The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

  I check the time. Fifteen more minutes of sitting here waiting for the bell to ring. But watching Griffin chow down on his hockey-puck cheeseburger makes me laugh. He even rolls his eyes and pretends to wipe drool from his mouth.

  Clown.

  “So that shirt,” he says, glancing at my chest again. “You said it was your boyfriend’s?”

  Just the mere mention of Nevada makes my chest squeeze, like he’s this sacred entity only I’m allowed to mention. “Uh huh. Why?”

  “Just wondering if I’m going to get shoved up against a locker for talking to someone’s girl.”

  “This isn’t some John Hughes movie,” I say. “No one’s going to shove you up against a locker. I mean, unless you’re being a shit. Then they might. And in that case you’d probably deserve it.”

  Griffin lifts his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s take it down a notch. What’s with the attitude?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, dragging in a breath of disgusting cafeteria air. I don’t want to be here. Senior year without Nev is going to be tough. There’s definitely a void here, without him. A nagging emptiness. A little less life in these halls. It’s just … different. And it puts me in the worst mood. “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re what, seventeen? Eighteen?” he asks. “How complicated could your life be?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Griffin slams the rest of his cheeseburger down. “You’re something else, Yardley. You know that?”

  I lift a brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Some people have real problems. That’s all I’m saying. Unless you’re homeless or dying, you might want to be a little less sulky princess and a little more grateful.”

  I admit I’m throwing myself a pity party. And I admit he has a point. But he also has a lot of nerve to talk to a complete stranger that way.

  “It’s all relative,” I say. “Problems are, that is.”

  Griffin pulls in a deep breath, his hazel stare heavy. “Yeah. I guess.”

  Returning to his meal, he eats with a little less vigor this time, and I take a moment to reflect on what it was like to be the new kid not so long ago.

  “What class do you have after this?” I ask.

  “Creative Drawing II,” he says. “You?”

  “Ha. Same.” I glance at his hands, eyeing the same kind of calloused spot on his finger that I have from years of using graphite pencils.

  “Lucky you.” He opens his milk carton. Two percent. Yuck.

  “More like lucky you.”

  “That’s the best you’ve got?” He laughs. “Yardley, hang with me and I’ll teach you the way of my people. We really need to work on your comeback game. It’s an art, really.”

  The bell rings, and I gather my things, slinging my bag over my right shoulder before grabbing my tray. Griffin follows suit and by the time we finish dumping what remains of our food, we’re walking side by side toward the art corridor.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Langsinger has introduced Griffin Gaines to the class and assigned him a spot next to me where my friend, Lexie, usually sits.

  Lucky me.

  Mrs. L places a vase and a few fake pieces of fruit in front of us and tells us we’re doing still life drawings today, and within a minute she’s back at her desk checking emails as per usual. One of the students behind me asks if we can listen to the radio and then tunes it to a local classic rock station that happens to be playing Kashmir.

  I’m in a constant state of missing Nevada, but sometimes I’m washed in waves of sadness so strong they take my breath away. Bryony would say I’m being dramatic, but I can’t deny the way that I feel. The emotions are too strong.

  My eyes water, my chest hurts.

  The room spins, I forget to breathe.

  I physically miss him with every part of me.

  Griffin hums along to the song, but just barely, and his head tilts to the side as his pencil glides across the paper. He forms the outlines first, then begins shading the vase. He’s good from what I can tell. Better than me, honestly.

  “You like Led Zeppelin?” I ask.

  “Like?” He turns to me, tugging on his knit cap. I realize I have no idea what color his hair is. I’m guessing something sandy. “No, no, no. Love. I love them.”

  I smile. “So does Nevada.”

  “Nah-who?”

  “Nevada. My boyfriend,” I say.

  “Please tell me you’re not one of those people who constantly feel the need to fit the word boyfriend into every sentence,” he says. “I’m about to lose all respect for you if you are.”

  I frown. It isn’t intentional … he’s always on my mind. I can’t help it if I work him into conversations. Sighing, I tell myself it’s going to be a long year if I keep this up. I need to pull myself together, put on my big girl panties, and handle this exactly the way I planned—with dignity and patience and a positive attitude.

  “Where is your boyfriend anyway?” he asks. “Does he go here?”

  “Away. At college. He plays basketball for Grove State.” I sketch a plastic pear, but it looks more like a malformed apple. I’m normally better than this, so I’m not sure what the deal is.

  “Ah, see, now you’re just bragging,” Griffin says, jutting his elbow into my side.

  Shaking my head, I say, “Not bragging. Just answering your question. You asked where he is. He’s off at college playing basketball.”

  “But you name dropped. Grove State is the shit right now. That’s thee hottest school in the eastern division.”

  “I’m proud of him, that’s all.”

  He’s almost finished shading in the top of his vase when he places his pencil down and turns to me. “So you’re that girl. The one pining away while her boyfriend’s off at college. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it almost never works out.”

  Says my friend, Lexie, and the rest of the world. He doesn’t need to remind me.

  “Yeah, well we’re different,” I say. “What we have is different.”

