Where the Road Takes Me

by Jay McLean

  “Hi, Trent,” she replied, but she didn’t break our stare.

  “O . . . kay . . .” He backed away slowly, leaving us alone. Alone—in our own little world—where it was just she and I and nothing else mattered.

  “Hi,” I said again.

  Her smile widened.

  “You’re talking to me at school?”

  She nodded. “Do you have plans for lunch?”

  I slammed my locker shut and answered, “Yes.”

  “Oh.” She finally broke our stare and dropped her gaze.

  I threw my arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the lockers and down the hallway. “With you, you silly fire-truck head.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Did you just call me a silly fuckhead?”

  I laughed. “I guess I did.”

  “Fire truck you,” she said as I opened the door that led to the school parking lot.

  “Where to?”

  “I’ll drive.”

  If she saw the kids at school gawking at us, she didn’t mention it. She drove with the top down, sunglasses on, and a smile on her face. She pulled into the abandoned basketball court that we’d gone to the night she’d ended up at the police station.

  Her hand brake squealed when she pulled at it. Grimacing, she noted, “I need to get that checked before I leave.”

  My heart clenched. Sometimes, I forgot that she was leaving. So I told her that.

  “I actually wanted to talk to you about The Road,” she said.

  “About the fact that you’re not going to leave?” I knew I was grasping at straws.

  “No. About what we—you and I—do in the meantime. While I’m here.”

  “Okay?”

  “I have a proposition.”

  My eyes lit up, and a smirk took over. “I like the sound of that.”

  Her brows drew in. “Are you being a pig?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes dramatically. This was the best version of her. The version that acted her age and wasn’t carrying the weight of her future around. Then she looked at me and turned serious. “We only have nine weeks, Blake.”

  “I know this,” I said, my tone matching hers.

  “So will you be my friend? For nine weeks? And after that, I’m gone. I’m leaving, and I don’t want you to think you might change that, because you won’t.”

  Friends.

  Nine weeks.

  Her words replayed in my head. Nine weeks wasn’t long enough. Surely, even if she was gone, we could still talk. Phone, emails, letters. “But—”

  “Nine weeks, Blake.” Her gaze dropped. “That’s all I can offer you.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll take anything you give me.”

  Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. She kissed me once. Softly. But it was enough to cause my heart to beat faster. She started to pull back. I panicked and lifted my hand to her head to keep her there. She smiled against my lips, but I refused to open my eyes. I refused to let go of this moment. “Are we friends that kiss?”

  She giggled, her mouth still on mine.

  I took her bottom lip and sucked lightly. “So what is this, then?”

  “A thank-you for your letter.”

  I opened my mouth wider, trying to deepen the kiss. “I’ll write you a thousand fucking letters.”

  She chuckled into my mouth, but my tongue sweeping against her lip made her instantly stop. “You don’t need to write more,” she whispered, and then pulled away.

  I allowed it this time.

  She sat back in her seat and looked through the windshield. “That one letter said enough.”

  I sat back, too . . . and tried to hide my hard-on.

  Seconds of silence passed.

  “I’ve never made a shot from the three-score line.”

  “The what?” I laughed.

  She turned to me with a confused look on her face. “The three-score line. You know . . .” She motioned to the faded lines on the half-court. “That semicircle line. I brought a ball from home so you could teach me.” She reached in the backseat and produced a basketball. “Teach me?” She pouted.

  Christ, she was beautiful.

  Beyond beautiful.

  I stared at her for a moment, taking in every single detail of her face. Then I let my body relax and my mind wrap around the idea that I had her for nine weeks. Nine amazing weeks of Chloe.

  “Shit,” I joked as I took the ball from her hands and got out of the car. “I can’t believe I have to put up with you for another nine weeks. This is gonna be hell.”

  “Fire truck off.”

  Chloe

  Even though I’d told Blake that he didn’t need to write any more letters, every morning I’d open my locker, and there’d be a note. White paper. Red ink. Always red ink. Some were funny. Some were sweet. Some were a little dirty. I kept them all, locked away in a box that I’d be sure to take with me when I left. They were mine. Forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Chloe

  Ever since the day I’d taken him to the half-court and told him that we could be friends until graduation, we’d spent basically every second together. He picked me up for school, and we went to work together or just hung out afterwards.

  As graduation had gotten closer, so had he. He was touching, feeling, holding all the time. Even at work. I’d told him that he shouldn’t—that we shouldn’t—but he’d said that it was his choice. His burden to bear when the day arrived and I’d be gone.

  “I have absolutely nothing to offer you,” he said, his head in his fridge. “I have beer, pastrami, and cheese.” He closed the refrigerator door and turned to me. “And water. I have water.”

  I laughed and jumped off the kitchen counter. “I guess I’ll take the water.”

  “Good choice.” He opened a cabinet and pulled out a glass, then proceeded to fill it with tap water. Then he did the same for himself.

  His eyes locked with mine as I drank the entire contents of the glass, trying to relieve the dryness in my mouth, which occurred whenever he looked at me the way he was.

