Chapter 5
LACHLAN
“Whoa,” I tell Sophia, laughing, as she goes up on her tippy toes and kisses me again in front of the entire team, plus all the spectators leaving the football stadium. My adrenaline’s racing from the game, but I focus on what she’s doing. “Where did that come from?”
My arms automatically went around her middle.
People are going to assume I’m with her, aren’t they?
Although with everyone packing up and heading out, maybe we aren’t calling attention to ourselves.
And anyway, there are worse things I could be seen doing than making out with a cheerleader after a major win against Markett Prep.
“The other girls dared me.” She winks.
Ah. That explains it. Sophia’s known for being bold and taking what she wants. Out of all the girls at school, it’s no surprise she’d be the one to do something reckless. I lean away from her and study her. She’s shorter than me but not short, with long, slender legs.
Nothing. I’m feeling nothing toward her. Yes, she’s objectively one of the most attractive cheerleaders, but that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to her. Kissing her makes my chest tight, but not in a good way.
Wait. “Why’d they dare you?”
Sophia gives me a wide smile that somehow still has a ton of bright lipstick on it. Am I covered in that same lipstick? I brush my mouth with the back of my hand. “You know how Lainey and Taylor are,” she says.
I sorta do. “They want to get you into trouble?”
“Only with the hottest guys,” she says. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to the party at Hailey’s with me, so they dared me to ask you. I got bonus points if we kissed.”
I lick my lips. Go home or go to a party? Easy decision. “I’m in for the party.” I give her my most flirtatious wink.
“I can pick you up—” she starts.
“No, I’ll meet you there.” I don’t want anyone stopping by my house if I can help it. “I just need to get cleaned up first.”
“Cool,” she says. “I’ll text you the address.”
“See you there,” I say. “It’ll be fun. Thanks for the invite.”
Behind me, I hear a cheerleader mutter to her boyfriend, “Why can’t you be more like Lachlan?”
I shouldn’t listen, but it’s hard not to. I pretend not to hear them, and they keep talking.
“What, someone who will flirt with a rock?” he says, scoffing.
Hey, I resemble that remark.
I can sense her crossing her arms and shifting her weight. “No, someone who has manners and makes people feel special.”
“It’s easy to do that if you have an easy life. Look at that guy. Cool car. Nice clothes. His life is so perfect.”
“Even so,” she insists. “You can be better.”
“I don’t want to be like him,” he hisses.
Except he’s lying. He wants to be like me. They all do.
If they only knew the truth.
The truth like the sting of raw skin under the bandages on my inner thigh.
In my car, driving to the party, I sing along with my playlist at the top of my lungs. Julian Hill’s songs are challenging, but I can usually manage to keep up, and something about singing calms my brain down when it goes all haywire.
At least, that works some of the time.
By two in the morning, I’m exhausted. The party’s still going strong, and almost everyone I know—and some I don’t—is wasted around me. I’ve spent the night nursing a single beer and pretending I’m drunk.
“There’s a spare bedroom down the hall,” Hailey mutters in my ear as she passes by. “I hear Sophia is waiting for you.”
My eyes go wide, and I give her a quick smile.
Do I want to sleep with Sophia? No, but I would if I had to. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea, though, and I’m pretty sure she already has that, since I came to the party she invited me to.
She doesn’t know I’d rather spend my Friday night at the dentist than home with my family. Besides, what was I going to do? She kissed me in front of everyone like we were together or something. I didn’t want to hurt her. And I’ve got a reputation to keep up, too.
So I rise from the couch and get a few high fives from the guys on the team.
We have a code to get away from clingers, but I’m not going to invoke it.
I shuffle in the direction Hailey pointed and find the right bedroom.
Sophia’s sitting on the bed, fully dressed—thank god—in her tiny white denim shorts and sparkly gold top.
She perks up when she spots me and tilts her head for a kiss. “Lachlan!”
“Hey,” I say, my voice shakier than usual. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and swallow hard. Repeatedly.
She knee-walks over to me, and I let her climb into my lap. “I was hoping you’d come in.”
Sophia wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. At least she’s not wearing lipstick. She tastes like beer, and her body’s tiny on top of mine.
Time slows down. My anxiety spikes.
While my insides quiver, I kiss her back. Same as at the game, I’m not feeling like this is going anywhere I want to go. But I still keep kissing her. I hold her by the waist as she grinds on me, but I’m not hard, so I’m pretty sure she’s not getting much out of it.
After a moment, she catches on to my lack of enthusiasm. “Don’t you want …”
I glance at her, then look away. “Sorry, it’s me. You’re gorgeous, but I’m, uh, I’m really tired tonight.”
Sophia lets go of me and stands up, pressing her lips into a smile that’s a beacon of false cheer. “Oh, no problem.” Her voice is pitched higher than usual. “I understand.”
“It was a big game. And it’s late.” I grind my teeth. “You can tell your friends whatever you want. That I’m a terrible lay or whatever—”
“I’d never do that.” She grins. “Quite the opposite.”
Relief washes through me. I’d much rather have a flirtatious, Casanova rep. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s no big deal. But can I ask … is there someone else you’re interested in?”
Images flash in my mind of the person I’ve had a crush on for years. Dark, unruly hair. Lanky limbs. Brown eyes. Freckles.
I’m not allowed to like that person. So, technically, it’s not a lie when I say, “No. There’s no one.”
I wake up from a Saturday nap, and it’s dark. I must’ve slept through dinner after staying up late at the party. That’s a good thing. Sleeping is one way I can escape this place. No parties tonight as far as I know.
