Chapter 11Rayne

F

eet to the pavement—my sweet escape. I plug my iPod into my ears, crank the music, and stare ahead of me, physically putting distance between myself and everyone else. It’s great for perspective. And after two weeks of classes, a quick Sunday afternoon run might do some good.

It’s not that classes are hard. They’re so-so, about what I expected, though it’s different not having Jaycee with me most of the day. She’s my safety net, my conversation starter, my social conduit. Without her, the M.O. has become slinking in my desk and burying my nose in a book until the teacher starts. Funny thing—most of the kids in my classes are now my virtual friends even if they walk by me without a word in public. Only when Preston’s around am I suddenly a hot commodity.

I live for fourth period French. Jaycee’s beside me, Gage’s behind me, and for one sixty-minute segment, all is right in my high school world. Not that it’s particularly drama-free, especially with Jaycee’s vow to hate Gage eternally and his smart-ass responses to just about everything she says. I pretend it’s all a joke, but I think they really do hate each other.

If Jaycee’s my best friend, Gage has become next in command, not only because of our French class but because nearly every date with Preston has somehow made our paths cross. Our personalities are similar, more than mine and Preston’s, and our friendly relationship has evolved around healthy competition. He’s one-upping me or I’m taking him down—and neither of us likes to lose. He’s easy on the eyes, too, but I’d never tell Preston that. No guy in the world wants to hear his girlfriend say his brother’s hot.

By the time I round the corner onto Main Street, the sun is low in the sky and the September air swirls with a definite chill. I tuck my fingers under the sleeve hem to warm them. Up ahead on the opposite side of the road is the Howard house. I never run on the sidewalk right in front of their place because hello? Stalker. Preston’s hardly there anyway.

Our first couple weeks of dating were awesome, seeing each other most every night even for ten minutes, but since his classes started, his schedule’s sketchy. Study groups and the internship take up a lot of time—time he’d been spending with me before. At least he calls and texts religiously. It just sucks I sometimes feel like I don’t know him as well as I should. Like we’re stuck in some sort of time warp where everything’s paused, and when we do get a moment, someone’s always crashing it.

The corner gas station is my turnaround point where the sidewalk runs out. I jog in place, finger to my jugular to check the thump-thump-thump beneath it, then head back up the hill toward town. Usually I’m in a zone, but today something’s different. My peripheral vision homes in on something or someone paralleling me on the opposite side of the street.

Gage runs alongside. He waves and smiles, then explodes forward, arms chopping through the air. I speed up and pass him, my knees aching with each stride, then smile back over my shoulder with a thumbs-up. In two-seconds flat, he’s in my sights, pulling ahead once again with a “what’s up” head bob.

Like moths to the flame.

The see-saw of first place bragging rights continues all the way into town. I pass him again, and this time, he fades from sight. My lungs rage like volcanoes, burning with the chilled air I’m sucking in as I jog to a stop. But when I turn around, hands in the air, Gage is sprawled out on the sidewalk, flat on his back, not moving.

“Gage!” I dart across the four-lane road, nearly getting smashed by a Jeep whose driver honks at me. I kneel down, hovering over him. His eyes are open and fixed on mine, chest moving up and down, arms and legs stretched out in four different directions. My hands wash over him, searching for blood or bumps, and somewhere beneath the worry, that swoony-crackly feeling pulses under my skin, and images of his tattoo flood my brain, the black block lettering smooth to the touch. The way it rolled across the rippled muscles. I shake my head. Stop and focus. He could be dying. “What happened? Did you trip on something?”

He blinks rapidly and bites his lower lip. “My pride? I think it’s back there somewhere,” he laughs and points behind him.

“In that case, I won’t point out that I won… beat you. Killed it. Owned it…”

“Okay, I get the picture,” he interrupts. I help him to his feet and we sit together on the grassy bank bordering the cement. “Just wait ‘til next time…”

“Bring it.” I square off with him, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose.

“You and your competitive streak…”

“You have no room to talk, mister.” I wag my finger in his face.

“I’m a dude. We’re supposed to be testosterone-y. You’re a chick. You’re supposed to be catty and whiny, not hardcore.”

“Do you not remember the cow patty incident?”

“Who the hell could forget you with your foot in crap?” he snorts.

“Shut up. What I meant is I’m not catty and whiny. You’ll have to see Jaycee for that.”

“Hell yeah.” His face winds into a nasty grimace. “That’s one friendship I don’t understand.”

“Hush. We’ve been friends since she moved here in first grade. Some kid stole my paste, and when I cried, she blacked his eye.”

“So your friendship is based on violence?” Gage arches his right eyebrow with a grin.

“No,” I shake my head, leaning in to shoulder nudge him. “Jaycee and I are total opposites, but it works. She forced me into cheerleading, I make her take French class. She’s up on the latest fashions, I’m up on the latest books.”

“You’re honest. She’s a backstabbing opportunist…”

I roll my eyes. “I keep her grounded. She looks out for me.”

“You got me now.” He plunges his finger to his chest. “I’ll protect you.” Something about the glint in his eyes lets me know he means it. We sit so close, arms mashed together, that our long-sleeve cotton shirts suddenly feel invisible, like the tender skin of my arm and the hard ripples of his burn together, melting, smoldering.

Just then, my phone buzzes against my leg. I pull it from my pocket and swipe my finger across the screen.

<Jaycee> What’s going on with you and Gage?

Before I finish reading, her second text comes through.

<Jaycee> I’m at coffeehouse. 2 kids in front of me talking about you and Gage laying on the sidewalk together? IDK what the hell you’re doing but STOP.

I lock the phone, slide it back in my pocket then bury my face in my hands. “Dear Lord…”

Gage tugs my hands down. “Let me guess. Someone in town saw us talking, and now everyone thinks something’s up?”

I drop my jaw in feigned surprise. “Wow. It’s like freakin’ ESP with you.”

“Also known as ‘growing up here.’” He grins and shakes his head, but when he turns to me, his eyes are hard, his lips flat-lined. “Why the hell do you care so much what this town thinks? Don’t you ever just wanna break the rules?”

“Like you?” I point to the tattoo hidden by his t-shirt.

He smirks and looks down at his feet. “Good in theory, right?”

“Yeah. Until you have to live with the consequences.” He looks up and we stare at each other for the longest minute. I’m not sure what we’re sidestepping in this conversation, but my insides feel like a rubber band stretched to the limit.

“Aren’t some consequences worth it?” His words are barely audible over the traffic.

“Maybe?” I offer.

Gage stands up and extends his hand. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. “Don’t worry. When the news gets to Preston, I’ll tell him how gracious his girlfriend was in scraping my ass off the pavement.” He smiles. “Need any help getting home?”

I do a 360-degree glance, half-expecting Jaycee or someone else to spring from the bushes and take our picture. “Better not push the town’s limits. See you at school.” I plug in my earbuds and take off toward home. I don’t look back because I know he’s watching me—and so is everyone else.