"That's what personal trainers are for."
"You. Are. Not. A. Personal. Trainer," she managed to grunt out.
"Three times a week, I am. Doctor approved, too. So shut up and do fifteen curls."
Trent was in his glory, watching her suffer. These workouts had been his idea. Frustrated with "Lazy Fi-Fi," he'd actually lobbied her parents to get the orthopedist's okay.
They moved between weight machines, hit the treadmills for a fast mile, and looped back through for another circuit. Trent was healthy and six foot two, but still didn't alter his workout for a girl, five foot six, with an injury. They'd talk a little, but Fi was out of shape. She tried not to waste breath.
After two minutes in plank, she finally collapsed face-first to the ground. "You're going to kill me."
"Well, we're done." He snapped her with his towel. "Anyway, Milton's club team is killer. Wouldn't want you to get cut."
"We're not getting into this again."
"Just never thought you'd give up lacrosse for a guy."
"I'm not giving up," she snapped. "And it's not like I want club."
"So why do it?"
"I'm doing the best I can with my choices," she said, grabbing her bag.
No, her dream college experience didn't include Milton. But priorities change-and you can't have everything.
"Anyway, what if he gets hit by a bus?" Trent said. "You could end up with no lacrosse and no Marcus."
"Don't be ridiculous."
Trent shrugged. "Need a ride?"
"No, I've got the car." Remarkably. "I'm going to Marcus's house."
"Like that?" Trent said, pointing at her sweaty clothes.
"I'm going to shower first." She could just imagine what Marcus's parents-or, God, Jackson-would say if she showed up like this, dirty and covered in germs.
"You should just move in," he said. "You're over there enough."
"Can we not do this?"
"I'm not doing anything," he said, pulling on a sweatshirt. "Run tomorrow. At least two miles."
"Two?"
He held up two fingers. "Later, Fi-Fi. Have fun with the boyfriend."
Fi grabbed a quick shower and drove to Marcus's house. She'd managed to get the car today, but it was rare. Trent dropped her off most of the time. Generally, he had been pretty decent about Marcus. He seemed much angrier about lacrosse and Milton.
She'd called Trent the night she and Marcus had met-right after she sent Ryan to the attic, to find the Lord of the Rings books she never finished.
"I met someone," she'd told him, probably grinning like an idiot.
When he didn't respond, she'd remembered their unresolved kissing issues. "I'm sorry . . . I just, well, he was really great. And you were the first person I wanted to tell."
"Why?"
"You're my best friend."
She'd heard him sigh deeply. "Okay," he'd said eventually. "Tell me."
For the next few weeks, Trent had teased her some-that mean kind of teasing that really didn't suit him.
Fi-Fi, you've got bigger biceps than he does. You sure you didn't get a concussion along with that broken ankle? You really think that pale, skinny guy can handle a jock for a girlfriend?
"If I'm so unappealing," Fi finally snapped, "why would you want to date me?"
"Good question. You're probably not my type, anyway."
"So go find your type and stop picking on Marcus!"
"I'm not picking on him. I'm being honest!"
"No, you're being a spoiled brat! You didn't get me so now no one can."
"Don't flatter yourself, Fi. I'm not heartbroken."
"Then stop acting like an ass."
"Well, you stop being all sappy. You've got the most amazing boyfriend in the whole world! We know!"
"I don't do that."
"Oh my God, if I hear one more Marcus says I'm going to punch someone in the face."
It was their worst fight ever. They stood there, staring each other down and breathing hard, until Fi just deflated.
"I hate this," she said. "I hate fighting with you."
"We always fight," he said, but he was slumping a little, too. "Ask Ryan."
"Not like this. I want to go back to normal."
"Yeah, me too."
They hugged until Trent had noogied her.
After that, a new girl-and another and then another-grabbed Trent's attention. "I'm trying to find out my type," Trent told her. "Like you said."
She was pulling up to Marcus's house when her phone buzzed.
A text from Trent: 2 miles. Finish in no more than 15 mins.
And right after, from her brother: I need the car in an hour.
She rolled her eyes and rang the bell.
Jackson opened the door, frowning. "I didn't know you were coming today."
"Sorry I didn't clear it with you. Is Marcus home?"
A rhetorical question-of course he was home. His overprotective family hardly ever let him out of the house.
"He's not feeling well," Jackson said.
"You say that every time I come over."
"It's true every time you come over."
"Look, I haven't eaten peanuts. I didn't roll in flour. Let me in."
He kept his place in the doorway. "Does he know you're coming?"
"I can just text him, Jackson." She held up her phone.
Finally, he stepped aside. "He's upstairs."
Despite the weirdness of the King house, the Girlfriend in the Bedroom policy was a big perk. The whopping five times Marcus's parents let him come to her house, her parents didn't let him up the first step.
Jackson followed her as far as the kitchen, where Marcus's mother stood elbow-deep in some mysterious concoction. She wore latex gloves and a hairnet. "Well, hello, Fi," she said, like it was a surprise to see her there.
"Hi," Fi said, pointing toward the stairs. "He's in his room?"
Mrs. King nodded. "Might be sleeping, though." With her hands immersed in the mystery pot, she nodded toward the pill divider on the kitchen table. "Could you bring up his four o'clocks?"
"Sure."
"Don't forget-" Jackson said.
"I know," she said, trying to keep her tone pleasant in front of Mrs. King. "Wash my hands and count to fifty. I only did it wrong one time."
"It only takes one time," he said.
Good Lord, he is PARANOID. Fi soaped her hands while singing-in her head, twice-the alphabet song. She used three paper towels to thoroughly dry. Then she filled a glass with water and picked his three pills from the "evening" box in the twenty-eight-slotted pill case and went upstairs.
"Hey," Marcus said thickly, turning to his side and opening his eyes.
"Little late for a nap, isn't it?" She sat on the bed, holding her pill hand out.
He scooped them from her palm, swallowing them down with a quick drink of water. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he pulled her down beside him. After a long kiss, he said, "You're a great way to wake up."
He looked pale. "You don't look that great," she said.
"You're so good for my ego," he said, rubbing a thumb along her jaw.
"Seriously. Are you not feeling well? Should you call your doctor?"
"Just how it is," he said, giving an easy shrug.
She hated how Marcus was never fully well-hated it more than he did. She remembered that fight with her parents, when her dad told her to stop whining about her broken ankle. He was right-things could have been so much worse.
She'd never forget the first time he vomited in front of her-well, on the other side of the door. Marcus tore into the bathroom, and she listened to him hurl. It was a gut-wrenching sound.
He came out a few minutes later, pale and embarrassed. "You okay?" he asked, keeping a distance like she might spook.
"You're asking me?"
"I'll understand if you want to leave."
She felt like she might vomit. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No. Not at all."
Then he hugged her. He smelled like mint toothpaste.
Now, Marcus picked up her hand and put it on his head. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he bent into it, closing his eyes like a cat. "Don't worry, I'm fine," he said.
"I hate how you're stuck in the house. You've been in bed all day, haven't you?"
He pulled her closer. "Well, I'm not complaining about the bed."
They spent the next few hours as they always did-a loose pattern of making out, talking about their day, doing homework, and making out. At six, her brother texted where's the car? just as Jackson pounded on the other side of the door. He had a unique, side-of-the-fist, angry kind of pound that she'd never heard anyone replicate.
Marcus gave her a quick peck on the forehead, before sitting up. "Yeah?"