“And besides,” he left the moment with a turn toward the basket and another shot attempt, “you can’t shoot from the left if your life depended on it.”
As I struggled to regain composure, out came the counter, “I think you’re scared.”
He dribbled, taking my words and working them around a bit as he did the basketball. Then he pulled up for a shot, and missed. The ball was rebounded and rolled my way, bouncing low toward my knees. “I’m more afraid of plucking corn.”
Both of us were grinning now, not the happy-go-lucky kind of grin but the “You think you can handle me?” kind. I was glad to know the three-year separation had not affected our being so in sync with each other.
With lingering anxious energy, I picked up the ball and rolled it around my hands a few times. Then I dribbled a little, my lips automatically curving to mirror his. “So, I guess we’re enemies now?” I asked casually, warming up with a few determined shots, from the right side.
He rebounded the ball and passed it back to me. “I’m pretty sure we’ll never be friends.”
A reactive little notch line appeared between my eyebrows.
It wasn’t so much what he said, because frankly he was right. There were only two options for us: together or apart. It’s how he said it that bothered me. Blunt and unemotional, as if he were talking to a stranger at the grocery store. Didn’t he realize it was well and fine for me to act that way, but not the reverse?
He would need to be beaten in this friendly game of Pig, and beaten badly.
“Should we see how you do from the left?” he asked after five minutes and a “P” and “I” already earned by me.
“Why not?” I answered, still working his concentration and doing whatever I could to get under his skin. “Because I thoroughly enjoy watching your tongue hang out like a panting dog every time you shoot. Now I have a better angle.”
Maintaining the barrier of his smile, he went on, “Are you flirting with me?” He pulled up, his lips open and his tongue out a bit further than normal, and nailed the shot from the left. “You’re a dirty little player, aren’t you?”
I wondered if anybody had ever swooned solely from a stupid, absurdly sexy tongue wag.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I barked back, running down his rebound, wanting instead to hightail it out of there, or play dead, or somehow remove myself from the heated effect he was having on me. I knew this was a bad idea.
To dribble the ball to his chosen distance and then line up left of the key, I had to call up all my athletic skills. And still, I was off balance. Unsurprisingly, when I went to shoot, my arch wasn’t high enough and instead of the shot going in like his did, it bounced off the front of the rim.
G.
“Was that three already?” he asked innocently. “I believe that’s ballgame. Or is it Pig-let now?”
“It’s always Piglet, you know that.” I didn’t move from the shot spot. “Let me see the ball.” He tossed it to me, amused. It wasn’t good on my temper for my second shot from the exact same spot to miss in a similar fashion, bouncing off the front of the rim.
“You need to use your legs,” he said. Wrong time for a shooting lesson.
“And what kind of wimp goes for a girl’s weak spot to win a game of PIG?” I snapped back.
With my arms outstretched and my hands beckoning, I called for the ball a third time. And then a fourth. Because I would make this shot!
He grinned, bounce-passing the ball to me once again. By the time my fifth shot hit the backboard, missing the rim entirely and then rolling back toward me, I was livid.
I could see it in his eyes, the satisfaction he got from riling me. And he wasn’t finished. “For a girls who’s athletic, you sure—”
The ball went flying toward him. He was close enough to catch it and my hand simultaneously as he let out a small bout of laughter. I grabbed at the ball for another strike, preferably at his face this time, while he caught my waist with his other hand.
“Easy, heater,” he chuckled, wrestling me into him.
And why did the jerk have to use those cute little nicknames on me?
“You wanna see my heat?” I growled back as I grappled with him, trying to strip the ball.
“I’ve seen your heat,” he said through another laugh, “and it’s not that impress. . . What is that?”
The change in his tone slowed my fight, and I suddenly realized with a drainage of blood from my face that my hair wasn’t covering my scar. Quickly, I pushed away, almost falling to my knees in the process, and pulled my hair down. “It’s nothing.”
His eyebrows drew in. I hadn’t seen an earnest expression on him in such a long time, and it took me off guard. “Come here,” he said, grabbing too fast for my hand to dodge his, and then urging me close again.
The fear and panic in my eyes must’ve made him pause.
“There you are,” a female voice lilted through the gym. Our heads turned in unison.
Paige.
“I’m done with my test,” she spoke in a questioning voice.
Speechless didn’t begin to describe it, though that certainly was one of my several reactions. Along with a shot of fire that went zipping through my veins, like hot concrete on my bare feet. I backed out of her fiancés arms.
“Am I interrupting?” Her innocent eyes went straight to Nick.
“Heather Robbins, Paige Westwood, you remember each other?” Nick spoke to both of us and I nodded as if I expected to see her there.
In some distant part of my brain I knew exactly what to say, how to fix this. But I didn’t want to. And really, it wouldn’t fix anything about this mess.
“I’ll grab my stuff,” he finished, walking toward the locker room with his ball dangling from his hip, leaving both of us in a loud silence.
Silence, until a short laugh from his direction barely made it to my ears.
