Chapter 11
I climb into my truck with my head low. That didn’t go well.
I tell myself not to be disappointed. I know he only invited me there to humiliate me.
There was nothing I could have done to salvage the conversation.
But it still stings. Murray has a way of making me feel everything in extremes—humiliation, love, and all emotions in between.
He’s always been good at making me feel special.
Like that night in October of our junior year during one of his football games. The scoreboard suddenly lit up with: Stetson, will you go to junior prom with me? (Murray)
I was so confused. Junior prom wasn’t until April. Two hundred and fifteen people watched me descend an entire flight of stadium steps toward Murray, who stood waiting by the field’s fence. I knew the exact number because the second my name flashed across the field, I panicked and counted them all.
“Is that for me?” I asked him.
“Of course,” he said, grinning widely. “What other Stetson and Murray are there?”
My cheeks warmed, looking back at the sea of faces watching us. “Junior prom is so far away.”
“Yeah, but I liked this idea. I didn’t want anyone to steal it because I knew you deserved it the most.”
Or when, not long after that promposal, the county paper ran an article about Murray being one of the few openly gay kids in town.
The headline read: Local High School Football Star Lives Out His Small-Town Dream.
When the journalist asked where he found the courage to live so openly, Murray said, “My boyfriend makes it easy.”
He even refused to let them publish his story unless they gave me my own article too.
So, in January, I ended up being featured in the Penango County Spring Track and Field Preview.
It wasn’t about me or my relationship with Murray.
But I was quoted a couple times and Mom framed it and hung it in my bedroom.
But the following fall, after a football game, Murray used his talents against me—and I felt special in all the wrong ways.
Whitley and I walked into a barn party, the air thick with the smell of hay and cheap beer. The dim yellow barn light cast a mustard glow over the crowd. I did a quick head count—thirty of our classmates, all familiar faces. Most of them were wearing silver and black Stillwell Trail High gear.
My view went straight to Murray. He was perched on the second story, his long legs dangling over the edge.
His jersey was still on, his cheeks flushed from the game.
He held a red plastic cup in one hand, and the other was slung lazily around a teammate’s shoulder.
Bits of hay drifted down through the air every time they moved.
I waved. His glassy eyes landed on me, and for a second, I thought he’d wave back. But before he could, his teammate stood and shoved him aside.
“My people!” the guy bellowed with his arms outstretched. “Let’s welcome Penango’s smartest man to the party, Stetson Delancey! He’s got bigger dreams than ours.”
My heart slammed into my throat. Whitley’s head snapped toward me. The barn fell silent, except for the low chuckles of the football team.
“We heard this town isn’t good enough for you anymore,” one called out.
“Yeah,” another voice chimed in. “Are you sure you even want to be here? This might not be your scene.”
Whitley grabbed my shoulder. “What’s going on?” she asked. “This party sucks.” My hands trembled, so I shoved them in my pockets.
My eyes locked on Murray. “Are you serious?” I shouted. My voice cracked with anger. He just stared at his feet.
I swallowed hard. “You’re right!” I said, my voice sharper. “I don’t want to be here.” I spun on my heel and burst through the barn doors, letting the night swallow me before I said something I’d regret.
The most annoying thing about feelings is that the more I try to control them, the harder they bite back. I broke up with Murray because I thought it was the right thing to do to get space and grow on my own. But ever since then, I haven’t stopped thinking about him.
And now, my chest tightens as I try to figure out how to balance Murray’s needs and Xander’s.
Freshman year, I would’ve been thrilled to have two boys obsessed with me. Like, what do you mean I’m in a love triangle with a jock and an edgy guy from the woods?
Just four years later, and the thought exhausts me. I’m on Do Not Disturb!
Then my phone lights up in the cupholder.
I sigh, already assuming it’s Murray, and roll my eyes as the vibration rattles against the plastic. I ignore the call, letting it go to voicemail while I dig around for my earbuds, ready to tune out the world.
But my phone rings again. A jolt of frustration shoots down my arm as I snatch the phone from the console to silence it. Before I do, Whitley’s face flashes on the screen. My eye twitches.
It’s not Murray.
Without hesitating, I swipe to accept the call.
“Hey, Whitley,” I say.
“Stetson!” she yells. She seems out of breath. I straighten my back as panic rips through my spine. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It’s Bennie . . . He got attacked . . . Oh my gosh.”
