Aftermath(38)

The thought makes him sick.

Skye needed to learn self-defense? Nah, of course not. Everything would have been sunshine and roses after her brother was implicated in a school shooting.

“Well?” she says, and she crosses her arms.

He looks at her. No, he stares.

If someone had asked him three years ago to picture Skye at sixteen, this would have been exactly it. Blond ponytail still swinging from marching across the tarmac. Green eyes blazing over some outrage she must set right. Wide lips set in a firm line that makes him want to find exactly the right thing to say, the joke that will make those lips curve in a grin, light up her eyes, bring out her dimples.

The pretty girl he remembers has grown into exactly what he expected – and, maybe, feared, too. A young woman who makes him feel like he’s never seen another girl in his life, and all he wants to do is find something to say, anything that will make her stay and talk to him. He sees Skye, and he feels thirteen again, sneaking looks at this amazing girl, and realizing she’s actually looking back at him.

“Jesse? Are you listening to me?”

He nods. Just nods.

“Am I going to get an answer?”

He almost asks what the question was. Which would be a very bad idea.

He takes a moment to think first. “Why I left Southfield?”

“Right. Maybe you can answer it instead of acting like there’s someplace you’d rather be?”

There’s no place I’d rather be.

He clears his throat. “I was asked to leave. After a fight.”

“You attacked a younger kid.”

“It wasn’t —” He inhales and eases back, putting space between them so he can find his balance. “Yes, he was a freshman, but I didn’t attack him. It was a fight.”

“You’re saying he started it?”

“He —” Jesse runs a hand through his hair. “No, I went after him, which means I was in the wrong, and I’m just lucky it didn’t go on my record. I accept responsibility.”

“He provoked it.”

“I don’t want to make excuses, okay? It’s like Saturday. Are you going to say you provoked that fight by being sarcastic? No. Stuff had been going on at Southfield. It escalated, and I blew up. A response disproportionate to the situation. I accepted the blame. Still do. If you’re asking whether I deserved to be kicked out? I did. If you’re asking if I’ve turned into a bully? I sure hope not. If you’re asking whether you need to worry about your personal safety? No. Absolutely not. I didn’t trap you in the newspaper office. I didn’t set the fire. I didn’t break into your aunt’s place. What I have done is been an ass to you. And yeah, maybe that is bullying. No, not maybe. It was. I treated you badly in front of others, which gave them permission to do the same.” The words come in a rush, and he has to gasp for breath. “I’m sorry, Skye. I could not be more sorry than I am.”

Silence. He has his gaze fixed on her forehead, not daring to look her in the eye. When he does, he can’t tell what she’s thinking. She’s just standing there, watching him, and when her mouth opens, he wants to run. He’s sure whatever she’s about to say he doesn’t want to hear.

“I missed you,” she says.

He inhales sharply. Those words. The way she says them, her voice quiet, wistful. It’s like a power drive to the gut. Everything he’s done wrong in the past week – everything he’s done wrong in the last three years – comes back, and he has this horrible urge to do something awful. To roll his eyes. To shrug and say, “Whatever.” To hurt her and make her walk away – get away as fast as she can. Make her write him off before he can disappoint her. Because he will disappoint her. There is nothing he’s done in the past three years that would make her proud of him, make him the guy she remembers, the guy she misses.

But she’s standing there, with those words hanging between them, and she’s blushing, and while part of him wants to run, the rest just keeps on staring. The rest hears her say I missed you and wants to say I missed you, too.

Missed you so much, Skye.

She rubs her hands over her reddening cheeks. “Wow. Sorry. That was – I mean —” She waves her arms, a gesture he knows well, a flail, as if physically throwing off sentimentality, her face scrunching, like she’s been caught making daisy chains and reciting poetry.

“Okay, so we’re good?” she says.

He nods.

Wow, cool. Totally eloquent. Just stand there and bob your head like one of those stupid dolls. Hey, at least that might convince her you’re an idiot unworthy of her time and attention.

“Good,” she says. “We’re done, then. I’ll see you around.”

She starts to walk away. He jumps forward and says, “Wait!”

She turns. He opens his mouth, and what he wants to say is Do you still like milkshakes?

Remember those crazy milkshakes you’d get at the Creamery? With gummy bears and M&M’s and so many toppings you had to eat it with a spoon? I’d roll my eyes and act like it was so embarrassing when you ordered that. It was hilarious to watch you try to eat it, but mostly, I liked seeing how much you loved those crazy things. They still have them, you know. It’s a bit of a hike, but we can grab a taxi. My treat.

“Hmm?” she says, and he realizes he’s standing there, mouth ajar, nothing coming out.