The Natural History of Us

by Rachel Harris

  “When Gabi hears I’m married to Lauren, she’s gonna go ape shit.”

  Carlos groans and I tear my gaze away from a near hysterical Peyton. My best friend flips his pencil in his hand and feigns stabbing himself in the chest. “Think Coach Stasi will let me switch partners?”

  It takes a second to process what he’s asking. Peyton’s laugh is still ringing in my ears. But I’m a born bull-shitter, so I smirk and say, “Tell her that’s what she gets for not taking FACS with the rest of us.” Then I steal another glance up front.

  I haven’t heard it in years, but Peyton’s laugh is normally musical. Like, if sunshine, rainbows, and flying unicorns had a sound, her laugh would be it. Or, at least what it is supposed to be, not that hard, cynical, pain-edged shriek she just gave. It’s so wrong, so off, that I physically wrap my hand around the desktop just to keep from going over to her.

  As if she’d want me there anyway.

  Carlos shoots me a sideways look. “Kid, how in the hell do you score so many women?” Then he snorts and shakes his head. “Never mind, I answered my own question. You, my friend, know ‘Casuals.’ Let me instruct you in the ways of ‘Commitments.’” He leans across the aisle like he’s about to impart some sort of top-secret intel and says, “If I followed your advice, Gabi would cut off my nuts and lock them in her camera case.”

  “And you wonder why I don’t do relationships,” I reply with a half-smile, but even I hear that my delivery is off. His smirk falls and he squints in my direction, but I turn my head. The last thing I need is more questions.

  A dull ache twinges behind my ribcage and as I fight to keep from staring a hole into the back of Peyton’s head, my gaze lands on Aly. She nods at something Brandon says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. I release a breath. It’s probably weird to admit since we went out earlier this year, but seeing her with him, happy and smiling, eases the pressure in my chest.

  Aly and I weren’t right together. She’s had a thing for Taylor since freshman year, and as history shows, I suck at commitment. But our blink-and-you-miss-it relationship was the closest I’ve come to wanting one in years, and ever since we broke up, there’s been this itch under my skin. An annoying sixth sense that something is wrong or missing, and nothing I do—not girls, school, or even baseball—feels the same anymore.

  Which sucks, since baseball and girls are the only things I’m actually good at.

  Carlos’s cell buzzes on his desk and I glance over as he drops his head into his hands.

  “Shit,” he mutters. “Hurricane Gabi is making landfall.”

  “Someone tip her off about Lauren?” I ask, grabbing a pen. In the corner of my packet, I start sketching a baseball diamond. I’m not Brandon so I can’t draw for shit, but it beats the hell out of sitting here psychoanalyzing what’s wrong with me.

  He nods wearily and I snicker. How people spread shit before Facebook and texts I don’t know, but in this case, technology is my friend.

  Count on good old Carlos to remind me why I don’t do commitment. I swear, he and Gabi invent stuff to bitch about. They’re constantly fighting over nothing and spend most of the time driving each other insane. I’m no expert, but that shit ain’t normal.

  “Carlos, look at me.” He lifts his head from his hand and I clasp his shoulder. “Tell me the truth… she’s already got you by the balls, doesn’t she?” His eyes narrow and I grin. “Blink once for yes and I’ll go get help.”

  His good-natured smile returns as he knocks away my hand and flips me off, which is good since I am kidding. Well, mostly anyway.

  “What about you, huh?” He picks up the packet and starts turning pages. “What lucky lady got stuck with your punk ass for the next month?”

  Since I don’t really give a shit I shrug and lean back to study the stained ceiling tiles… until I hear him say, “Huh.”

  I glance over. “Is that a good huh or a bad huh?”

  He rocks his head back and forth as he replies, “Guess it depends on how you look at it.”

  I sit up straight and grab the paper from his hand, searching for my name. The fact that I can feel him watching makes me nervous. I’ve hooked up with half the girls in this class (half the school, really), but none have ended that badly. For the most part, they know the score before it even starts—that’s the beauty of dating “Casuals.” The only semi-weirdness I ever had was with Aly and that’s long over. She and Brandon are way too whipped on each other to care about me.

