But I Love Him

by Amanda Grace

  Even though we’ve never been best friends, we’ve always been close. We have this sort of mutual respect for each other that comes from years of proving ourselves. I know Blake worked his butt off to get to this point. To be the best. I see him, all summer long, jogging the long back roads around town. He knows a real runner never has an off-season. And so each fall, it’s like a reunion, and we hug and talk and catch up, and every year we get closer.

  It’s a forty-minute ride to Reilly Hills. It’s going to be torture if we don’t speak, and I hate that we’ve been reduced to this. I can’t tolerate the prickly feeling every time we hit a bump and my shoulder rubs his. I can’t tolerate the way he’s staring out the window, as if he doesn’t even know I’m there.

  So I break the silence myself. “So, um, do you hate me now or what?”

  He turns and gives me this look, like he’s shocked I finally talked. “No. God. I don’t hate you. I just thought … I figured I made you uncomfortable or something.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that. I just didn’t know what to say, after … you know.”

  And then there’s silence again, and I worry that it’s back for good.

  “Okay, well now that that’s over,” he says, and laughs.

  And Blake is back.

  “Congrats on winning last week, by the way,” he adds.

  “You too. Two in a row. Well done.”

  He grins at me, in that way of his. The way that says I know I’m good without being cocky. I don’t know how he does it, but he has this comfortable, confident air about him.

  “So, this boyfriend of yours,” he says.

  I nod my head, a little worried about what he’s going to say next. “Yeah?”

  He grins at me. “If he hurts you, I swear to God I’ll knock him out.”

  I smack his leg with the back of my hand. “Oh, quit it, he’s a good guy.”

  “He must be. He’s got good taste in girls.”

  I smile in relief. Obviously Blake isn’t so embarrassed about the … event in the woods. That’s good. Maybe we can stay friends. Three years is too much to give up on so easily.

  “In another life, we would have been perfect, you know.”

  I look at him out of the corner of my eye and try not to smile. “Shut up,” I say, the smile finally taking over as I playfully swipe at him again.

  He raises his hands in mock-surrender. “I’m just sayin’.”

  I slide down a bit on the bench and prop my knees up on the seat in front of us. “Maybe. Guess we’ll never know.”

  He slides down so we’re shoulder to shoulder again. “Okay, but do you have any hot friends?”

  “Blake!”

  “What? You can’t blame me for trying,” he says. He shoots me another of his cocky grins, and it makes my cheeks warm.

  “You’re impossible.” I raise an eyebrow, try to act like I’m not finding him even a little attractive, but I’m not sure it works. There’s no denying that Blake is good looking.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  I shake my head again, but the grin is there to stay. I’m glad Blake is who he is. It makes all this so much easier.

  He drums his fingers on the seat between us, though there’s hardly any free space, and his fingers keep brushing my thigh. My warm-ups are so thin I can feel the heat on my leg. “How ’bout whoever runs the fastest time overall leads calisthenics next week?”

  “Plus walk-out duty.”

  “Deal.” His fingers stop their drumming and he reaches out to grasp my hand.

  And then we shake on it, and I know I’m doomed. Blake will win. But the knowing smile on his face right now makes it all worth it.

  October 9

  One Month, nine days

  Connor and I are at a park, a few blocks from the ocean, acting like kids. It’s a beautiful sunny day, with a slight salty breeze that cools our skin. He pushes me on the swings, and I laugh and stare at the sky and wonder what it would be like to just let go and fly into the air, and land in a heap in the gravel.

  I wonder if it would hurt.

  I bet it would, but I bet for those moments I would be free as a bird, and it would be glorious.

  Connor sits on a swing next to me and pumps his legs, picking up speed and height, and before I know it we’re paralleling each other, my hair wild around my face.

  It’s weird. Whenever we get to the top, there’s this moment that seems to freeze, and all I can see is his face, and the sky, and nothing else. But then it is broken and we’re swinging downwards again, only to repeat it on the other side, dozens of frozen moments strung together.

  Eventually I get dizzy and drag my feet, and he does the same, and we stop. I twist my swing a few times, absently turning around and then back again, my legs sticking straight out in front of me.

  Whenever he’s around, everything feels charged. I’m filled with energy, and I want to go wild with it and scream and dance and kiss.

  But all I have to do is stare into his intense blue eyes, and it calms me, and I just want to be close to him.

  I look at his hand where it grips the chain of the swing. Scars. They cover his knuckles, white lines that crisscross all over his fist.

  He sees me looking, and he drops his hand and looks at it, too. “I have a temper problem,” he says. “Sometimes I have to hit something. But I’m not like my dad. I just hit things, not people. I got these when I punched out a window in the garage.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. His dad hits people? And does that mean that Connor’s been one of them? The thought makes me a little bit sick. I’m not sure I understand an anger like that, an anger so fierce you could hurt someone.

  “I know it sounds bad. I haven’t done anything like that in a long time, though. These were when I was thirteen. Things were just so rough back then.”

  “Oh,” I say again. I sound so stupid. I have no idea what I’m supposed to say, what the appropriate response is in a conversation like this. The things he’s talking about are so different than the things I’m used to.

