If I'm Being Honest(49)

He laughs, and I feel a thrill of hope. “Oh, he loves distance runs. The rest of the team not so much.” I wait for him to go on, to elaborate.

We jog in place until the light changes. “Do you like your teammates?” I ask after a minute. I jump sidewise to avoid a fallen palm frond.

“Yeah, well enough,” he says.

A three-word response. I’d sigh in frustration if I weren’t winded. “I know some of those guys can be hard to be around,” I offer. “Sometimes I think they only care about the next party.”

“I guess,” Andrew says neutrally. “They’re all right. You should come to a game,” he adds, and I feel my heart jump.

“I’d love to,” I say enthusiastically.

“You could try to get Paige to come,” he goes on. “She’s made some vow never to attend an organized sporting event.”

“Oh,” I say. My heart crashes to the ground like a dancer who’s lost her footing. “Yeah. That would be fun. We could maybe watch a movie or TV afterward,” I suggest, recovering. “I just started Sherlock, and I’m dying to watch the next one.”

I watched the whole thing, actually. When Doctor Strange came out, I went on a pretty bad Benedict bender. But Andrew doesn’t know that.

“Sherlock’s pretty cool,” Andrew replies, not even glancing in my direction. I feel frustration rising in my chest again. What does he want to hear? Why does everything he’s interested in bringing up to Paige fall flat when it comes from me? “Or we could hang out at another party,” he suggests.

I feel my stride falter. “You’d want to?”

Andrew’s steps slow. “As friends for now,” he says carefully. “But . . . I’m beginning to feel like I misjudged you, Cameron. I’m not saying I’m ready for something more. Not yet. But . . . sometime. I hope.” He gives me a smile, which I find myself returning.

We run in silence, passing palm trees on our left. It’s a few moments before I notice he’s running behind me, the way he used to.

But the frustration hasn’t entirely subsided. I should feel happy, satisfied, validated. He’s almost ready to give me a second chance. It’s exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I’ve planned for. Instead, my mind circles on unanswered questions. If what we have is real, or if it’s ever going to be, wouldn’t he want to share his worries, insecurities, and interests with me the way he does Paige? Why doesn’t he want to know what interests me, what worries me? And, if we’re going to be more than friends, why is it always me working my hardest to be enough for him?

Real love is never easy. I remind myself of my mother’s words.

They’re more hollow comfort than they were the day she said them.

I struggle to find my stride, my breath pinched and feet heavy. We only get half our usual distance before I tell Andrew I want to turn back. We head for home, the sun dipping into twilight.





Twenty-Three



I CROSS THE FINISH LINE IN FIRST place in our Wednesday cross-country meet. For the first time I can remember, there’s no one in the stands waiting for me.

I wipe the sweat from my face, feeling it stick to me in the uncomfortable October sun. Finishing my stretches on the red rubber of the Beaumont track, I fight wishing my friends were here. It feels juvenile, and I know they have good reasons. Morgan’s out of town for the week, filming on location in Vancouver. Elle told me she had to work on her next video—which I’ll admit was an unusual excuse. She’s never skipped one of my races, not even the time she got mono. Part of me twists uncomfortably, wondering if Elle resents the time I’ve spent with Paige’s group instead of her and my other friends. I have to find a way to bring them together.

I won’t pretend I’m not a little lonely without Elle and Morgan here. I pull off my gray sweatband, a birthday gift from Andrew a couple years ago, along with the thoroughly worn Nikes on my aching feet. Wringing the band in my hands distractedly, I watch my teammates join up with family and friends for congratulatory hugs. Wrestling down resentment, I walk in the direction of the locker room, unable to keep myself from searching the bleachers in irrational expectation of finding my friends. I recognize Leila’s younger sister, who’s a sophomore, and—

Brendan?

He’s sitting on the bottom bleacher, right behind the low green chain-link fence separating the stadium concrete from red rubber. Our eyes meet, and he grins. He’s not on his phone or watching other runners. He’s sitting on his own, expectant. Like . . . he’s waiting for me.

I walk up to him. “Are you here for me?” The question comes out blunter than I intended, and I’m struck with self-consciousness. If he’s not here for me, this isn’t a good look.

“Of course not.” Brendan watches me, running a hand through his curls. “I’m a huge cross-country enthusiast. I’m amazed you didn’t know that about me.”

A winded laugh escapes me. “You do constantly surprise me.” I’m joking, yet the moment the words leave my lips, I realize how true they are. First his quiet but unwavering confidence when he was rejecting my apologies, then his sense of humor, then his easy charisma with the MIT rep.

“I stayed after school to work on The Girl’s a Sorceress,” he explains. He stands up from the bleachers, and we walk together toward the locker rooms. “I had time before my dad expects me home and decided I’d come watch. You’re fast,” he says, eyeing me. “I’m trying not to be intimidated by your obvious athleticism.”