  As I near the bottom of the page, Carlos asks, “You two used to hang out, right?” and I do a double-take when I reach the final row.

  “Did y’all have a falling out or something?”

  “Or… something,” I mumble, swallowing hard.

  Justin Carter and Peyton Williams.

  This at least explains that hysterical laugh.

  Slowly, I lift my eyes toward the front of the class. As if she can feel my stare, Peyton turns in her seat, and when her wide blue-gray eyes lock on mine, I completely forget how to breathe.

  Guilt, longing, and that damn stupid question—what if—hits me square in the chest. You’d think seeing her after three years would get easier. It hasn’t. I’ve just gotten a hell of a lot better at hiding the fallout. Pretending I don’t occasionally search her out in the halls, checking to see if she’s all right. Wondering what she’s thinking, what she’s doing, and acting like it doesn’t make my whole damn day when I catch her smiling. I used to be the reason for Peyton’s smiles.

  Now, I’d be thrilled if she didn’t glare at me like I was dog shit stuck to her shoe.

  “Damn, dude.” Carlos whistles under his breath after she spins back around. “That girl is not a fan of yours.” He laughs under his breath, ending on a cough when I glare at him. “What in the hell did you do to her?”

  “Nothing,” I say, wishing that were true. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

  But it wasn’t small, and it damn sure wasn’t a misunderstanding. Whether it was the truth or not, Peyton saw exactly what I wanted her to see that day. She believed what I thought she had to believe in order to protect her. To protect me. The same thing I’ve regretted every day since.

  Me cheating on her.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 4TH

  21 Weeks until Disaster

  ♥Freshman Year

  PEYTON

  FAIRFIELD ACADEMY 7:05 A.M.

  So this was high school. Students streaming through every door and lining the walls. Multi-colored fliers and trophy cases, a thousand conversations at once. Mass chaos was what it was, and as I strolled through the middle of it all, wide-eyed and staring like Dorothy in Oz, I couldn’t help but gawk. A girl in a uniform exactly like mine walked past and sized me up with a scrunched up nose, and I (thankfully) stopped myself just shy of waving like some sort of socially inept dork.

  This. Was. Awesome.

  Okay, so yeah, starting school on a Tuesday was weird. And I was a semester behind, my uniform was stiff and scratchy, and I was walking the halls with my dad. But none of it mattered because it all meant I was here, at Fairfield Academy, and that despite every whispered doubt and liquid fear in my bones, I’d finally gotten my fresh start.

  Already I could tell there were things I’d miss. I’d been homeschooled all my life, and with that came certain advantages, such as never having to think coherently before nine A.M. and wearing my ratty pajamas all day. Also, in between learning algebra and earth science, I could bathe a basset hound, watch Days of Our Lives, or ride Oakley after lunch. Most importantly? My stomach never roiled like it wanted to ingest itself. But the fear knotting my gut simply walking through the main door today proved that I was alive, and I was clinging to my new motto like a desperate cowboy on a buck-crazed horse:

  “Do what scares you.”

  “I’ve missed that smile, angel girl.” Dad’s gray-eyed gaze softened at my gooberific grin and he watched me wistfully before coughing and glancing away. “Now, the nurse knows your history, and so do mos
t of your teachers. If anything happens—and I mean anything—if you feel weak for any reason, or think you need to lie down, you just tell them. They’ll understand.”

  “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

  “Or, we can always delay it another semester.” He looked at me again, eyebrows lifted with hope. “There’s no shame in waiting until—”

  “Dad!” My voice echoed off the ceramic tile and a group of upperclassman stopped what they were doing to stare. Fabulous. Twin surges of heat burned my cheeks as I closed the distance between me and my father.

  “We’ve been over this a million times,” I said, lowering my voice. “You promised that when I was well enough to walk through the door that I could come here. Well, I just did it. Sans wheelchair and with exactly zero assistance.”

