Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(32)

I can feel his gaze on me, probably wondering what I did to get beaten up by them.

“I’m going to head home,” I tell Terrell. Ma always warns me about people who try to do you favors.

He says nothing, watching me as I hold back tears. My arms shake violently as I try to push myself up. The pain isn’t as bad as other wounds I’ve gotten before, but this hurts so much more because of Dre.

“I’ll get you more ice packs.”

I look at him again, his face becoming clearer as my vision focuses. He has this soft, worried expression on his face that makes me feel like this stranger and I are friends.

I watch him leave the room. Moments later, he’s back with a bag of what seems to be frozen vegetables. “We only had these,” he says, holding up the bag.

He walks toward me cautiously. “Where does it hurt most?”

I point to my right side, and he climbs onto the bed, looking at me quizzically. I nod, figuring he wants consent or something, before he lifts my shirt a little and places the icy bag on the part I pointed out. I squeeze my eyes shut. It stings, but it’s manageable.

The room goes silent as my side tingles and numbs. Terrell stands, observing me carefully, gazing across different parts of my body.

I can’t help but notice his Spider-Man pajama bottoms. My brothers both own similar pairs.

“I know the guys who beat you up,” he starts nervously. Most people know them. “And … I don’t know if me saying this makes you feel any better, but they went easy on you.”

I guess that doesn’t surprise me.

“I didn’t see the fight happen. If I did, I wouldn’t have watched, trust me—I would have tried to help if it meant you being a little less hurt…” He bites his lip and looks away, his sentence feeling incomplete.

There’s something about Terrell that feels so familiar.

“It’s okay,” I tell him.

Silence creeps in again, crawling into the bed and hugging me, trying not to graze itself against my cuts and bruises.

I slip away, Dre’s face floating in my mind, the breakup replaying in a loop. I’m not that surprised by it, just hurt. I always get a little hurt when I lose parts of Dre. Like when he first started dealing after his ma and her boyfriend chucked him out. I lost another part of him when he started beating people up for popularity and respect. I lost another part of him when he moved up the ranks in his gang. I lose parts of him constantly. This was bound to happen someday.

I should have prepared better for the inevitable.

“Do you feel a little better?” Terrell asks.

I almost forget where I am again.

“Yeah, I do, thanks,” I say, just wanting to get home. He smiles at that, and dimples appear in his cheeks. They really suit him.

“Good, I was worried for you.”

I pause, wanting a moment to go by before I have to tell him again that I’m going, but before I get the chance to, he’s talking.

“Do you still play music?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips like he’s daring me in some way. I scrunch my eyebrows together in confusion.

“Music?”

He nods. “I remember you played the piano.”

I feel really freaked out all of a sudden. Who is Terrell?

I squint at him again, taking in all his features. I still can’t figure it out.

“You’re trying to remember me,” he states.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling bad.

He shakes his head, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. “Nah, it’s okay, memory is weird like that—I just find you really memorable…” He pauses, eyes drifting to my side. “It’s probably melting now … I’ll take that away for you.” He lifts the frozen bag up, and my side immediately misses the cold sting.

I wish he’d finish his sentence. I want to know why I can’t remember him.

He leaves the room and I poke my side, the feel of my finger sending shocks to my chest.

I scan his room slowly. It’s clean, but small and old like mine. Wallpaper peeling at the corners, and a torn-up desk chair with the foam spilling out.

Terrell walks back in and I see this as my chance.

“Where should I know you from?” I ask.

“Middle school,” he starts, looking away. “We used to talk quite a bit before you left. I was new to the school in eighth grade and you were … nice to me. We also kissed once, I guess, and … It was my first kiss, and you don’t really forget those—”

“We kissed?” I splutter, not expecting that.

“Just once,” he repeats, stopping himself like he wants to say more.

Why don’t I remember him?

“And you remember me?” I ask.

He nods, like it’s a weird thing for me to ask.

“I could never really forget you, Devon. Besides, when you got into that fancy school, you were the talk of the neighborhood.”

I remember the eggs thrown at my house when I got in. Resentment breeds contempt.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember much from around that time—it’s like my memory is faulty.” There’s a twinge in my side.

“Memory is weird like that,” he says again.

I knew something was familiar about him, but I feel like I would remember someone I kissed.