A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(18)

I stand still, and bring my wrist to my nose slowly, breathing in Wes's  scent. I think about Taryn's father, and how he warns her away from boys  constantly, because he never thinks any guy is good enough. That's not  what my dad was doing though. He was looking out for Wes-because I am  nothing but trouble. He's probably right, but he made me this way. And I  don't think I can stay away from Wes Stokes even if I tried.





Five





I wore Wes's shirt to bed last night. When I woke up this morning, I  took it off quickly, folded it, and tucked it underneath my blanket,  pillow, and piles of clothes on my bed. I'm not sure if I was hiding it  to keep it or just felt foolish that I wanted to keep it so badly.

What really felt humiliating was the way I kept checking my phone for a  text message from him all night and again this morning. I'm one step  away from putting bows and glitter in my hair.

Instead of waiting for nothing to happen, I put on my running pants and  push my earbuds in, letting my latest playlist fuel me for a run. I used  to run every morning my freshman year. That was when I was still under  the illusion that if I tried hard enough, I'd impress my father. He  never noticed, though. He called me lazy no matter how hard I worked,  how early I rose, or how many miles I trod. So I quit.         

     



 

I'm not sure what's pushing me to go this morning, but when my eyes  opened and saw the sun barely up, something felt different. My dad's  door is open as I pass it, his bed made. I shake my head because he  probably left after I walked away from him last night and just never  made it home from wherever he went. If he ran into … trouble … he didn't  call, so that's on him-not me.

I lock our door and shove the house key into the small pocket on the  side of my pants along with my iPod, then stretch for a few minutes  before testing out my legs in a jog. The burn comes faster than I  remember. This is what happens when I haven't run like this in months.

My pace is slow, but I refuse to stop, and I make it six or seven blocks  before I turn back into the neighborhood. I'm winding through streets  aimlessly, but I'm on a constant watch for Wes's truck, wondering which  house is his. My curiosity keeps driving me forward, pushing me for one  more block, one more quarter mile, until before too long, I find myself  at my high school's football field. The track is empty and the center  covered with weeds-because our football team is an afterthought. We're a  baseball school. My breathing is so heavy I feel like I can't catch up,  so I slow to a fast walk and eventually come to rest in front of the  bleachers with my hands clasped over my head.

This used to be so easy. All of it-easy. It seems impossible now. My  lungs feel as if they've been punctured by millions of staples, and my  sides ache with cramps. I look up at the stands and see flashes of my  youth. My dad liked to run. He said just because he was too old to play  ball didn't mean he couldn't run faster than other men, so when he'd run  on weekends, I'd join him here. My legs were always too small to tackle  the steps of the bleachers, but I'd still try. My hand instinctively  goes to the tiny line that measures about an inch at the bottom of my  chin, a decade-old scar from a missed step that brought my face down  hard into the metal. My dad carried me home, his shirt pressed on my  chin to stop the bleeding, then he drove me to the ER for stitches. My  first of many.

My chest still working in and out, my shoulders tight and my legs  pleading for me to quit, I reach into my pocket for my iPod, crank the  volume up, and begin to climb. It takes me a dozen or so steps before I  find an easy rhythm, but I run up and touch the bar at the top, turning  around and letting my weight carry me back down the sixty steps to the  bottom. I do it again, only this time faster, and I slow when I take the  steps down so I can feel the sting of my muscles working hard. I repeat  the pattern six more times, until my final sprint up the stairs ends in  a trip on the last step. I lunge forward and catch my body on the top  seat, my iPod slipping from my pocket and sliding along the metal and  over the edge. I grab the cord with my fingers, but not before the  weight of my device breaks it loose, and I hear it careen off the metal  support beams until it busts to pieces forty feet below.

Fuck.

I let my head fall to the cold step beneath me and roll onto my back,  pulling my legs into my chest with one arm and tugging my useless  headphones from my ears with my other hand. Balling the cord up in my  palm, I let my fist come down next to me a few times, vibrating the  metal. I hate running without music. I have no idea how I'll be able to  do this again tomorrow.