  Six months ago, that feat wouldn’t be so impressive, but today I was flipping ecstatic.

  “So yeah, I’m a semester behind,” I told him with a shrug. “So what? I’ve finally gotten through the worst, and I don’t care if all the cool clubs are full or the best electives are taken. I’m not wasting another second.” When my stupid nose started to burn, I turned away and blinked to clear my blurry vision. “I’m not letting this disorder steal one more thing from me. Not anymore.”

  My voice wobbled toward the end and I mentally slapped myself for showing weakness. The goal today was to prove that I was strong and tough—that I could do this. Not to break down in the hallway and wind up with the nickname Weepy McNew Girl.

  “Besides,” I said, knocking his arm with my elbow. “If anything happens, you’re here.”

  That, of course, was my ace in the hole. Coming to the school where my dad taught had always been the plan, and now it just made my argument that much stronger.

  Fairfield Academy had an amazing dual-credit program with the local college’s Veterinary Technology department. Becoming a veterinarian was all I’d ever wanted… well, other than kicking McKenna’s butt in the Junior High barrel-racing ranks. That program alone was worth the price of admission.

  Which, technically, was a heck of a lot more than homeschooling.

  My steps slowed as guilt walloped me in the chest, not unlike the time Oakley got spooked and threw me against the fence. We could have literally wallpapered the den with my unexpected medical bills, so maybe…

  “Is this about the tuition?” I asked. “Because if this costs too much—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Dad forced a smile, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Faculty gets tuition breaks. Even if they didn’t, the money doesn’t matter, not as long as this is what you really want…” His voice trailed as we came to a stop outside the office doors, and I nodded vigorously.

  “It is,” I assured him. Even if it means dragging my loving, well-meaning, overprotective parents along with me. “I’m a new Peyton Williams, Dad. A girl ready to rope life and experience it all. The easy, the hard, the safe, and the things that scare me senseless.” I winked to show I was (mostly) teasing and injected my voice with enthusiasm. “Let’s do this!”

  This time, a genuine smile tipped his lips, and he tapped my chin with his finger. “You make me proud, you know that?”

  The big lug was such a softie. Biting my lip as tears threatened once more, I nodded, and he exhaled long and slow before opening the door. “Bell’s about to ring,” he muttered gruffly. “You’ll need your schedule.”

  The heady scent of fresh ink and warm paper hit my nose and my excitement skyrocketed. Nausea, too… but mostly excitement. The spicy tang of peppermint joined the mix a second later and I eagerly bounced in my loafers.

  When the office door closed with a bump, sealing out the sound of hallway chaos, students sitting in the row of cushioned chairs along the wall raised their heads. Most immediately dismissed me upon appraisal, but a few glanced curiously between Dad and me. Guess I should get used to that.

  I followed Dad toward the taupe laminate desk, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. I had no room for fear in my life. I could do this. I wanted to do this. Beyond the divide, teachers and administrators buzzed about, flitting from mailboxes to the enormous copy machine, reminding me of happy worker bees. Phones rang, people laughed, and somewhere in the chaotic room, a radio played soft jazz. Dad checked his watch and then tapped his knuckles against the laminate, waiting for help, and I closed my eyes to let the frantic energy envelop me.

  Here’s the thing about GBS (Guillain-Barre Syndrome): it hits you fast and furious. One day, I’d been riding Oakley at the Tomball Junior Rodeo, and the next, I’d become a prisoner in my own body. For weeks, I hadn’t been able to talk or move. I couldn’t even scream. Nurses and doctors had flowed in and out of my room, checking vitals and talking as if I weren’t even there. Guests had stared with poorly hidden fear, holding awkward conversations with my parents about the weather and Texas football. Running home after they left to hug their kids and thank God this hadn’t happened to them. I’d been nothing but a silent observer as life happened around me and without me. But those days were over. Now, I could walk, I could talk, and I was on my way to becoming a fully functional member of society again.

  It felt phenomenal.

