Cassius
The Dangers of Tacos And Skating
I don’t mean to stare.
Okay. I do.
But in my defense, Zae on a board is… a lot.
She’s pushing off ahead of me across the quad, board wheels humming over the concrete. Her dark blue braid swings down her back, her T-shirt knotted at her waist so it flashes the edge of that rib tattoo every time she shifts.
I wasn’t there when she got that one, and I hate her for it. I hate knowing some guy saw so much of her, pressed himself so close. It’s partly why I ordered a tattoo gun and started practicing on myself.
Now my right hand has more tattoos than I care to admit.
She pushes off again, shirt rising one more time. And all I can think is:
Do not look at your best friend’s waist. Do not look at your best friend’s waist.
I look at her waist.
“Keep up, grandpa!” she calls over her shoulder, brown eyes on me.
“I’m literally right here,” I grunt, pushing off harder. My board glides up alongside hers. “And you’re the one who almost died on a staircase, so maybe tone down the trash talk.”
She grins at me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed cute and pink.
God, her height drives me insane.
She’s so small and cute, you’d think she was soft. But no. She’s a goddamn firecracker.
“Death by favorite books is a noble way to go,” she argues. “Put that on my tombstone. Here lies Zara, crushed by YA fantasy and poor packing skills.”
I snort, but my chest does that annoying tight thing it’s been doing all day. Watching her roll across campus like she’s been here forever when three hours ago she was still in my mom’s kitchen, stealing bacon off my plate and calling this place “your campus” instead of “ours.”
Now it’s ours.
That should not hit as hard as it does.
We weave through a herd of freshmen and worried parents, cutting across the grass toward the food truck court on the far side of campus.
It’s busy—Kilby Girl by The Backseat Lovers plays from someone’s speaker, that grease smell hanging in the air, the usual knot of skaters messing around near the benches.
“Please tell me that one taco truck is still here,” Zae says, rolling to a stop and kicking her board up into her hand like it’s nothing. “I’m one bad life decision away from chewing on your arm.”
“Sounds like you,” I mutter, stepping off my board. “Yeah, it’s still here.”
Her eyes light up when she spots it over the crowd. “Bless. God is real.”
She takes off toward the line and I follow, boards tucked under our arms.
I’m already halfway through deciding if I’m gonna get one burrito or two when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I know who it is before I look.
Stacey:
Are you seriously ignoring me right now?
Another buzz.
Stacey:
Do you have any idea how it made me look when you skipped out today?
My shoulders tense up like someone hooked wires into them. I stare at the screen too long, my thumb hovering. I know I should reply. I do. But I really don’t want to have this argument again.
Why am I still with her?
Why do I keep letting her back in?
I need two hands to count all the times we’ve broken up and then gotten back together in the span of a single year. All of them her idea.
“Everything good?” Zae asks, craning her neck to look at the menu, oblivious—or pretending to be.
“Yeah,” I lie, that automatic reflex kicking in. “Everything’s fine.”
I look back down at my phone, quickly typing out a reply.
Cass:
I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. Had to move Zae in. Told you that last night.
Three dots pop up right away, disappear, and then pop up again.
Stacey:
You said you’d swing by if you could. Not bail completely. My friends already think it’s weird how much time you spend with her.
My chest goes hot. I know she’s not wrong. I know it’s weird for me to be with Zae as often as I am when I have a girlfriend, but I’m the only person she’s got and I’m not going to let her down. Or let her fall.
“Cass?” Zae nudges me with her elbow. “Earth to sunshine hater. Chicken or steak?”
“Steak.” My mouth’s on autopilot; the rest of me is busy not hurling my phone into the nearest trash can.
Stacey:
I’m your girlfriend. She’s… what? Some girl from high school? It’s embarrassing.
My teeth grind.
Some girl from high school?
I stare at those words so long they blur.
I can feel the anger rising inside me, because Zae is far from just some girl.
“Hey.” Zae leans in a little, trying to peek at my screen. “If that’s Stacey, tell her I say hi. Or, like, a neutral wave from a safe distance.”
I lock my phone before she can see anything and shove it back in my pocket.
“It’s nothing.”
Which is bullshit. And she knows it. Her eyes flick to my face, and she goes quiet in that way she does when she’s unsure how hard she should be pushing.
The line moves forward, and we order with me paying because I said I would, and also because if she keeps trying to cram her debit card into every card reader on campus, she’s going to end up overdrawn in a week.
She grins at me anyway. “Aw. Look at you. Providing for your woman.”
Why did the words “your woman” just assault my gut?