I glance out my window and freeze. Isak has his shades open, which is unusual. I can see into his bedroom, and he’s walking around naked.
Holy shit.
I duck, even though I know he can’t see me in the dark. He probably doesn’t even realize I’m home.
But then I peek, and he’s standing there, hip cocked, looking in his dresser drawers.
I’m staring at his ass. His pale, pert ass. It looks touchable. Biteable.
Stop it. Stop spying on him.
I cringe as the foul words my uncle said to me years ago echo through my mind.
Ones telling me that there’s nothing worse than a man who sleeps with other men.
I was, like, twelve, for crying out loud, and he wanted me to know I’d go to hell if I ever touched a man in any way other than a hit on the field.
That I needed to stay away from “that little …” I don’t like remembering the slur my uncle called Isak.
The problem is, I can’t stop looking. Isak is magnetic, all rock star hair and unshaven jaw. He’s so beautiful.
He’s about my height, but where I’ve built up muscle playing football, he’s slender. I’d thought he was skinny, but he isn’t, really—more lean muscle. He’s got some kind of tattoo on his shoulder blade. It’s small, and now I really want to see what it is.
He yanks white boxer briefs with hearts all over them out of an overstuffed drawer and bends over to slide in first one leg, then the other. He does a little shimmy and pulls them up his hips.
I whisper “no” under my breath.
Isak takes a while to select a T-shirt. When he decides on one and his head pops through, I realize it’s not a regular T-shirt; it’s cropped, with some kind of pattern, and it’s big and flowy around him.
Why is it so sexy for him to be standing there in his underwear and a T-shirt?
I’ve never seen anyone hotter. I’ve never wanted anyone else like I want him—
No.
I don’t want him. I can’t want him.
He’s pulling out other clothes now, and I watch as he puts on a long black denim skirt and his usual black lace-up boots. Why the hell does he look so good? Like he could kick someone’s ass if they said anything snarky about his outfit.
He looks in the mirror and runs a comb through his hair. He smiles faintly to himself. Can he sense me watching? I hope not.
What’s he getting dressed for? Is he going on a date? Why does that thought piss me off? Maybe he’s just going to hang out with his friends. He has plenty of them.
I tear myself away from my window and go down the hall to wash my face and grab something to eat.
Stay the hell away from Isak.
I spend the next day working for Wendolyn, packaging up her books and swag. Happy for an excuse to be out of the house.
I sing under my breath as I head to first period on Monday.
Everyone else is sleepy and complaining about the weekend being over, while I’d spend the night in a tent on the fifty-yard line of the football field if they’d let me.
Or the cot in the health office. A classroom floor, even.
I don’t care. As long as I don’t have to go home.
While waiting for English class to start, I smile and chat with Trinity, who sits next to me.
Then the door opens, and the hair rises on the nape of my neck.
It’s him. I know it’s him. My body starts tingling.
I glance over and stop mid-sentence as I take in Isak’s outfit of the day.
A herringbone snap-front cap crushes his overgrown dark brown curls and frames his face.
His skin is a pale tawny color, and I’ve memorized the freckles dotting his nose and dusting his cheekbones.
He’s wearing oversized gray jeans, an army jacket with black patches on it, and a band T-shirt.
I love his emo style. I could never pull it off, but on him it looks perfect.
I wish we sat closer to each other so I could read all the patches on his jacket. One, I know, says “Have a better day tomorrow” in groovy 1960s font. Another says something about being a member of the Silly Goose Society. What do the rest say?
He glances over his shoulder and smiles at me, and my breath catches in my throat. I tilt my head down and smile.
No, my uncle says in my head. You don’t think about him. You don’t talk to him. He’s nothing to you. Ignore him.
Only thing is, Isak’s impossible to ignore. Especially now that I know what he looks like naked.
I keep talking with Trinity until the teacher calls roll and begins class.
“Today we’re going to continue discussing The Great Gatsby,” Ms. Gaston says. “Specifically, we’re going to talk about symbolism. In the scene with Daisy and Gatsby in his closet, why do you think she cried when he started throwing shirts around?”
“Was she sad about him trashing his wardrobe?” Tessa asks.
Everyone laughs. “Possibly,” Ms. Gaston says carefully. “Anyone else?”
The class is quiet. Maybe no one did the reading. I watched the movie.
“The shirts symbolize her regrets,” Isak says.
Ms. Gaston focuses on him. “How so?”
“Gatsby spent his life making money to prove to the rest of the world he was worthy of her, and she married Tom just because he was rich, when they could’ve been something to each other the whole time,” he says. “They were in love, but it wasn’t enough for them.”
I stare down at my feet, somehow unable to take a full breath.
They could’ve been something to each other.
I haven’t talked with Isak, not really, since we were kids.
But I know the slope of his nose and the freckles on his face.
I know his laugh, quiet but real. I know his kind eyes, and the way his mouth tilts upward all the time, flashing his dimples.
I know how he picks up snails and moves them from the sidewalk so they won’t get stepped on.
How he shares his sandwiches with friends and loves Haribo gummy cola bottles.
I know he does Linguikk language lessons on his phone before class and goes to every home football game, even though he sits way up at the top of the bleachers.
He drives a black Ford truck. He likes to knit.
He acts, although he hasn’t been in a show since that crappy social media post went viral our sophomore year.
He’s chatty with his friends but clams up around people he doesn’t know.
And he can never, ever be mine.
I’m not allowed to want guys.