Call It What You Want(7)

But there’s another part of me that doesn’t want to hurt him. There’s a part of me that wants his words to be real.

No. It’s worse than that. There’s a part of me that misses him.

I hate that part of me.

When we were fourteen, we had these dirt bikes, and we’d go tearing through the back woods of Herald Harbor. The area gets a lot of rain, and it was always muddy. Once we misjudged a stream crossing, and Connor’s wheels got stuck in the mud. He went flying. Sprained his ankle and broke his arm. Compound fracture. The bone came right through the skin. It was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

Well. Until last February.

But then, it was. He threw up all over himself. Couldn’t stop crying and puking.

My cell phone wouldn’t find a signal. I remember Connor digging his fingers into my forearm until his nails broke the skin. He was pale and shaking. “Please don’t leave me here, Rob. Please don’t leave me.”

I didn’t leave him. I dragged him half a mile until we got a signal.

I thought about that moment a lot after I found my father. After the cops and paramedics were gone, and my house smelled like blood and vomit. How I called Connor, knowing his family hated my family but having no one else to talk to.

He didn’t answer the phone.

I left a sobbing message on his voice mail.

He never called me back.

Now he’s standing in front of me, giving me a hard time about a stupid bottle of water, while his tray is packed with food.

Maybe I don’t miss him at all.

I make my eyes hard. “I’ve got it.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He smirks and turns away, shoving his wallet into his back pocket.

He must not have tucked the cash in all the way, because a ten-dollar bill catches on the edge of his pocket and flutters to the ground, landing right in front of the toe of my sneaker.

I stare at the cash. I wonder if this is a trap. A trick. I don’t want to pick it up. If I pick it up, I’m going to have to give it back to him, because I don’t want someone to see me snatch it from the ground and shove it in my pocket.

Did you see Rob Lachlan steal ten bucks in the cafeteria? So typical.

Yeah, that’s all I need. I’ve already got Maegan Day on my case because I didn’t throw confetti about our assigned partnership.

I grab the money from the ground and twist it between my fingers, then pay for my bottle of water with my own money. Once I have change, I go after Connor.

“Hey,” I call. “Connor.”

He’s made it to the table with our old crowd, but I don’t look at any of them. He sets his tray down and turns to look at me, his expression slightly wary, as if he’s worried he pushed too far, and I might throw a punch.

A small, dark part of me likes that.

“What?” he says.

“You dropped this.” I hold out the money.

He glances at it, then back at my face. The table behind him is quiet. Watching this interaction.

The symbolism isn’t lost on me, either.

The moment breaks. His eyes darken. “Keep it,” he says flippantly. “Use it to pay your legal bills.”

Then he turns away and drops onto the bench at his table. I’m dismissed. None of them are looking at me now.

My fist closes around the money. Hell if I’m going to stand here and demand the chance to return it to him. I wish I hadn’t bought the water. I wish I hadn’t gotten in line. I wish I didn’t have three dollars and seventy-five cents left to get through the week.

I wish I didn’t want so desperately to keep this money.

I wish for a lot of things.

None of them come true.

My face burns as I turn away. I head for the far side of the cafeteria. Maegan and her friends are gone. The double doors over here don’t lead anywhere I need to be, but I’m not likely to run into anyone I know.

Owen Goettler is still sitting at a table by himself. His mother is one of the dozens of people suing my family. He’s pulling his cheese sandwich into minuscule pieces. Trying to make it last, I guess. He’s never said a word to me. I’ve never said a word to him.

I drop the ten dollars in front of him. “Here,” I say. “Buy some real food.”

Then, before I can hear his response, and before I can change my mind, I blow through the doors of the cafeteria into the empty corridor beyond.





CHAPTER EIGHT

Maegan

When I get home from school, Samantha is in the backyard, a blue lacrosse stick in her hands, flinging balls against the rebounder in the back corner. Her motion is effortlessly fluid, the ball making a clean arc as it sails into the elastic, then springing back to land in the net of her stick. She comes at it from all angles, but no matter where she shoots from, the ball finds its way back to her.

I stand at the sliding back door and watch for a while. She’s got a knit cap over her blond hair, the ends pooling in the neck of her royal blue Duke sweatshirt. She’s a year older than me, and I remember standing just like this, years ago, watching her practice late into the night, trying to make varsity in her freshman year of high school.

She made varsity. She made it all the way. She was the family star. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep up.

I wonder if she’ll lose her scholarship. Keeping that college money is contingent on her playing. It’s not like they’ll give her a pass for the spring tournaments. Might look kind of awkward to have a fully pregnant athlete sprinting across the field.