By Your Side

by Kasie West

  Undoing that zipper was the loudest five seconds of my life. It seemed to echo through the whole room as I held my breath. Once it was open I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was still in the clear. I was. The bag contained everything an overnight bag might: toiletries (I was going to kill him for not telling me he had toothpaste), extra clothes, socks, a couple of protein bars (was he planning to share those?), and finally, finally, at the bottom of the bag I found what I was looking for. A phone. It was an old flip one and when I opened it the screen was dark.

  I wasn’t sure how to turn it on. I held down the side button for a few seconds. Nothing happened. So I tried the button with a picture of a green phone on it. Still nothing.

  “Really?” Dax said from behind me.

  I twirled toward him, still in my squatting position, and immediately lost my balance and fell on my butt. His phone was now held out in front of me in plain sight.

  “You have a phone,” I said. “I’m stuck here and you have a phone.”

  “You went through my things?” It was a question but the anger in his voice made it more of an accusation.

  “I had to, because you told me you didn’t have a phone, but you really do. I just want to call my family. I’m sure they’re worried about me.”

  “Go ahead.” He pointed to the phone.

  Was this some sort of a trick? I looked at the black screen again. “I can’t turn it on.”

  “Exactly.” He plucked it from my hand, shoved it back into his bag, and zipped it up.

  “What do you mean exactly? Can you turn it on for me?”

  “No, I can’t. It has no minutes and no charge.”

  “Oh.” I still sat on the floor and was too deflated to get up. “Well, that’s not very helpful.”

  “You know, before coming here, I forgot to think about you and your needs.”

  “Why would you pack a dead phone? Is the charger in there?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Why did you follow me down here, anyway?”

  “Because you left the room looking guilty, like you were about to commit a crime.”

  “You know that look well?”

  “Stay out of my things.” He said it low and barely audible.

  “I’m sorry for going through your stupid bag. I just want to get out of here. My family is probably worried sick about me. Isn’t your family worried about you?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure they are. Did you run away?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? You just left? They’re okay with you just leaving for the weekend? Spending the night in empty libraries?”

  “They let me come and go as I please, and I don’t turn them in for the weed they grow in the basement. It works out well.”

  I was stunned silent for a moment. I had heard his mom was a druggie, but it was hard to know what was rumor and what was fact. “Your parents grow weed in the basement?”

  “My foster parents. Just forget I said that.”

  For some reason I was more surprised that it was his foster parents than I would’ve been if it were his real parents.

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s perfect. Best situation I’ve had yet.”

  Best situation he’d had yet? “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why? I have freedom. I’m sorry for you and your pathetically predictable life.”

  “Maybe I’m sorry because it’s turned you into a total jerk.”

  “Better than a naïve, spoiled priss.”

  I let out a frustrated sigh. There was that word again. Why did I even try? I was not one of those girls who needed to fix broken boys. I stood up and started to walk away, but before I got too far, I marched back to his bag, opened it up, and said, “I’m borrowing your toothpaste.”

  His face was one part shock and one part anger when I left again, toothpaste in hand.

  When I got to the bathroom I leaned my back up against the cold tile wall and covered my face with my hand. He didn’t have a phone, the only thing that had given me any hope. I really was officially stuck here.

  As my breath hitched I reminded myself to focus on the good things. I had toothpaste. And a TV. I could work with that.

  CHAPTER 8

  As the movie credits rolled up the small screen in the break room, a memory worked its way into my mind. A couple of weeks ago a group of us had gone to the movies. Jeff, the first of our guy friends to arrive, had stepped over and around a whole row of people to sit next to me. “Is this seat saved for Lisa?” he’d asked.

  It was. “No,” I said, just as Lisa came in the door and saw her seat taken. I looked at her over his shoulder and she just smiled. I owed her one.

  “So it was saved for me, then?”

  “We’ll go with that,” I said, stealing a handful of his popcorn.

  “First one’s free,” he said.

  “Oh, really. And how much for another handful?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you find out?”

  I hadn’t followed through but changed the subject. “Where is Dallin and everyone?”

  Before Jeff could answer, Dallin and the others came in, laughing.

  “My mom is going to kill you,” Zach said, trying to flatten his hair. “I was grounded.”

  “That’s why we kidnapped you,” Dallin said. “You get to blame us when she gets mad now.”

  Zach was still smashing his hair down. “Was the pillowcase necessary?”

  Jeff laughed, and I glanced his way. “You didn’t want to go with them to kidnap Zach?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to get here early.”

  What was wrong with me? I thought now, clicking off the television. Whenever I was away from Jeff, outside of our interactions, I could easily pick up on all the signs. But whenever I was near him, it was like my brain short-circuited and I couldn’t tell if he liked me or not. I needed to stop thinking so much. If I hired my dad to assign me a tagline for my life, that would probably be it—Get out of your head. Or It’s not as bad as your brain makes it seem. But those simple slogans were way easier said than done.