  Opening my eyes, I released a breath and propped my elbows on the counter next to Dad. I nodded at a few teachers I recognized from our holiday parties and when the principal stepped out of her office to answer a question, I waved and said hello.

  “Peyton!” Ms. Gouvas leaned against the doorframe with a warm smile, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed a few students turn their heads. “I’m glad you’re finally joining us.”

  “I’m so excited to be here,” I replied, no doubt sounding dorkalicious to the eavesdropping students, but I really was excited. So sue me. “Took me longer than I’d hoped, but I’m ready to jump in the fray.”

  The edges of the principal’s smile turned down a bit, a reminder that I wouldn’t be jumping anywhere for a while, and we both knew it. “Well, I’m confident you’ll make the best of your years here, Peyton.” She straightened away from the wall and pointed at me. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  After shooting me a playful wink, she ducked back into her office, and only then did I chance a full glance behind me. As predicted, practically the entire row was watching, a multitude of expressions on their faces. None of them were impressed.

  Is being on a semi-first name basis with the principal really that weird?

  A blonde who appeared to be around my age snickered quietly.

  Yep, it was weird.

  “Ah, Dan.” A petite woman with long, dark hair and a bright red blouse dropped an overstuffed file folder onto the desk. She blew her bangs off her face and asked my dad, “How are you this crazy morning?”

  “Better than I deserve,” he replied like always. “But I was hoping you could do me a favor, Kim. Today is Peyton’s first day, and I’m running late for a staff meeting. You think you can help her get situated?”

  “Of course, it’d be my pleasure,” she replied with a reassuring smile, proving that Big Bad Coach Man wasn’t fooling anyone. When it came to his baby girl, the man was a teddy bear. “You go along to your meeting now. Peyton here will be in great hands.”

  Even with that assurance, I could tell he was reluctant. Interesting factoid about getting sick? It de-ages you like ten years in your parents’ eyes. Sighing, I wrapped my arms around Dad’s stocky body and pressed a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told him, not caring if the other kids were watching. This was my dad, we were close, and if they had a problem with that, well, they could suck it. “I’ll find you in the gym after school.” When he continued to hesitate, I shoved his meaty shoulder with a laugh. “Go on. Go!”

  With a grumble, he finally relented, and my too-wide smile held just until he’d disappeared around the corner. A nervous exhale parted my lips and when I turned around, the woman behind the counter put her hand on mine.

  “My younger sister was hosp
italized for a month when we were kids.”

  I shifted on my feet, not sure what to say to that, and she pressed on. “It was pneumonia in her case, but I understand how annoying it is for everyone to treat you with kid gloves like you’re helpless. You’re not. I know that, and your dad will come around soon enough. As far as I’m concerned though, you’re just another student, all right?”

  Heart full, chest shockingly light as if the weight of a boulder had suddenly been lifted, I sent her a grateful smile. That’s all I wanted to be. Normal. “Thank you.”

  She squeezed my hand as a fierce mama bird look entered her eyes. “But if anyone thinks otherwise and messes with you, you just let me know, all right?”

  I chuckled, the last bit of anxiety fleeing. “You got it.”

  Ms. Kim sent me a wink and opened a folder, withdrawing a white piece of paper. Glancing at it, she raised an eyebrow and said, “I take that back. You’re not just a regular student.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “You’re a very intelligent student with an insane course load. Are you aware that you’re in all honors courses and that you’re entering school mid-year?”

  I straightened my spine and replied, “I can handle it.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched me for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Know what? I believe you.” She grinned softly and held out her hand. “Here. Your homeroom is listed at the top and first bell rings in ten minutes.”

  It happened in the span of a heartbeat.

  The door opened behind me, her gaze shifted toward the newcomer, and the hopeful bubble I’d been floating in all morning popped.

  Have you ever had one of those moments when it was as if you were outside your body, watching events and knowing the outcome, but completely unable to stop it from happening? Where everything unfolds in slow motion and you’re forced to witness the inevitable ending in silent horror? That’s what it was like for me, watching the class schedule slip from her hand, through my weak fingertips, and flutter softly to the ground.