  When I was done, he took the glass from my hand and placed it in the dishwasher, then picked up his gym bag from the floor and walked to the laundry room. I followed and watched as he emptied the bag and loaded the washing machine, switching it on before turning to me.

  “You’re so domesticated,” I joked.

  He laughed. “Yeah, I had to learn the hard way. Turns out kids don’t want to hang out with you when you wear the same clothes three days in a row because your parents forget to do your laundry.”

  I pouted. “Well, at least you’ll make some woman very happy one day.”

  He sighed and dropped his gaze. Then he reached over my shoulder and closed the laundry-room door behind me. Both his hands were on my hips, gently pushing me until my back hit the door. “Chloe,” he said, his mouth descending and making contact with my bare shoulder. “I could make you a very happy woman right now.” He pulled back, raising his gaze to mine. He chewed his lip, waiting for me to speak, but I couldn’t.

  He smiled slowly, before moving in and kissing me. The touching, the hand holding . . . they were all constant, but the kisses weren’t. He lifted me off the ground until my legs were around him. My hands gripped his hair as he kissed me harder, lifting me and moving us until I was sitting on the washing machine. He began to kiss along my jaw and down my neck. He grabbed my ass and pulled me closer to him, so I could feel him between my legs. Then his hands moved higher, under my shirt and onto my waist. His lips moved back up until they were on my mouth again. Kissing me softly, slowly. He pulled back quickly, searching my face. “Chloe?” It came out as a question, and I knew what he wanted.

  “No, Blake,” I told him.

  It was the first time he’d bro
ught it up but definitely not the first time I’d thought about it. Sex with Blake wouldn’t just be sex, no matter how much we’d try to convince ourselves otherwise. Sex, Blake, the experience, the emotion . . . I knew without a doubt that it would be the one thing that could make me stay. And I didn’t want to do that to either of us.

  “I know.” He frowned before pulling away, holding my hand, and helping me to hop down.

  He swiftly exited the laundry room mumbling something about needing to shoot hoops to get his mind off it.

  Blake

  “Chloe. I don’t wanna sound mean or anything . . .” I watched as she used both hands to bounce the basketball in my driveway. “But I’ve been trying to teach you how to dribble for weeks now, and you’re just like . . . beyond uncoordinated. I feel like I’ve failed at life.”

  She laughed. “Shut up!” She bounced the ball twice; the second time it hit her foot. She yelped as the ball rolled away toward the guesthouse. Mom opened the door just as it stopped at her feet.

  She waved. “Hi, Blake.”

  “Hey, Ma.” I nodded toward the ball and clapped my hands, a signal for her to throw it back.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised, then bent over and picked it up. She looked at it a moment, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  “Just pass it,” I shouted.

  “Okay, Blake. Calm down.”

  She lifted the ball in her hand and slowly moved it over her shoulder. It looked as though she was about to throw it, but she changed her mind last minute. Instead she placed both hands on either side of it and lifted it over her head.

  I stood with my fists at my waist. I tilted my head, wondering what the hell she was doing.

  But suddenly she dropped it—right onto her head. She squealed and ducked as it fell away from her.

  I laughed. “You and Chloe should start a team. Call it Team T.U.L—The Uncoordinated Losers!”

  “Hey!” Chloe shouted from behind me. “We could totally take you. Both of us against you? No competition!”

  “Yeah?” I asked, watching her walk over to me. “I’d like to see you try.”

  She stopped in front of me, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. Then she smiled, an all-consuming smile. “Mrs. Hunter,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Blake just challenged us to a game.” She looked over at my mom. “Get your sneakers on and come play!”

  A minute later, Mom joined Chloe and me in the driveway.

  They stood next to each other, their arms at their sides, looking ridiculous. “Do you need me to remind you of the rules?”

  Chloe rolled her eyes.

  Mom shrugged. “Maybe.”

  I held the ball to my side. “Rule one: Travel—”

  Chloe stepped forward and pushed my arm, releasing the ball from my grip. She squealed when she got hold of it.

  I laughed. “Maybe I should have started with fouls.”

  She awkwardly dribbled in her spot a few times but stopped when I towered over her. “Your move, Chloe.”

  She squealed again and threw the ball in the air, aiming for absolutely nowhere.

  “Got it,” I heard Mom shout.

  I turned around to see her chasing the ball. Once it was in her hands, she tried to dribble and move at the same time, but it was too much for her.

  “Pass it,” Chloe said, now standing under the ring.

  I just stood there, watching them, I guess, attempting to play.

  Mom didn’t pass. Instead, she just walked the ball over to Chloe, who then tried to shoot.

  Nothing but air.

  “You guys are the worst,” I laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone so awkward!”

  Mom stopped and started to laugh. “You think this is awkward? You should see me dance. I’m like Taylor Swift, all over the place.”

  Chloe screamed with laughter.

  We played for a good half hour. Well . . . I played; they just stood around shouting and calling me names.

  “Time out,” Mom called, her hands resting on her knees and her body bent over, as if she was trying to catch her breath. I don’t know why—she hadn’t even been running.