Was that him? Seriously? Did he really just laugh? I almost turned around and yelled at him from across the court. There was nothing remotely funny about what just happened. Nothing. Worst of all, he left me all alone with her. Did he think I was some goddess of self-possession? A real superhero or something? Like I could handle all of this in stride? That I’d rise to the occasion and be the bigger person? Was this some sort of test? Why was he constantly testing me? First the banquet, and now this. And what, the one with the most superpowers wins?
Haha, yeah, really funny.
I shifted my eyes around the gym. “Alright, then,” I said under my breath, turning to leave. After all, what did we have to say to each other?
Sadly, she had the answer to that question.
“Who do you think you are?” She moved toward me, her high heels tap-tapping on the gym floor.
Strange how a place where I’d felt more alive than I had in the last three years suddenly became enemy territory. After the high of him, the low of her took the fight right out of me. I wanted nothing more than to just go home.
“Stay away from him,” she ordered.
“What?”
“I said, stay away from him.”
“Yeah, whatever.” And I turned to leave.
“He told me all about you and your little stories. How you lied to him about your mom dying and your dad being in jail. For your information, he thinks you’re a joke. People don’t like being around people they don’t trust.”
Her words slowed my retreat, but continued to hit the back of my head. “You’re even more of a joke than I thought if you think he would choose you over me. What do you have to offer him that I can’t? As I see it, you have nothing and I have everything.”
I turned and watched her freshly painted nail tap against her chin. She was right about one thing. She not only had all she wanted, she had what I wanted. But did she really just call me a joke?
“And besides, you left him,” she continued to speak at me. “And if you haven’t noticed, he’s engaged now. To me.”
My eyes couldn’t help but fall to her nose; i
t was doing strange things. With each breath, her nostrils flared in and out, and it took all my willpower to not break out in laughter.
“Funny,” I spoke for the first time, matter-of-factly, the anger behind my words lost in the pointlessness of the discussion. “I think it was Nick who once told me that unless someone’s married, they’re fair game.”
“Is that what this is to you? A game?”
A game? I wanted to say. A game? Being so wildly and permanently in love that it hurts? No. Definitely not a game. But the only part that made it out was, “No.”
“Don’t you get it? He’s happy being with me. He asked me to marry him, not you. What don’t you understand about that? He’s not available. Go find someone else to flirt with, and leave us alone.”
I smiled toward her nose, turned, and walked out of the gym.
“Don’t worry,” she said to my back. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to see him again.”
Turning the corner out of the gym, I almost rammed into him. His darkened eyes met mine.
Your girlfriend’s flaring nose is going to fly right off her face if she keeps talking, I wanted to tell him. But instead I told myself not to look or feel, just to keep walking. My gaze turned and I walked out of the building, lightening fast.
As I crossed the parking lot, her words ate at me. She was right, I needed to leave them alone. And I hated that she was right. I hated that she had what I wanted. I hated being second string. I hated that she was the victim and I was the villain. I was the bad guy, the evil queen, the wicked witch, the jealous stepsister. And there was a part of me that did feel inadequate, just as she’d said. In some ways, I would never measure up to her. Of course in others, like having enough common sense to wear flats to school, I was leaps and bounds above her.
Normally, if I were thinking, I would have walked out of the backside of the building to avoid running into them. But I wasn’t thinking, or maybe I was thinking too much. Either way, I exited out the front door and saw them again in the parking lot. I averted my eyes, pretending not to notice, and kept an even pace down the sidewalk, thankful to at least be walking in the opposite direction.
It would be a long walk home, a half-hour walk at best, if I didn’t stop for a sugar fix, which I probably wouldn’t today. Penny was acting up this morning and Creed had left early for work. So walking was my only option, which wasn’t a bad one since I enjoyed the fresh air and exercise. Yes, that was what I would think about: how beautiful the fall weather was. Mild and sunny. And sunshine was so much nicer than clouds.
And then, once I arrived home, I would take off my jeans, throw some chips and cheese in the microwave, and relax on the couch with a plateful of nachos. Then I would play around with the antiques I’d bought at the garage sales last weekend.
Most of all, I would not mope.
I turned out of the school parking lot and waited to cross the street, wondering why in the huge world I kept bumping into them. They were in his car, stopped at the stop sign, windows rolled down, waiting behind a little VW. The VW guy waved for me to cross. To my utter embarrassment, Nick’s voice pricked my ears. “Where’s your car?”
I couldn’t stand on the corner forever. And I couldn’t walk the other direction without giving myself away. And the VW guy was only obeying the crosswalk laws. So I stepped off the curb and began to walk, pretending I hadn’t heard him.
“It’s broken, isn’t it?”
“Nope,” I said, glancing in his direction, careful not to focus on the passenger’s side. “Just wanted to walk.”
“Right.” He could tell I was lying. It didn’t matter. At this point my dignity was so long gone that I didn’t care much about anything. I was also done talking, and the look I flashed as I passed told him so.
He must not have been looking however, because a few seconds later, a large black jeep pulled up beside me, with the passenger’s side nearest me.
“Get in. We’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks for the offer. But I’d rather walk.” And I kept walking.
