea.” She pauses, and adds, “Thank you.”

“Did it help?” I ask.

She nods again. And that makes it worth it, even if my stomach's sinking more and more by the second.

Chapter
Fourteen

Bri

I wanted him to kiss me.

I wanted him to lay me back on that couch and kiss me until I couldn't breathe, until I saw stars, until the sun set and rose again.

And that's why I'm so, so glad that he left.

He's the boy next door. He's the guy who shoved a frog in my face when we were eight (which actually kick-started my biology-obsession, but that's not the point). The one whose loud-ass truck has woken me up more times than I can count. The one who's an over-confident smart-mouth who hasn't only rounded the bases multiple times, he's probably made up his own bases.

But.

He's the one who lets me vent. Who lets me get pissed, and then sits on the porch swing with me in complete silence. Who spends the night with me when there's a chance he'd be grounded for life. He's the one who, in his own crazy, redneck boy sort of way, basically went to jail for me. Which was kind of a stupid choice, but he did what he thought was right.

He hasn't come near me since he left on Wednesday morning. Three days without each other, even though he's been right next door the entire time. I should be grateful for that, but honestly? It sucks. I've gotten used to having him around. He was right—hanging out with each other makes things suck a little less.

I
walk outside on Saturday morning, the crisp March wind brushing my skin. I love this time of year. Soccer season officially starts next week, right along with baseball season. Which means less time with Eric. Also, his last day at the center is next weekend. Which means even less time together.

It shouldn't bother me. Thinking about it shouldn't make my chest tighten or my stomach clench. But it does.

His front door closes as I reach my car. He trudges down the porch steps, his hands stuffed into the pocket of his Bulldogs hoodie. There's no stopping my smile, but I bite it back while he approaches. He left. He avoided
me
, and for good reason—he was doing both of us a favor. So no grinning or giggling like a girl with a crush.

“Mornin', sunshine,” he says, flashing a smile. It's not his normal grin—it's careful. Measured, like he's testing me.

And now I'm totally grinning like a girl with a crush.

We drive to the center in silence, except for the music pouring through my speakers. He's falling into place here now, after a few weeks, smiling and carrying on with the visitors like he's been here forever.

Seeing him at the center makes my heart even happier.

After breakfast, he disappears into Harry's office while I head outside to the field. He strides out of the building a few minutes later. With a bat. And a baseball tee.

What.

Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “You do realize this is a soccer field, right? My turf.”

His
smile doesn't waver as he plops the tee right in front of me. “Yes. And I also realize that these kids have clearly never been exposed to the magic of baseball. It's my job to spread the gospel across the nations.”

“You totally swiped that from the Bible.”

“Paraphrased, but yeah. Pastor's kid privileges. I'm allowed.”

He reaches over and grabs my whistle, which is hanging around my neck. He leans down to blow and sets off a wave of butterflies in my stomach. I would totally be annoyed if I wasn't staring at his mouth.

This isn't going to work.

The kids run over, cramming together in front of Eric. I might as well be chopped liver.

He claps his hands together. “All right, you little ankle-biters, here's the deal: Next week is my last day.”

There's a collective groan throughout the group. Eric hangs his head, a tiny smile threatening his lips. And—is he blushing? Since when is Eric Perry a
blusher
?

“That's not fair,” Brantley says. “I was just starting to like you.”

Oh, my heart. How about making it sink a little more?

Eric points the bat at him. “And that, kid, is why you get to hit the ball first. We've got two Saturdays to turn you into an all-star.”