  He grabs the chain on my swing and I look at him and meet his intense stare. “I swear to you, I would never hurt you. Never.”

  I nod my head. I see the conviction in his face. I hear it in his voice. I know he would never hurt me.

  I know his word is good. And I trust him.

  And I know he trusts me, because he’s telling me his secrets. He’s telling me his hurt. And I know I can do the same. I know I could tell him anything. And because of what he’s been through, because of what he’s lived, he won’t judge me for it.

  Even though Abby is my best friend, she lives this amazing charmed life and I’ve never wanted to tell her the bad parts of mine. I’ve never wanted to tell her how sometimes I lie awake at night and the house is big and empty and I can hear my mom crying herself to sleep, and it scares me and I want to go hug her but I know she doesn’t want me to know she does it. And so I lie in the dark and listen to the sounds, and each one tears at me until sometimes it makes me cry, too.

  And yet I don’t say anything to my mom and she goes on doing what she does, and I go on pretending I don’t know.

  It feels wrong, though. I think I should tell her I know, and I should be there for her, but I need her as much as she needs me, and so we just stay this way forever, a stalemate of tears. And Abby has no idea.

  But now I have Connor. And I know he’ll understand me.

  And I’m ready to tell him everything.

  October 8

  One Month, eight days

  I’m in bed when he calls. I know it is him, because no one else calls me this late.

  I pick it up before the first ring is over, my heart thundering in my chest from waking up so abruptly.

  “Hello?”

  “Ann?”

  His voice is so small.

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  I’m wide awake now. I roll over and prop my head up on the pillows, the receiver gripped hard in my hand.
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  “I—” He stops.

  “Is something wrong?” He sounds so different. Something’s up. He’s calling even later than usual and he sounds so small.

  “I just … No. Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m alone. And I’m just in a … funny mood. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called so late.”

  “No. Please it’s okay. Just talk to me. I’m awake now.”

  I stifle a yawn.

  “I miss you,” he says. And it sounds cute. I can picture the way his lips are curling upward as he says it. “What are you wearing?”

  I giggle.

  “Oh, I love that sound,” he says. “You’ve just made my night.”

  I smile, as if he will see it.

  “But seriously, what are you wearing?”

  “I’m not telling you that!”

  “Come on, please?”

  There’s that voice again. That cute, flirty, appealing voice that makes me grin every time.

  “Okay. A yellow tank top and plaid boxers that are at least two sizes too big. Sexy, right?” I laugh.

  “Oh, that sounds hot.” And then he laughs. “God, this is crazy. Two minutes of talking to you and you’ve completely changed my mood. I wish you could be here right now.”

  “Me too.”

  “You should come over.”

  “It’s midnight!”

  “So?”

  “So, there’s no way I can get out of here without my mom knowing it.”

  He sighs. “I know. But I’m glad you answered. I’d been bumming and stressing out about stuff, and I just needed someone to talk to.”

  “You can call anytime. I love talking to you,” I say. Is it stupid to be grinning like this? How can he make me feel this way?

  “We should do something fun tomorrow.”

  “I have school. And cross country.”

  “So? Skip.”

  Is it wrong that I’m tempted? More tempted than I’ve ever been? I’m seventeen, and I’ve never played hooky before. Not without Mom’s permission, anyway, and that hardly counts.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Come on. I can’t sleep, so I’ll plan a whole day for us. I’ll surprise you.”

  God, I love surprises too. Especially his. They’re always the best.

  “Just this once, though,” I say.

  “Yes. Once.”

  “Okay. Fine. Deal. Abby will cover for me.”

  I can practically hear his smile.

  “Awesome. Okay, I’m going to hang up and plan this.”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you. For answering. For being you. For making me feel so good.”

  I know he means it because his voice is different. It went from lonely to happy, and I love that I did that for him.

  “Anytime.”

  “’Night. Sweet dreams.”

  “You too,” I say.

  And then I hang up, a smile on my face.

  September 30

  One Month

  I’m at Connor’s house. Lately, our dates are stretching out, getting longer and longer and progressively closer to my supposed curfew. He takes me to dinners and movies and walks and everywhere he can think of, but we always end up back here, unwilling to let it end until we have to.

  I know my mom won’t catch me if I stay late once in a while. But I’m afraid if I start pushing it, I’ll never stop, and before I know it I’ll just never leave his side.

  His presence is incredibly … addicting. When I’m around him, I can’t stop smiling and laughing and staring at him, and he’s the same way with me, and sometimes we can spend hours just staring at each other. Sometimes I think the clock is actually ticking in my ear, it’s so loud. I can never stop thinking about how fast it moves when I’m with him and how the end of it is always barreling toward me.

  And it seems totally crazy that everything is happening like this, so fast. Just a month ago I didn’t know him, and now he’s infiltrating everything and he’s all I think about when we’re apart.