  “You got one minute. Max.” I set the timer on my watch and eyed Chloe as she made her way over to Mom. When she was close enough, Mom covered her mouth, I assumed to whisper something to her. As I got my water bottle from the side of the driveway, I pushed down the thoughts of how good a time I was having and how nice it felt to watch Chloe and my mom together. Laughing, joking around, getting along. When the timer went off and I looked back at them, Mom was looking down Chloe’s shirt. “What the hell!” I shouted.

  Chloe laughed.

  “Time’s up!”

  “Settle down, Blake,” Mom yelled, then whispered something else to Chloe. Chloe shook her head, her smile wide. Mom rested her hands on her hips. “Come on, Chloe. It’s our only hope.”

  Chloe lifted her gaze and locked it with mine. She shook her head again and groaned, “Fine.” Then she took off her shirt.

  My jaw dropped.

  My hands had touched her bare skin, the curve of her hips, and her tiny waist, but I’d seen her body only once, when she was in a bikini, and that had been for only a minute. But that was nothing compared to seeing her like this. Up close. So close her sports bra–covered breasts were just under my nose.

  “Blake?” she whispered.

  I struggled to take my eyes off her chest, but I finally made it to her face. She had her hair tied up in a messy knot on top of her head, like she often did. But a few strands were stuck on her neck and on her face . . . and a little sheen of sweat covered her arms and her stomach, her chest, her breasts . . .

  “Blake,” she repeated, and I trailed my eyes back to hers again. She pouted before she said, “Give me the ball?”

  I shook my head and hid the ball behind my back.

  She pouted again. “Please?” she whispered. Then a hint of a smile broke through.

  “Are you trying to seduce me into giving you my ball?”

  She snorted with laughter.

  Then I felt the ball being smacked out of my hands from behind. “Yes!” Mom shouted.

  I laughed and watched as she bounced it once, then took five tiny steps toward the hoop. “That’s travelling!” I shouted.

  Chloe ran toward her. “I’m open!” she yelled dramatically. Of course she was open. There was no one there. Mom ran the ball over and handed it to her.

  Chloe stopped in her spot and dribbled it twice. I strolled slowly over to her. She stopped bouncing the ball when she saw me coming. I stopped a few feet in front of her. She squealed and ran away, trying to dribble at the same time. “That’s travelling and double dribble. Do you need me to go through the rules again?”

  She just laughed and tried to shoot. She missed. Completely.

  I started to jog over to the ball, but Mom shouted my name. “If you touch that ball, you’re grounded.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “What the hell? Who’s setting these rules?”

  I ignored her and picked up the ball, but before I could straighten up, Chloe’s arms were around my neck and her legs around my waist. “And this is definitely a foul!” I successfully completed a layup with her on my back.

  “You’re cheating!” she shouted.

  Mom walked over and handed Chloe the ball.

  “If we get this, Mrs. Hunter,” Chloe yelled, “then we win.”

  “How do you win?” I said, adjusting her more comfortably on my back. “It’s sixty-eight to nothing.”

  “Shut up, Blake.”

  I laughed.

  “I wanna slam it!”

  I laughed harder. “Slam-dunk it?”

  “Whatever!”

  I walked us to the hoop and adjusted the lever until the post dropped and the hoop was as low as it could pos
sibly go.

  I guess you could say that she dunked it. Whatever it was, it made her and Mom squeal. “WE WIN!” Chloe shouted.

  “No, you’ve scored once.”

  “Shut up, Blake!” She gripped her legs tighter around my waist and fistpumped the air. “We are the champions . . .”

  I shook my head and laughed again.

  “Do you hear that, Blake?” she said in my ear. “That’s the crowd cheering my name.”

  Mom cupped her hands around her mouth. “CHLO-E! CHLO-E! CHLO-E!”

  “It’s sixty-eight—” I started.

  “What part of WE WIN do you not understand?” Chloe cut in. “I can’t believe I won the Super Bowl!”

  I lost it in a fit of laughter, almost dropping her.

  “I need a victory lap!” she squealed.

  I gave her a victory lap around the driveway. She kept her hands raised in triumph as she made a speech thanking everyone but me for training her. Mom kept on chanting her name.

  On the second lap, I froze.

  So did Chloe.

  So did Mom.

  “Hunter,” Dad said, nodding his head. He narrowed his eyes at Chloe.

  I carefully released her until her feet were on the ground, but she didn’t step out from behind me. “Colonel,” I replied.

  His eyes moved to Mom. “Celia. Nice to see you upright and coherent.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Who’s your friend, Hunter?”

  I didn’t answer him. But Chloe stepped to my side, her voice mousy when she said, “I’m Chloe Thompson, sir—Colonel—sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “You might want to put a shirt on, young lady. My house isn’t a strip club.”

  I wanted to punch him, but Chloe held me back.

  And with that, he turned and walked away.

  “Asshole,” Mom said. “I’m sorry, Chloe. Don’t pay him any attention. He’s a miserable old bastard.”

  I turned to Chloe, but she was looking at the ground. “Hey . . .” I drew her into me and hugged her.

  “Can you please take me home,” she said into my chest.

  I rested my cheek on the top of her head. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I know, but I should.”