Chapter 3 #2
Something sharp twists in my chest. Annoyance, maybe. Or something else I don’t want to look at too closely. I wish she’d drop it. This whole conversation has me wound tight, restless in a way I can’t quite name.
“Do what you want,” I say. The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “I’m not in charge of him.”
Trish smiles, bouncing a little in her seat. “Okay. I’ll ask him to dance when he gets back.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Whatever. Great.”
I reach across the table and grab the shot of whiskey sitting in front of Devon.
“What the fuck, Gracie?” he yells.
Too late.
I knock it back, flipping him off as the alcohol burns its way down my throat. I drag the back of my hand across my mouth, heat flaring through my chest.
“I’ll buy you one later,” I tell him, absolutely not meaning it as an invitation.
His eyes light up anyway.
“I’m holding you to that,” he says with a grin.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Drink your beer, Devon.”
He just laughs, completely unbothered. “I’m serious about what I said earlier. You look good tonight. Like…dangerously good.”
“Careful,” I say dryly. “Flattery might actually work if you weren’t you.”
The whole table erupts at that, everyone except Devon.
Beck
Age 14
“Remember when you said you hated sports?” Gracie teases, and I try very hard not to stare at her cheer skirt.
It’s pleated. Yellow and red. It sways when she moves, bright and impossible to ignore. When she bends to grab her pom-poms off the gym floor, my brain short-circuits, and I look away fast, face burning.
“It’s just hormones,” Mom said when I made a rare confession that I was starting to notice girls.
I didn’t tell her it was one girl. One very specific girl. The one who’s been in our house at least six days a week for as long as I can remember.
Hormones were also her explanation for why I’d shot up seven inches in a year. For my voice cracking mid-sentence. For the hair where there hadn’t been any before. For the way my body feels unfamiliar lately, too big, too loud, too aware.
“I still hate sports,” I mutter, leaning closer to Gracie so my teammates and coaches don’t hear. I reach back and tighten the strap that holds my glasses in place. Sometimes they fog up when I run. “I didn’t even try out, remember?”
We’re in the gym. Eighth grade. Junior high, one step up from elementary school. At least we have a real science lab now, with Bunsen burners and counters Gracie claimed before anyone else. She got special permission to come in early. Run her own experiments.
I don’t think the other kids know, even her so-called friends.
She’s gotten prettier, more popular. It’s like she’s living a double life.
The science nerd she only shows to me and the head cheerleader the rest of the school sees.
She doesn’t pretend she’s dumb. Doesn’t act like a ditz, but she keeps her best parts quiet.
It almost makes me angry, but then…I also like it.
That I’m the only one she trusts enough to let the mask slip.
“But you’re doing so good!” Gracie says. She knocks the basketball out of my hands and bounces it a few times before handing it back. “Top scorer last game.”
I snort. “Because I’m three inches taller than everyone else.”
That’s the truth. The real reason the basketball coach approached me, asked me to join the team, why he starts me every game. Because I’m already six feet.
I almost said no.
Then I realized playing basketball meant games. Games meant cheerleaders. And cheerleaders meant Gracie.
I’m not an idiot. I joined the team immediately.
“Once the other kids catch up in height, I’ll ride the bench, Gracie. I’m not that great.” I don’t want to disappoint her. Or myself when she stops cheering for me. It’d felt a little too good these past few games, watching her jump up and down beaming when I made a shot.
“Like I care,” she says, socking me in the shoulder playfully. “Don’t you know, Beck?”
She looks at me, her eyes warm and certain.
“I’ll cheer for you, no matter what you do.”
Gracie
Present
Trish sees him first. I can tell by the way she straightens, runs her fingers through her hair, and tugs the deep V of her shirt a little lower, showing off some serious cleavage.
I turn to follow her gaze, and, sure enough, there he is.
Beck.
He weaves through the crowd toward us, easy and familiar, our drinks balanced in one hand like he’s done this a million times, which he has.
Growing up, he worked lots of side jobs—washing cars, the burger joint, waiting tables.
I did the same, except my jobs were more often in the mall, selling clothes and make-up.
Poor kids with single moms learn fast. How not to drop the glass.
Not to rip the clothing. Not to make mistakes that get you fired.
Our moms needed money, not excuses.
Beck reaches us and sets the drinks down, then slides my mug toward me first.
I pick it up, start to drink.
“Careful,” he says quietly as he sits down. “You’re emptying those faster than usual.”
“I’m celebrating,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Celebrating what?” he asks, looking amused.
“Life. Luck. Not being dead,” I rattle off. “The usual.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes flick to the empty shot glass in front of Devon, then back to me.
Did he see from the bar? When I stole Devon’s shot?
Something shifts in Beck’s eyes. Subtle. Not angry. Just…attentive.
“Hey!” Trish says brightly, scooting closer. “Beck, right?”
“That’s me,” he says easily, and, just like that, his attention leaves me.
“Do you dance?” She bats her lashes. Actually bats them. I didn’t know people still did that.
Beck blinks, caught off-guard. He glances at me without thinking. I see it happen. The reflex. Like he’s checking the weather before deciding whether to go outside.
My stomach flips. A slow nauseating roll.
“I mean,” Trish rushes on, “if you want. No pressure. Just thought I’d ask.”
He looks back at her, polite smile firmly in place. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
Sure.
Not enthusiastic. Not reluctant. Just…fine.
Trish squeals softly. Kirsten and I shift aside to let her pass. Beck is already on his feet when she reaches him. He startles when she takes his hand, fingers lacing with his like it’s practiced. Like it belongs there.
I freeze, unable to look away from it.
Her hand in his.
They disappear into the crowd, her blonde hair bouncing, his darker head towering over everyone else. He was right. He stopped growing our senior year of high school, but he still got to six feet four inches and won the state championship. I’d been there for every game. Cheering.
Out on the dance floor, Beck moves stiffly at first, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. Trish, on the other hand, has zero hesitation. She presses in close, swaying, laughing up at him.
I turn back to the table and immediately down the rest of my beer.
Kirsten watches me over the rim of her glass. “You good?”
“Totally,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She raises one eyebrow. Lowers it again. “Okay.”
The music shifts, something loud and thumping, bass vibrating through the floor, and the pub erupts. People spill into the makeshift dance area, arms thrown around shoulders, bodies pressed together.
I try not to look.
I fail.
Beck is dancing with Trish. Actually dancing. He’s loosened up now, shoulders moving, head tipped down to hear her over the music. She says something that makes him laugh, a real one, head thrown back for a second.
The sight punches something straight through my chest.
I slam my beer down, the table rattling.
“Kirsten,” I announce. “Let’s go find some trouble.”