“Shut up,” I mutter, ears heating. “It’s one burrito.”
“Two,” she corrects. “Because I’m eating half of yours.”
I glare as she beams.
That’s how we’ve always worked.
We grab our food and head toward the row of low concrete planters near the skate area. She hops up to sit cross-legged on one, board propped beside her as she unwraps her burrito.
There’s a group of guys taking turns on the ledge nearby. A couple of them I know by face from last year—campus skater crowd. One tall dude with a man bun and a septum ring keeps looking over.
At her.
My grip on the foil around my burrito tightens.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Zae observes around a mouthful of steak. “Who we killing?”
“No one.”
She follows my gaze, spots the guy, and smirks. “Oh? Who’s tall, dark, and handsome? He’s hot.”
I snort. “He’s doing sloppy kickflips and you know it. He’s not the guy for you.”
Don’t look his way, Zae.
“Mm-hmm.” Her eyes are still on me. “Bad kickflips are the standard we go by now?”
I take a huge bite, mostly to shut myself up.
The guy lands another trick, glances over again, gives Zae a little chin lift like he’s letting her know this is for her.
She raises her brows, amused, then deliberately looks away.
Good.
I’m halfway through my burrito when my phone buzzes again.
Stacey:
Are you staying on campus tonight?
Cass:
Yeah. Gotta make sure Zae’s settled. Move-in’s a lot for her.
Stacey:
Of course. It’s always about her.
My molars ache, and I flex my jaw until it pops.
“Cass.” Zae says my name so softly.
I realize I’m probably radiating enough tension to power a small city. My hands are clenched on the burrito so tight it’s spilling out the top.
She nudges my knee with her sneaker. “Breathe.”
In through my nose, out through my mouth, slow.
It helps a little.
“Stacey again?” she asks.
“She’s…” I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “She doesn’t get it.”
Zae looks down at her burrito, pensive, guilty. “I mean, I kinda get it,” she admits quietly. “I think I’ve said this before, but if my boyfriend skipped out on me so much to be with his friend—who’s a girl—I’d be pretty ticked. Not to mention worried.”
That word hits like a punch.
My boyfriend.
The thought of her with someone twists my stomach so hard, it feels like it’ll burst open.
I watch her stare at the foil in her hands, twisting the edge. There’s a little line between her brows.
“I keep telling her it’s not like that.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “With you.”
Her mouth curves, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And here I thought we had something special,” she jokes. It’s always jokes when she’s deflecting.
“You know what I mean.”
Does she?
Because I’m not even sure I do anymore.
“You’re my…” I trail off, fighting the habit to say best friend. Something dumber inside me wants to say everything, but thankfully, I settle on, “You’re my Zae.”
She snorts, but her cheeks go a little pink. “That’s not a real label, Cass.”
“It is now.”
She rolls her eyes, but she stops twisting the foil. Her shoulders loosen a little. That’s good enough for me.
I lean back on my hands, stretch my legs out, and watch her finish eating. Which I know is weird, but she gets this focused, happy look when she’s got good food and good weather and her board nearby. It’s like watching a cat find a sunbeam.
I could sit here all day.
My phone buzzes a third time, but I ignore it.
Tomorrow, when she’s cooled down, I’ll call her. I’ll make it up to her. Today, I just need chill, and Stacey is the very opposite of the word.
“Go skate with them,” she says suddenly, nodding toward the guys. “I wanna see you show off.”
“They’re not that good,” I say.
“Uh-huh. Totally not about you wanting to stay glued to my side.” She pokes my arm. “Go. I’ll hold your food hostage.”
She’s smiling, though. And if I don’t burn some of this frustration out of my muscles, I’m going to explode.
“Don’t let anyone steal my burrito,” I grumble, pushing to my feet and picking up my board.
“Please.” She scoffs. “I’ll fight God for that burrito.”
I believe her.
I drop my board and push off, rolling toward the ledge. A couple of the guys nod. We trade the usual greetings. Someone moves over so I can go.
It’s easy to fall into it. The noise fades, the crowd, the constant background hum of Stacey’s texts in my pocket. It’s just the board, the concrete, and the feel of landing. Usually landing, anyway.
I hit a clean run and come back around, my gaze going to Zae without thinking.
She’s watching.
She’s got one knee drawn up, her chin resting on it, and her board balanced against her other leg. The breeze tugs at her bangs. Her brown eyes are locked on me under them, bright and focused in a way they never are with anyone else.
My stupid heart does a stupid thing.
I land the next trick cleaner than I have in weeks.
I’m totally showing off. But she asked me to, so I have to.