  I tried to force myself to go to sleep. I was tired. My shoulders ached, my eyes throbbed, my head pounded. A nap would help. But it had been a couple of hours now since my fight with Dax, and I felt bad for calling him a jerk again. I didn’t fight with people. I’d never called anyone a jerk. I hated conflict, but he seemed to bring it out in me. But with the next two days looming ahead, cold and lonely, I knew I needed to try harder to get along with him.

  I was going to have to suck it up. His foster parents grew drugs in the basement of his house. That was bad enough, but I couldn’t ignore the second part he’d said either. The part about how they let him come and go as he pleased. It did sound like freedom, but didn’t it really mean they didn’t care about him, only the money housing him brought in. I had a feeling, despite his flippant attitude about it, that he suspected that as well.

  As I lay there staring at the coffee table in front of me, I noticed a little drawer. I reached forward and slid it open. A single deck of cards sat inside. I picked it up and turned it over and over again in my hands. It took me five minutes to talk myself into doing what I knew I needed to do.

  I made my way downstairs. It was still light outside, and would be for another few hours. It really was warmer on this floor. Warm was the wrong word, actually; less cold was the better descriptor. Dax sat exactly like he had earlier. Only this time his left hand propped up his head. I could see the tattoo on his wrist now but wasn’t close enough to make out what it was. He looked at me over the top of his book as though expecting me to say something.

  “Hey,” was my lame response.

  When I didn’t say anything else, he went back to reading.

  Saying hi wasn’t why I’d come down here. I forced the next words out. “I found a deck of cards.”

  He looked at the deck I had begun twisting in my hands again.

  “Um . . . you want to play?” />
  “What game?” he asked.

  I felt like if I gave the wrong answer he’d say no. “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

  He sighed. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  I did know what. I felt sorry for him, and he could read it all over my face just like he’d read my disgust and fear of him the night before. Just like he knew I was going to go through his bag earlier. Was I really that transparent?

  “Treat me like you always have.”

  “And how is that?” As far as I knew, before last night I hadn’t treated him like anything.

  “Ignore me. Two more days and you’ll jump back on that train anyway. You might as well stay in the habit.”

  Ouch. “That’s unfair. I didn’t know you. You didn’t want to be known. And I’d say you have it backward. You’re the one who does the ignoring. You don’t even know my name.”

  That last sentence must’ve caught him by surprise, because for the first time his hard expression dropped and he met my eyes. Without his guard up he looked younger—big brown eyes, wavy dark hair, a vulnerable look on his face. “Autumn.”

  Now it was my turn to look surprised. I could’ve sworn I was right about that. The sudden change in energy knocked the fight out of me. “Just play a stupid game with me. I’m bored.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I’m relentless.”

  He smiled a little. “More like annoying,” he said, but he stood anyway, and we walked to one of the large oak tables.

  I sat opposite him and opened the deck of cards. I shuffled them then passed them out, five each.

  “What are we playing?” he asked.

  “Poker. Five-card draw.” My dad had guys’ nights at our house, and sometimes he’d let me sit in if a player didn’t show. He’d even sneak me some cards and help me win a few rounds. I was sure everyone knew he did it, but it made us laugh.

  “Okay.” Dax picked up his cards, his air of confidence gone.

  Maybe he was upset about his hand. I picked mine up as well. I had a pair of threes, an ace of spades, a king of hearts, and a two of clubs. Basically nothing. Should I keep a low pair or hope for another king or ace by trading in three cards?

  “Do you want to trade any?” I asked.

  “I . . .” He studied his hand again. “Am I trying to get the same suit or make pairs?”

  I could feel my mouth drop open before I could stop it. He didn’t know how to play poker? Wasn’t he the one who had spent four months in juvie? Not that I knew what happened in juvie, but I’d imagined poker was one of the things. “You don’t know how to play?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s not that shocking.”

  “It sort of is,” I said with a laugh. “Um . . .” I’d never had to explain it before. “There are several versions of poker but this one is called five-card draw. We each get five cards.”

  “Hence the name.”

  I smiled. “Right. And then you can trade in up to three of those cards for three more from the stack.”

  “Do I have to trade?”

  “No. Each hand is valued differently. The best hand is called a royal flush. That’s when you have the same suit of a ten, jack, queen, king, and ace. You can have a straight flush . . .” I paused, realizing this was going to take forever to explain. Plus, he was staring at me with a blank face. I’d lost him.

  “Maybe we should just play and I’ll teach you as we go. In fact, let’s just show our hands for the first couple rounds and then I’ll say what I would do if I had that hand.”

  I placed my cards faceup on the table. “So see, I have a pair of threes and then not really much else. Ace is high card, though, so if both of us ended with the same hand, I could win with the ace. But if you had any other higher pair, you’d beat my threes. So I was thinking of keeping my face cards and trading in my threes and two. Am I making any sense?”