Maybe I'll just quit.

"That's it! Yes, do that again. Just like that."

My dad's voice echoes off the gym wall, and I stand quickly to see where  it's coming from. I lean over the back of the bleachers and scan the  parking lot and tennis courts behind me, but the grounds are just as  empty as they were when I ran through them. I step up on one of the  bars, locking my knees in place for balance and scan the rest of the  area, looking out at the ball field on the other side of campus, and  just as I see him, I hear his voice again.

"Yes!"

His words are faint, and I only hear them because he's yelling and it  echoes. He's catching for Wes. It's maybe seven thirty in the morning,  on a Saturday, and my father is crouched down in the dirt just like he  use to do with me. The vision hits my already-exhausted chest hard, and I  kneel down, letting my face rest against the metal handrail while I  watch something amazing happen-without me.

My father praises him after every single throw. It's as if I'm watching a  stranger the way he's excited, positive, and full of vigor. He throws  his glove down and jogs over to Wes several times, both of them facing  each other, the intricacies of what they're working on with grip and  fingers too fine for me to see from here. The longer I watch, the more  it hurts.         

     



 

I don't lie to myself. I'm jealous. This is envy, and I let the tear  fall down my face while I hide up here like a frightened stray cat. My  fucking iPod is broken beyond repair on the pavement below me, and I'm  not even sure I'll pick it up when I leave. I should care about that  more, but I'm consumed with what's happening hundreds of yards away.

When I can't take it anymore, I fill my lungs with a cleansing breath  and resolve not to look at them again. But I won't leave. I won't quit  what I started. I put in ten more passes up and down the bleachers until  my legs are jelly and I can barely feel my toes. My body is beating  with heat, and I'm winded, but I did it. The only person I wanted to  prove something to was me.

Before leaving, I pick up my cracked and jagged music player and hope by  some miracle it still works after a little love and attention. I jog  home, slower than I came here, and I shower and leave my house to spend  the day at Kyle's. No note left for my dad. No checking for messages  from Wes. Nobody cares where I am, so whatever.

On a last-minute whim, I grab Wes's shirt, mostly to torture myself  later with thoughts of him, and stuff it in my backpack, under what's  left of the Jim Beam I take from my dad's cabinet. He keeps it locked,  but he also hangs the key about a foot away from the cabinet-apathy at  its best.

Kyle is already in full slasher-mode by the time I get to his house. I  arrive just in time for the classic Halloween showing, and in the middle  of the movie, Conner sneaks in and jumps over the sofa, wedging himself  between us, his arms slung over our shoulders. We both punch at him,  and the scene turns into a wrestling brawl as Kyle lifts me over his  back and starts to spin, trying to fling my wild legs at his brother.

"I am not your weapon! Put me down!" I scream. Kyle slaps my ass hard,  and I hit him in the gut, sending him to his knees on the sofa. We're  laughing and rolling with each other when Taryn walks through the front  door with TK, Levi, and Wes beside her.

"Always with you two," she says.

"I didn't know you were bringing anyone," Kyle says, letting his hand  roll down my arm and onto my leg slowly-affectionately. I look at it  curiously then glance to Wes, who is also watching Kyle paint me with  his touch. Irritated, I fling his hand from me and move from his lap,  flipping him off as I storm out of the room.

"What?" His question comes out so innocent, which only pisses me off more.

"You don't fucking own me," I say, turning and squinting my eyes so  there's no mistaking how I feel about what he just did. I glance to Wes  again, who is pretending not to hear any of this, then I look to Taryn,  who smirks. I flip her off too.

I escape to the kitchen, but Taryn follows. I ignore her at first,  pulling the bottle from my backpack, and not bothering with a glass. I  take a long drink, and the familiar warmth fills my chest and numbs my  urge to care. I hold the bottle out for my friend, but she just twists  her mouth in a half frown before backing up and pulling herself to sit  up on the counter across from me.