“Don’t be bull-headed, Heather, just get in.” I stopped, turned toward the car, and took in a girl with perfect posture staring at me with what a stranger might describe as the sweetest smile.
Unbelievable.
“I’m good,” I said with a smirk on my face, shaking my head at her. At least my smile was genuine.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and sharing that “You don’t always have to be so tough” look he used to give me.
I answered by silently meeting his gaze. There were so many ways I wanted to respond, too many things to say. No, I wasn’t tough. I was weak. But I was learning each day how to be stronger. I was slowly picking up the pieces of my life and putting them back together. I was fighting a battle inside, and doing a pretty darn good job, on defense at least. I was staying sturdy and cheerful and motivated. So, maybe I was tough. Maybe I would come out of this all right. Maybe I would eventually be a better me. I just had one final question.
Could she feel the chemistry between us as he and I stared at each other?
Ughh, what was wrong with me? “See ya,” I said, turning with purpose and heading down the street without a backward glance.
“See ya,” came the reply, which would have been fine had the voice not been a high one.
I hated her. I hated him. And I wanted to slash all of his tires.
*******
A lot happens in three years. Your best friend grows six inches, engagements, your other best friend’s hair grows six inches, engagements, and your favorite grandma’s body shuts down from a little cold gone bad.
“Grandma V didn’t have a big funeral,” Creed explained as we drove. “Her two children and some grandchildren came in from back east and had a small memorial service at the funeral home. That was it.”
“Did you get her flowers?”
“Two roses,” he said, nodding to reassure me. “A yellow one from me and a red one from you.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed the hand I had been holding for the past half hour as we talked fondly of Grandma V.
We were driving back home to visit her gravesite and my mom’s too, Creed and I in his ancient, white Saab, the same car that drove us to school every morning junior and senior year. The car turned silent for the first time since we’d left two hours prior. We hadn’t talked about our kiss since it happened, so I assumed he figured the same thing I did, it was a one-time thing.
The car remained quiet. So quiet that a flashback surfaced, one I wasn’t ready for. But one that was fitting since I had been thinking about Mom all week, wondering what advice she’d give me if she were here.
The flashback began:
“My parents are going to grab a bite to eat,” a blonde, moppy-haired Creed said as they watched the black hearse leave the cemetery, the one that carried her mother’s casket to the gravesite earlier that day. “Are you coming?”
“I’m not very hungry,” the lost fifteen-year-old girl replied as she sat against the graveyard’s large shade tree and took out the yellow bow in her hair. She hadn’t wanted to wear it, but it was Mom’s favorite, so….
“You have to eat or you’re going to disappear, Heath.”
She thought about that, deciding he was probably right. “Does it have to be food? A milkshake sounds better.”
“I bet my parents would drop us off at the shake shack on their way to the restaurant.”
“Okay.” She reached out and took the hand that helped her up. “Is it my turn or yours to choose the flavor?”
“It’s always your turn,” he reminded her. “You’re the picky one.”
They shared a smile, she because she loved how he didn’t treat her any different despite the gloomy day, and he because he loved to make her smile.
Trifling to most, but at that moment she couldn’t have been any more grateful for him. Not for letting her choose the milkshake flavor—because even malted caramel didn’t sound good after buryi
ng your mom—but because he knew she was picky. He knew that about her. And the only other person who knew that about her was gone.
“Actually, I feel like your favorite today, mint chip,” she announced.
“You hate mint chip.”
“Not today. Today mint chip sounds perfect.”
Creed guided her around another gravestone, onto the small lane that led to his parent’s car. “Are you sure you don’t want malted mint chip caramel?”
The idea nudged her funny bone. It felt healing to laugh. Creed joined in and they laughed as one for a moment.
Heather wished she could hold on to the lightness, but the day couldn’t be fixed by laughter. It couldn’t be fixed by anything. She only wanted to forget about today. So she told Creed, “Listen, don’t make a big deal about this at school, okay? No one needs to know about it.”
“Heath, everyone already knows about it.”
“I know. I just don’t want to be a charity case or anything like that. I’m fine.” Reactively, she reached her hand to her neck and held to the pearl necklace that once belonged to her mom.
He nodded, knowing she would deal with it in her own way, the most optimistic way possible, never complaining about what life had dealt her, remaining content and hopeful, because that’s how she was. She was a fighter.
He stared at her in admiration, with a look that said he wished he could make life better.
Noticing, she hoped he realized how much she treasured his friendship. And how comforting it was to lean on him, to lose the tough-girl façade and have someone who knew everything. Who always picked her up, brushed her off, and told her she would make it. He would forever be her hero.
A quick flash from her left got her attention—Creed’s mom taking a private picture of them, which was fine since that would be the only physical memory from this day; Heather didn’t want another.
The car was leaving to the restaurant in a few minutes, Creed’s mom had said, agreeing to drop them off for milkshakes; she’d always been loving to Heather. In fact, this wasn’t the first time in the last week Heather wondered why Creed’s family couldn’t have custody of her instead of her step-dad, Bill. Heaven knew they were more fit for the job.
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