  “Yes.” He put his cards faceup. He had two sevens, two jacks, and a five.

  “You punk. You already have me beat.”

  “So this is a good hand?”

  “Well, sort of. I mean, it’s really the third lowest. Seven hands can beat it, but that’s assuming I get one of those seven hands. A full house would be better. So definitely trade in your five and hope for a jack or a seven. But at this point, either way you’ll probably beat my hand.”

  He handed me his five and I flicked him a card, faceup on top of the ones in front of him. It was a seven.

  I huffed. “You lucky SOB.”

  “Did you just call me an SOB?”

  “Sorry. That’s what my dad always says to his buddies when they’re playing. I forgot what it stood for until after I said it.”

  He looked at the card. “I take it I just upgraded my hand.”

  “Four slots, yes.” I placed my threes and two facedown next to the stack and drew three more. I got a friend for my king but the other two were an eight and a jack. “So a pair of kings. Basically the lowest hand. You won.”

  “What do I win?”

  “Well, if we had bet anything, you would’ve won the bet. But since we didn’t, you win the honor of knowing you won your first hand of poker.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “So, do you want to play for something?” I asked, meeting his dark eyes.

  “We already established that you have nothing,” he said.

  “We could play for secrets. Questions.” I had a feeling this was the only way I was ever going to get to know Dax, because he certainly wasn’t volunteering any history about himself. And despite my better judgment, I was curious about why he was the way he was—the dark, withdrawn loner.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Were you hustling me?” I asked after an hour of playing. We’d long ago stopped showing our hands. He’d picked up the game easily. He didn’t quite know which hands beat which, or so he claimed, but that didn’t matter; he was still beating me nearly every time. I was glad he’d turned down my offer of playing for secrets. “You already knew how to play, didn’t you?”

  “Nope.”

  “You hiding cards up your sleeves or something?” Without thinking, I grabbed his hand, flipped it palm up, and ran my fingers along his wrist. I could now see his tattoo clearly. Three numbers. 7, 14, 14. My finger traced the numbers without my permission . . . or his.

  He met my eyes. “I don’t cheat.”

  I pulled back my hand. “It was a joke.”

  He gathered his cards together and handed them back to me. “Maybe you need to shuffle better.”

  I started to protest but realized he was kidding when a smile played on his lips. A tingling sensation went up my arms. I rubbed at them. It was colder than I thought. “I’m a great shuffler. You’re just lucky. Very, very lucky.”

  “You got me. I’m the luckiest guy on earth.” His voice didn’t sound sarcastic, but I knew he was being sarcastic. And he was right. He wasn’t lucky outside of the card game. On top of that, even though he was beating me handily, this card game had been doing little for his mood. If anything, it had made him more withdrawn. I nodded toward the tattoo. “What does it stand for?”

  “I have another sweatshirt.”

  It took me a moment to understand he was not answering my question with that statement. But when I realized I was still rubbing at my arms instead of pushing him to talk, I nodded several times quickly. “Yes. I’m cold. It’s cold in here, right? Do you think there’s a way to break past the locked thermostat?”

  “I don’t know.” He stood and walked over to his bag, where he retrieved a gray sweatshirt for me.

  If I’d thought that his sleeping bag was clinging to his musky scent, his sweatshirt might as well have been on his body. It smelled amazing. I slid it on and then brought the collar to my nose before I thought better of it.

  “It’s been in my bag a while,” he said as though I was disgusted by the smell and no
t trying to hold back a sigh.

  “No, it’s good. It’s fine. Thanks.”

  He sat back down while I dealt another hand. Now that he was avoiding my question, the only thing I could look at was his tattoo. I wondered what it stood for, why he wouldn’t tell me. There were so many things I wondered about him.

  I picked up my hand. It was decent for once.

  “You ready to play for questions yet?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  I folded my cards to look at him. “If I win, I get to ask you a question that you have to answer honestly. If you win, you get to ask me one.”

  “You do realize that I’ve won the last nine hands.”

  “Nine? Really? Have you been counting?”

  “Yes.”

  I laughed. “Then you have nothing to lose.”

  He picked up his cards and looked at each one.

  “So? Is that a yes?”

  “Why not?”

  I fanned out my cards and tried to keep my face even, blank. “Do you want to trade any cards?”

  “One.”

  I slid him a card then traded one as well. I couldn’t help but smile when it gave me a full house. He laid down a royal flush and my smile was gone.

  Before I’d even shown my cards he said, “So my question is: Where do you think your friends are? Honestly.”

  His question was like a punch to my gut. “How do you know you won?”

  He put his forearms on the table and nodded toward my cards.

  I laid them down, showing he’d guessed right. He looked at my cards, then at me again, waiting.

  “I told you where I thought they were. Looking for me.”

  “So the whole honesty part of this bet was just for show?”

  “Fine. Honestly . . . I think they figured I went home because I was tired or upset or something.”

  “How would you have gotten home?”