Chapter 25
Xander doesn’t let go of my hand as we leave the Bean. He moves me through the parking lot as yellow streetlamps flash on and cast buttery spotlights along empty sidewalks.
His gaze stays fixed ahead while mine studies the dark hairs and freckles scattered across his tan arm.
Our fingers are laced in a way that still feels unfamiliar, like shiny hubcaps on an old tire.
It’s nothing like the grip I’ve known for the last three years that pulled me in all the wrong directions.
“I think we’re in the clear,” I say through a laugh. I stop myself and drop his hold because, regardless of what I’m feeling, to anyone else it looks like I’m getting dragged through town by an invisible dog.
Xander turns and his eyes go wide. He points over my shoulder. “Think again!” he shouts. “Apparently the waitress is a better track star than you and she’s got a pie with your name on it.”
“What?” I choke out.
Before I can even look back, Xander grabs my shoulders and pushes me past the post office and down a hill that slopes into the Penango River.
We crouch on the damp dirt, just where the water glides over smooth rocks and seeps into the soles of my shoes.
I peek up at the street, half hidden behind Xander’s arms, waiting for the menacing, pie-wielding waitress to run past our escape route, but no one comes.
The streetlamps buzz. The road is empty.
Xander falls back, laughing. “You look so scared,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “Did you just make that up?” I ask.
He nods, one hand clutching his shaking stomach.
I exhale. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s fun getting chased.”
My body tenses. There was a time recently when being chased didn’t feel fun at all.
Xander notices my expression change and swallows his laughter. He grabs my hand, then puts it on his chest. “Do you feel that?” His heart beats quickly beneath my palm. “I haven’t felt that too much over the past ten years. Now with you, I’m feeling it almost every day.”
I look down and swallow hard.
“Don’t worry, Stetson,” he continues. “I would’ve intercepted the pie if the waitress was actually after you.”
I finally crack a smile. “You’re like my invisible bodyguard.”
“Hopefully I’m more than that.” He winks.
Then he stands, peels off his shirt, and tosses it over my head before wading into the river. “Let’s swim!”
I slowly drag his shirt off my face and over my nose, taking in the scents of sweat and pine clinging to the cotton. The water curls around Xander’s calves like a cat greeting its owner. He glances back, smiles brightly, and waves me in.
But my feet stay planted on the cool stones along the shoreline. I dig my toes into the earth.
“What’s wrong?” Xander asks. “Was it the prank? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” He crawls toward me in the shallow river.
I shake my head. “It’s not that. My stomach is just off from the milkshake.”
He arches a brow.
I look left, then right. Across the water, the tire swing behind Murray’s house sways gently in the breeze.
My stomach doesn’t hurt. It’s my heart. And it’s not ready to let the river carry me somewhere new when it still remembers who used to bring me in.
During Murray’s junior year football season, his coach told him he needed to improve his receptions. He was great at catching long balls—legendary even. Sophomore year, he won two games by snagging fourth-quarter Hail Mary touchdowns, making him the school’s hero for a week.
But short catches were his weakness. Screen passes, quick slants: He’d drop anything tossed to him from five feet away.
I’d wince with every fumble. By the third drop, I’d start preparing for his postgame spiral.
If he had a rough night, he wouldn’t want to do anything afterward but sulk and relive every missed throw.
It never made sense to me how he could catch a fifty-yard bomb but not a soft toss. It didn’t make sense to him either. He never struggled like that before.
“Help me train,” he said.
I nodded so hard I probably looked like a bobblehead.
After every game, we huddled over my phone and replayed each catch and drop in slow motion.
As soon as the weather got nice again, we started with slow and lazy tosses back and forth in his backyard. But after a few weeks of staring at the tire swing hanging above the river, he got an idea.
Soon, I was hurling footballs through a moving tire toward Murray jumping through the air, his body slick with river water, chest bare and glistening, arms outstretched.
Thud. The football hit his chest.
Giggle. His arms tightened around the ball.
Splash. He disappeared beneath the water.
Thud, giggle, splash.
Thud, giggle, splash.
Over and over.
It was the soundtrack of my junior year summer.
At day’s end when we were exhausted from practicing, we’d float side by side down the Penango River, letting the current carry us past the county line. But we quickly swam home at the first sign of sunset, afraid we’d ventured too far.
I became so good at throwing a football that I considered quitting cross-county and trying out for quarterback. I didn’t. And Murray fell into his coach’s good graces again fall of senior year when he caught nearly every pass that came his way.
As the season wore on, and the air turned cold, Murray changed too. He stopped looking for me in the bleachers after each catch. I lost his thumbs-ups, waves, and smiles. Eventually, he ran off the field without a glance.
I sat there every Friday night for him, clapping less, crying more. We spent a whole summer building something in the river. I thought it would carry us forward. But it turns out, it washed away just as fast.
Xander splashes me. “Hey, zombie-boy,” he says, grinning. “Don’t let this beautiful night go to waste.”
I wipe the grainy river water from my brow, blinking against the softening light. Suddenly, I don’t want to waste anything anymore.
I wasted three years on a boy who made me small. I might have wasted my time applying to college. I’m wasting my summer checking chlorine levels at pools no one swims in. Worst of all, I’ve wasted too much time listing reasons not to try. Not to feel what’s in front of me.
I want to move on from the memories of Murray. Maybe I do that by diving into this dream with Xander.
He is here. And he’s nice. And funny. And smart. And . . . hot. And most importantly, he sees me and wants to help.
That would be reason enough for most people. It’s more than enough for me to just get in the damn water.
I take off my shirt and walk into the river, stepping carefully over slick stones.
Xander gives me a once-over. “Okay, you might have the best T-shirt tan line I have ever seen,” he says.
I glance down, laughing. My shoulders and stomach are ghostly compared to my arms. “Shut up. I haven’t been sunbathing for ten years straight like you. Skin cancer was still a threat up until, like, two weeks ago.”
He spits water. “Yeah, well, now you can.”
“Not for long though,” I counter. “We’re fixing that, remember?”
But he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he waves me closer. I step forward. He stands once I’m beside him and our eyes meet in the knee-deep, cool water. He takes my hand and places it on his chest again. His heart thuds.
A new soundtrack.
I swallow. “Does this mean you’re having fun?” I ask. My skin breaks into goose bumps.
His lips part, then he places his hand on my chest in return. “It feels like you are too,” he says.
I breathe out. “I’m feeling a lot of things.”
He brushes a loose hair off my forehead. “I can be everything for you.”
“Only good feelings, please.”
His smile tilts. “Can I tackle you?”
I laugh. “What?”
“Can I tackle you?” he asks again, more serious.
“You could’ve just walloped me. It might have been more fun that way,” I tease.
“Yeah, but by asking I want you to know that you can feel everything with me but fear. No surprises.”
My mouth goes dry. “Okay.” I nod. “You can tackle me.” I look over my shoulder to make sure there are no pointy rocks. “Just watch my head.”
Thud. His shoulder hits my chest.
Giggle. I grab him as I fall.
Splash. We disappear beneath the water.