Chapter 32
MCKINNEY HIGH SCHOOL
We’re slowed down by roadwork outside Houston, so when we arrive at Jonah’s school, the tournament has already started.
McKinney has eight courts with bleachers lining each side.
A big difference from Varda’s single net—though Varda doesn’t even have enough players to make a team.
The bleachers are sparsely populated, and the claps, when someone gets a point, are soft and scattered.
A very different vibe from Friday nights on the football field.
I wonder who the fans are—family and friends of the players, or fans that come to watch high school games?
As we approach the courts, Max glances at me. “You look really nervous.”
“Me? No way. Cool as a cucumber,” I say. The truth is, now that we’re here, the only thing I want to do is get back in the car and get back on the highway, pointed west-by-northwest. I know I have to do this if I want to clear my name, if that’s even possible. I know I have to confront him.
But yeah. I’m nervous.
We walk along the chain link, trying not to block anyone’s view.
The pock, pock, pock of balls hitting pavement creates a strange arrhythmic heartbeat.
Every now and then you can hear someone grunt or even shout.
There’s the scuff of shoes and the intermittent applause.
It all seems a little too genteel. I’d rather show up here under cover of a football game, the noise of the pep band and the thud of full-body tackles and the roar of the crowd and the chants of the cheerleaders hiding my approach.
This strange quiet game makes me feel exposed.
I scan the players. Girls with ponytails, guys with sweatbands, no one I recognize. My blood pulses loudly in my ears, and I can feel I’m already blushing. I’m realizing that I’m not just scared to confront Jonah—I’m scared to see him. I don’t know what I’ll feel, how I’ll react, when I do.
He’s been my life raft for months. He’s been the one thing in my life that made me feel normal.
It’s hard to let go of that, even knowing what I know now.
And then, all at once, I see him. I recognize his posture before I see his face, his frame loose and relaxed.
He moves less efficiently than his competitor—a sculpturally muscled guy with a shaved head and tight, sharp movements—but somehow, Jonah makes it to the ball every time with his loping stride.
He’s beautiful, truly beautiful, on that court.
“This guy?” Max asks, curling his fingers into the chain link next to me.
“This guy,” I say.
“Man, what’s with you and sweaty jocks?” he asks.
“Unfortunately it looks like I have a type,” I say. “But I’m a little more worried about the psychopathic traits than the athletic prowess.”
The ball whips back and forth now, and people in the crowd lean forward, attention shifting from the other courts to this one.
Jonah and his opponent fly across the court, the intervals between hits shorter and shorter.
Finally, with an almost balletic leap, Jonah slams the ball past the other boy’s defenses.
It’s over. Jonah has won. He shakes hands with his opponent.
I dodge into the shadows beneath the bleachers.
Max slides up next to me a moment later. “Are you okay?”
“No. Yes. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
He puts his hand in mine and squeezes.
We watch in silence as Jonah chats with his buddies and cheers on other matches. It reminds me of that first summer I met him, when I’d pass by the courts at camp and try to catch a glimpse of him. Before Lynette dragged me to his breakfast table. Back when he was still just an idea to me.
I’d give anything to get back to that place.
Jonah bursts into applause as someone scores a point. I watch as he laughs at something one of his teammates says. What the hell is going on inside of him, that he can look so easygoing, so sweet, and then turn around and spew poison online?
Finally Jonah picks up his racket and his duffel bag and starts to walk toward the school. Maybe heading for a shower? In any case, he’s alone. Which means now is the time.
Max moves to follow me, but I touch his arm. “Give me a minute with him first, will you?”
He frowns. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. This guy’s a fucking creep. What if he freaks out on you?”
“What’s he going to do to me? We’re in front of a ton of people, and it’s broad daylight,” I say. “All he’s got on him is a tennis racket. I’ll be fine.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look happy.
Jonah’s only about forty feet ahead of me.
I catch up quickly, and there’s a brief moment where I’m right behind him but he still doesn’t know I’m there.
I relish it for as long as I can—this sense that I’ve got the drop on him, that finally, after everything he’s put me through, I have some kind of control.
And then I say his name.
When he turns around, my heart gives a lurch. For a split second I’m sitting next to him in the dorm last summer in the hour before lights-out, listening to music, playing board games in a comfortable, gentle silence, and the memory hurts like an open wound.
But then I think about the way he’s played me since. Flirty texts, thoughtful questions, sneaky little ploys, all so he could blow up my entire life. All so he could torture me.
But why? What’s in it for him? What did I ever do to make him hate me so much?
That thought makes my spine straighten like a steel rod. I smirk at him as the friendly smile fades right off his face.
“Surprised to see me?” I ask.
“Iris?” He looks around like he’s trying to figure out if anyone else can see me too or if I’m just a hallucination. “What … what are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here?” My fists ball up at my sides. “I deserve answers, Jonah.”
A sudden cheer comes from the courts down the hill; another match must’ve ended. I take a step closer to him. He’s taller than me by almost a foot, but weirdly, now that I’m in front of him, I’m not scared anymore.
“Why, Jonah?” I ask. “Why me? Why did you target me? Was it just because I was vulnerable? Easy to mess with? Or was it because you wanted to punish me for something?”
He blinks a few times but doesn’t answer. I grind my teeth together and step closer.
“Why me?” I ask again. “Why’d you spend all that time texting me, making me feel like you … like we…”
It comes out as a plea, and I hate it, I hate that I’m begging for what I’m owed, I hate that after all of this, after everything he did, some soft, messy, heartbroken part of me still exists. I hate that I was taken in by another monster in the form of a beautiful boy.
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
I laugh, but halfway through, it turns to a single sob.
“Why did you act like you liked me?” I cry, before my hands fly up to cover my face.
We’re so close I can feel his body heat. His hands lock on my upper arms and squeeze. I shake my head, like I could fling him from my mind that way, but he holds tight.
When he speaks, his voice is low and gentle and scared.
“Iris, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’ve never texted you in my life.”