“Attacked? How? Is he okay?”
“I think so. But it’s bad. I can’t get him up.” Her voice quivers. “I need your help.”
“Hold on,” I say. “I’m coming over. Where are you?”
“Behind my house. Along the river. Hurry!”
I tear down the winding roads so fast my truck nearly lifts off the ground over the shallow hills. Gravel spits from my tires as I slam to a stop in front of Whitley’s house. I barely kill the engine before I’m out of the driver’s seat, leaving the door wide open as I sprint into the woods.
The sound of rushing water grows louder with every stride.
Then I see her.
She’s kneeling on the riverbank beside a motionless Bennie, her fishing rod and tackle box abandoned in the grass. The golden-hour sun catches her wide, panicked blue eyes—and the deep gash splitting Bennie’s right hind leg. Clumps of dried blood mat his short brown fur into dark, tangled patches.
“What the heck happened?” I ask.
“He got in a fight with a damn coyote,” Whitley says. Tear marks line her cheeks. “I was casting my line and it came out of nowhere. It must’ve been rabid. There’s no reason for it to be out at this time of day. The coyote ran away when I screamed, but it got Bennie . . . It got Bennie.”
“It’s okay, Whitley. I have my truck. We can take him to the animal hospital.” I swallow, looking over Bennie’s leg.
She shakes her head. “The hospital is an hour away and it’ll probably cost a million dollars. I can take care of this at the house. But I need your help lifting him. C’mon.”
I place my hand gently beneath Bennie’s shoulders. Whitley wraps her arms around Bennie’s hips, avoiding his back leg.
“One, two, three,” I count before we hoist Bennie into the air. He lets out a series of high-pitched cries.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Whitley says through gritted teeth. “It’s okay. We got you.”
We crab walk through the woods with beet red faces.
My forearms burn. Neither of us asks to take a break.
I want to. Badly. Bennie is bleeding out in front of me and all I can think about is Murray’s angry face as he ran away from me at the diner and Xander’s sad eyes as he darted toward me at the pool.
The images deflate me, weakening my muscles and dragging my feet like weights on a fishing line.
This week is horrible. And it won’t seem to end.
But Bennie holds no responsibility for it, so I keep on moving.
At the house, we lay Bennie on a rusty patio table.
I step back, inhaling deeply, trying to steady myself.
Whitley is inside for first aid supplies in seconds.
I whisper softly into Bennie’s ear, hoping to soothe him, but before my words can even settle, Whitley is back with bandages, scissors, and a bottle of alcohol.
“What can I do?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Her fingers move with sharp precision, like they do when she plays her clarinet.
She wraps Bennie’s leg with such confidence she might as well be a first-chair EMT—if there were such a thing.
Helpless, I run a hand over Bennie’s head.
His tail flops weakly, a tiny sign of relief.
With a final snip of the scissors, Whitley secures Bennie’s bandage and stops the flow of blood. Then she claps the dust from her hands like she’s applauding a job well done.
I exhale and fall back into one of the patio chairs.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” Whitley asks. She stomps across the backyard and disappears into the shed.
I jump up from the chair. “Is there something else?”
She emerges from the shed with a rifle. “Have you ever been coyote hunting?” Her face is expressionless.
I laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” She loads the gun.
“Whitley, there are probably hundreds of coyotes around your house.”
“I know which one it is. It’s been coming around here a lot lately.” She looks through the scope. “It’s missing the top chunk of its left ear, and its tail is all black . . . blacker than most other coyotes I’ve seen.”
“But if it’s rabid, it could be dangerous.”
“Exactly,” she says with added annunciation on the t. “This is why we need to go after Bennie’s attempted killer while it’s close. It will attack again if we don’t.”
“What if we just take this opportunity to leave town? This could be our sign. It’s not safe for us here anymore!”
She loads the gun. “You coming or not?” she asks. “Bennie’s attacker could be miles away after all this talk.”
I bite my lip.
“If your aim is good enough, we won’t have to get too close.”
She raises her eyebrows, positioning the butt of the gun against her shoulder, and points it at a lone branch dangling from a nearby tree.
She pulls the trigger. The bullet cuts through the knot and splits the branch from the trunk.
It spins through the air like a boomerang before colliding with earth.
“I think it’s pretty good,” she says, smirking.