  And so every day I wait for night, when I will be here, with him. Today we’re playing Jenga, trying to get the tower taller than our record twenty-six layers. He has a pile of board games in his closet, crammed between basketballs, car magazines, cookbooks … all his hobbies. I’m amazed by them, how he knows so much about so many things. It’s my turn, and I keep cheating, sliding a block a little bit and then changing my mind and putting it back, and it’s become a joke. I get one halfway out before the tower starts to lean, and then I push it back and watch the whole thing wobble, a wicked grin on my face as he watches me more than the tower. It’s intense, sometimes, that feeling of his eyes on me. I’m the only thing in the world to him. We can be in a store or a restaurant or anywhere, and he always watches me over anything else.

  This is so much fun. Every moment of it.

  I think I have it made as I easily slide a piece out—my sixth choice—but as I pick it up I manage to hook the edge of the tower and the whole thing topples, and I laugh and throw the pieces into the air.

  “Gah! I suck at this,” I say, and then lie back on the ground and toss my remaining piece in the air, the one I’d so carefully selected.

  He leans over, his face just inches from mine. “I try so hard to let you beat me, but I still keep winning.” His breath is warm on my face and smells minty, like he brushed his teeth right before I came over. And then he kisses me and I forget all about the game and the blocks crammed underneath my back and legs, and I lose myself in it.

  When it’s over, and he pulls away just a few inches, I grin at him and he smiles back.

  “Where’ve you been all my life?” he says, finally sitting upright again.

  “Waiting for you,” I say, only half joking. I toss a Jenga block at him and it bounces off his shoulder.

  He shakes his head. “This just seems too perfect to be real. You are too perfect.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m really not. You just haven’t known me long enough to see my flaws. I assure you, they’re plentiful.”

  I’m still half joking, and he laughs and kisses me again.

  “I don’t care. I love you.”

  The room goes dead silent, and his eyes widen just the tiniest bit, like he realizes too late what he’d just said aloud.

  Three words I haven’t heard in years, not from anyone, not even my mom. Three tiny little words that make me feel so big. He can’t mean it. I rush to fix it. “It’s okay, I mean, I can just pretend like you didn’t—”

  “No,” he says. “No, don’t pretend like I didn’t say it. I mean it. I do love you. And it’s okay that you don’t say it yet because I know it’s been so fast, and it’s okay if you don’t feel it yet, but I want you to know, I love you.”

  I swallow and nod my head, wondering if I’m ready for this, wondering if I can handle him being in love with me.

  But I’m also wondering if I’m already in love with him. Because these things I feel, they’re so strong, so overwhelming, and there’s times I can’t stand to be away from him. Times I have to leave because it’s 10:50 and I’m about to miss curfew, and yet I don’t want to leave, and my goody-goody side wars with my absolute desire to throw every last rule away and just stay and hope my mom doesn’t even notice.

  He kisses me again and we lean back against his bed, our fingers intertwined. I see our reflection in the mirror across from us, and I wonder: is it too soon to be thinking forever ?

  September 20

  Three Weeks

  Abby and I are lounging on her bed, staring at the ceiling through the gauze of her canopy bed. A bag of Doritos and a tub of gourmet chocolates sit between us, and empty cans of Diet Coke adorn the nightstands. We’re supposed to be working on our new, year-long English project, but neither of us can muster the motivation.

  “I don’t see why we have to choose a classic,” she says. “We should be able to pick any book, really. What’s so great about Shakespeare and Chaucer and
Salinger?”

  I chew on my lip. “I don’t know. I’d rather read The Vampire Diaries.”

  “I’d rather watch The Vampire Diaries,” Abby says.

  I snort. “I doubt listing the reasons a vampire makes a good boyfriend will get us anywhere.”

  Abby sighs. “Let’s just go with Shakespeare. We have to read and contrast at least three works, right? And at least there are CliffsNotes and movie versions.”

  I twist a purple knit scarf around my hand as I consider this. “I guess.”

  “Good. Now we can go do something else,” she says, and then reaches into the Doritos bag.

  “I’ve been dying to get to the craft store in town. I have this idea of something to do for Connor.”

  We finally sit up, something we haven’t done for nearly an hour. The sugar rushes to my head and I have to sit still for a moment until it clears.

  “That’s totally sweet. When do I get to meet him, anyway?” She’s already pulling on her shoes, which I take to mean she’s down with the craft store trip.

  I slide my arms into a zip-up hoodie. “Soon. Maybe next weekend or something. He hasn’t met my mom or anything either. It’s kind of new still.”

  “Oh, please, you’re head over heels,” she says as she switches off her bedroom light and we walk toward the front entry.

  “Well, sort of,” I say, suddenly feeling shy about the whole topic. I’ve never done the boyfriend thing before.

  I follow Abby to her car and slide into one of the leather bucket seats.

  “Well, you guys have kissed, right?”

  I grin sheepishly.

  “Oh, my God, you have. Why didn’t you tell me? I totally would have told you!”

  I shrug.

  “It’s a long ride to the store. Spill. Now.”

  “Where do I start?”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re strolling the aisles at the craft store looking for some special glue required for glass. Abby decides she needs her own craft so that we can work on them together, and she’s currently grabbing stickers for a scrapbook.