  I know how I sound, but I speak the truth.

  Griffin chuckles, sticking his pencil behind his ear and ripping his paper in half for some insane reason. It was perfect, and now he’s destroying it so he can start fresh.

  He’s crazy. Certifiably.

  “Why are you doing that?” I ask. “It was good.”

  “I want to start over.” He crinkles the paper into a ball and shoots it into a trash can across the classroom. “I didn’t like the perspective on it. Or the shading. Wasn’t realistic enough for me.” He grabs another sheet of paper and begins again, only this time I can’t help but notice him glancing past the still life arrangement toward the table in the corner. “Hey, who’s that redhead over there? In the blue shirt?”

  “Cassidy Madden,” I say.

  “She single?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Such a guy,” I say.

  “And that’s a bad thing?” he asks. “Is she nice? What do you know about her?”

  “She’s nice enough,” I say. We don’t travel in the same social circles. “She’s a cheerleader.”

  “Ew. Pass.” Griffin studies the vase. “I should’ve known. She’s got a freaking satin ribbon in her ponytail. She’s pretty though.”

  “There are lots of pretty girls at this school,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, turning to me. “I see that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Homecoming

  Nevada

  Six Weeks Later

  Lying in my bed, I stretch my hamstrings. These off-season workouts are brutal. I hate to see what the real ones are going to entail.

  My phone vibrates on my desk, and I take a couple steps across the tiny dorm room I share with my teammate, Jense, and answer it with a smile on my face as soon as I see who’s calling.

  “Hey, Dove,” I say.

  “Nev.” God, I love her voice. “Now a good time?”

 
“Of course.” I climb back into my bed, which for now is the bottom bunk that I won on a coin toss. Jense wants to switch come spring semester. I told him we’d flip for it again. Truth be told, I’m a wild sleeper, and I don’t want to risk rolling off the top bunk and damaging a shoulder or a knee or something and consequently my entire basketball career at Grove State. “How was your day?”

  “Same old,” she says, exhaling. “Went to school. Missed you. Ate lunch. Missed you. Went home. Missed you. Did homework. Called you because I missed you …”

  I laugh through my nose. “It’s so good to hear your voice. I don’t think I could fall asleep without it anymore.”

  “Me too,” she says, though there’s some dissonance in her voice.

  “What’s wrong? You sound sad or something?”

  “Homecoming is coming up,” she says. “Everyone’s going with their boyfriends and picking out dresses and all that. Lexie’s boyfriend is coming home so he can take her. Makes me wish you could come home too.”

  “Lexie’s boyfriend goes to school forty minutes away.”

  “I know. I’m not saying you should come home. Just saying I wish you could,” she says. “You know what I mean.”

  “You should go,” I say. “What about that Griff guy?”

  I can’t believe I’m suggesting she go with another guy, but I love her and I trust her and I want her to be happy and have fun. That’s what you do when you love someone. Besides, the way she talks about him, it’s like she’s talking about some pesky kid brother.

  If she had feelings for him, I’d be able to pick up on something. I know her and all her nuances. She isn’t hiding a thing.

  “He asked me actually,” she says.

  My heart stops.

  It’s one thing for me to tell her to go with a friend. It’s something else entirely knowing he already asked her.

  “What’d you say?” I ask. My mouth is dry and I can’t swallow the lump lodged in my throat. This is completely unexpected—this reaction I’m having.

  “I told him I’d talk to you.” She doesn’t seem the least bit nervous, which tells me she has nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Dove, you don’t need my permission,” I say, exhaling.

  “Not asking for your permission,” she says. “I just wanted to talk to you about it. Make sure you’re okay with it and you know we’re just going as friends.”

  “Of course. I trust you.”

  She exhales into the phone. “I’m so happy to hear that.”

  “Just promise me you won’t go falling in love with him.” I hate myself for saying those words the second they leave my lips. It’s insulting to her, really. And it makes me look jealous, pathetic.

  “Nev,” she says, tone darker, gravelly. “Why would you say that after you just said you were cool with us going as friends?”

  “I know,” I say. My heart races and my palms sweat. This is what pure, unadulterated jealousy feels like, hot and thick in my veins, pumping through my heart.

  I want to be there.

  I want to take her.

  I want to watch her walk down the curved staircase of her parents’ foyer in her sparkly dress, her hair done and flowers on her wrist.

  I want to take her out and show her off.

  I want to dance with her until she kicks off her heels and begs me to take her somewhere we can be alone for the final hour before her curfew.

  The thought of that Griff kid’s hands on Yardley sends a hard clench to my jaw, pain radiating up the sides of my face and stopping at my temples.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Yardley says. “First of all, he’s just a friend—as you already know. Second of all, I’m not attracted to him and even if I were, you still wouldn’t have anything to worry about because he’s not you.”

  My body relaxes, but barely. “I’m sorry. I just … it’s hard.”

  “I know,” she says. “It’s so hard. But we can get through this. And in two months, we’ll be together again for Christmas. Just keep thinking about that, okay?”

  It’s strange, Yardley reassuring me and not the other way around.

  And here I thought I was the stronger one.

  “Yeah.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, sitting up on the edge of my bed. “You’re right. I will.”

  “So how was practice today?” Yardley changes the subject, but I can’t stop thinking about the two of them halfway across the country and her filling the void I left with some kid that makes her laugh and wants to take her to homecoming.

  He better keep his hands off her, that’s all I have to say.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Why Would You Do That?

  Yardley

  Three Weeks Later

  “My feet hurt.” I take my hands off Griff’s shoulders, watching the glimmer of the disco ball as it reflects in his hazel eyes. Wrinkling my nose and offering an apologetic wince, I say, “I think I’m ready to go home.”

  He doesn’t try to hide the disappointment on his face. “Seriously? We’ve only been here an hour.”

  It’s not the same without Nev. There’s no magic in the air, no sweet nostalgia-in-the-making. And seeing Griff all dressed up in a nice suit—his signature Sooners hat covering his head as per usual—and watching him open doors for me and treat me like a lady is just … weird. He hasn’t been his typical, smart-mouthed self tonight.

  And he keeps looking at me in a way I’m afraid to interpret.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. I know he bought me this gorgeous white rose corsage and took me to one of the nicest restaurants in town, but this is where tonight ends for us. I just want to go home, change out of this dress, and call Nev to tell him goodnight. He said he was cool with me going to homecoming with Griff, but I don’t one hundred percent believe him. I think he just wanted me to be happy, and he wanted to prove that he trusted me. “Can we go?”

  Griff releases an audible sigh, glancing around the crowded gymnasium. “Yeah.”

  I follow him through the double doors, past the cafeteria, down the hall and out toward the parking lot. He walks ahead of me, and when we reach his mom’s red Pontiac G6, he doesn’t get the door.

  The ride home is stilted and awkward, the tension ripe. No music. No conversation. Just the sound of air whooshing through the two-inch gap in his driver’s side window. When he pulls into my driveway ten minutes later, his hands grip the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten.

  “Everything okay?” I ask a painfully obvious question.

  He shakes his head, breathing hard. “Yeah. Just … yeah. Everything’s fine. Let me walk you up.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  Before I finish protesting, he’s exiting the car and jogging to the passenger side, getting my door. Extending his hand, he helps me out, and I gather my dress in my hands. Making our way up the front walk, we stop outside the front porch.

  It’s dark. My parents must have forgotten to turn on the outside lights. The moon is the only light we have, but it’s enough to paint a picture of a solemn boy standing in front of a baffled girl.

  This isn’t the same Griff who picked me up just a few hours ago.

  “I had a nice time tonight,” I say, wanting to assure him all was not lost. “Thanks for taking me to homecoming.”

  “Yardley,” he says, eyes moving between mine. He lifts his hand to his stocking cap before dropping it at his side. He wants to say something, but he can’t get it out for whatever reason … which just adds to the strangeness of tonight because normally Griff never shuts up.

  “What?” I ask. “You’re being weird. Just—”

  And then it happens.

  His mouth on mine. His hands in my hair.

  My lips press together, refusing his advances, and I try to protest but he’s kissing me so hard, refusing to let me go. Only when I smack him across the chest to get his attention does he finally relent.

  “What are you doing?!” I take a step back, wishing I could pun
ch him across his face for what he’s just done. I want to lecture him and remind him we’re just friends and that’s all we’re ever going to be, but before I get a chance to say another word, his mouth is on mine—again.

  The slick graze of his tongue presses against my lips, trying to force its way between them, and his hands circle my waist, pulling my body against his.

  I don’t know this Griffin.

  Managing to peel myself off of him, I take another step back, closer to the front door this time.

  My eyes water.

  I’m trembling from head to toe.

  “Why would you do that?” My voice quavers.

  There’s a stunned look on Griff’s face, almost as if even he can’t believe what just happened either. I don’t think he planned it. I think he’d been wanting to kiss me all night and it just happened, like he couldn’t control himself.

  But it’s no excuse.

  And I’m still angry.

  “You ruined a perfectly good night.” I yank the corsage off my wrist and hand it to him. “And a perfectly good friendship.”

  He says nothing.

  “Hope it was worth it.” I grab the doorknob and let myself inside.

  Tonight, I’m going to wash this makeup off and try to get some rest. And tomorrow, I’m going to tell Nev everything.

  “Griff’s here.” Bryony barges into my room the next morning as I’m drying my hair.

  I click the dryer off and place it on my dresser, composing myself. “Tell him to get lost.”

  Her brows furrow.

  “I mean it,” I add, my tone matter-of-fact and void of emotion. Reaching for the dryer again, I hover my thumb above the ‘on’ button.

  “He’s already in the kitchen talking to Mom,” she says. “It’d be really weird if I went down there and told him to leave.”

  I roll my eyes. Today of all days, I don’t have the patience for his persistence. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll be down in a bit.”

  “How long is a bit?” she asks, toe digging into my carpet.

  Shrugging, I say, “However long it takes for me to finish getting ready?”