Chapter Four
The next morning I got to class before Mrs. Deal did—which, judging by our usual habits, was exactly what I’d expected. What I didn’t expect was to find August leaning against the opposite side of the closed door in the hallway.
He was wearing a faded band tee layered over a white thermal and dark baggy jeans, silver chains hanging from his neck and belt loop.
His fingers combed through his dark curls, and the rise of his arm hiked up the hem of his shirt, exposing the deep v at his hips.
I forced myself to look away, ignoring the warmth spreading through me at the sight.
“Hi,” I spoke softly as I settled against the door frame.
“Good morning,” he replied as though he’d been rehearsing the two words all night.
“You’re early,”
August didn’t look at me as he lifted his shoulder briefly. “I always am. But I usually wait for the bell in the cafeteria with my friends.”
“Didn’t feel like sitting with them today?”
He stared at the stainless-steel thermos in his hands, tapping his long ringed fingers against its side: three quick taps, a brief pause, then three more. When he looked up, his expression was earnest. “I noticed you’re usually early.”
“I run on the track in the mornings,” I offered, hoping it sounded plausible.
He considered me for a moment. “You’re not on the track team.”
“No.”
“Then why do you run?”
“I like it,” I said with a lift of my shoulders that I hoped looked more careless than I felt about the matter.
His head tilted to the side as he pressed, “Then why aren’t you on the track team?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, stalling for an answer. The easy lie would have been “I don’t want to,” but instead the truth slipped out: “I can’t pass a physical.”
The dimple in his left cheek appeared as he smirked. “Did they ask you questions about marine biology?”
I shook my head with a wry grin. “No. I’m just severely underweight.”
His smile faded. He fell silent, and I realized I’d gone too far with my joke. His fingers started tapping the thermos again, in that same pattern of three.
After a moment, he held the cup out to me. I eyed it warily.
“I brought this for you,” he said. “Thought it might help you focus.”
“What is it?” I asked, taking the thermos in my hand just as his finger landed on the second tap of a trio. I lifted the rim to my nose and inhaled deeply. A sweet blend of vanilla and sugar drifted up. His shoulders tightened as he watched me.
“Coffee,” he answered a beat late. “I wasn’t sure if you liked it, but I thought it might help.”
“I love coffee,” I said, taking a long pull. The warm, sweet liquid slid down my throat. “I’m just not allowed to drink it.”
His cheeks grew coral and I added: “No one is going to arrest you for giving me caffeine, August.”
August’s flush darkened. “This isn’t like giving a gremlin water, then?”
I laughed and shook my head. “No.”
At that moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Deal burst in through the back entrance from the faculty lot. She unlocked the door between August and I as more students flooded into the hall behind us. I mouthed a quiet thank you as I slid past August into the classroom.
“It’s too cold for this.” Lindsey shivered, hugging herself as we draped a woolen blanket over the slick, frost-coated metal bleachers. Tiny beads of moisture clung to the fabric’s fibers, frosting our legs.
“We’ll warm up with hot cocoa once the concession line dies down,” I replied, sliding onto the bench. The stadium lights glared off the dew-frosted field as the referee’s whistle signaled kickoff.
I’d never mastered the rules of football, but I was there to support Andy, and that was enough. I mimicked the collective breaths of the crowd—wincing when they groaned, roaring when they cheered, jeering when the other side scored.
Lindsey, by contrast, practically glowed with football fervor. She tracked every play, her breath puffing in little clouds. When she nodded toward the concession stand, I volunteered to fetch our treats. She gave a curt nod, shoving cash into my hand before I could protest.
The line shuffled forward at a snail’s pace. I shifted my weight, bouncing on my feet against the cold. The woman in front of me—a frazzled mom balancing a toddler on her hip—shot me a narrow-eyed look. I stopped bouncing immediately.
I fished my phone from the back pocket of my brown corduroy pants. My thumb scrolled through recent texts. All my friends were on the field or engrossed in the game—except August. His number was unsaved, an odd string of digits that I’d learned by heart. I tapped the thread open and typed:
Are you at the game?
A minute crawled by. The distant smack of shoulder pads punctuated my impatience before my phone buzzed with his reply
I’m going to assume you mean football. Organized sport isn’t really my thing.
I swallowed a chuckle. My fingers hovered, then tapped:
It’s not mine either, but they’re something to do. What is your thing?
The woman behind me huffed. I glanced up and saw that the line had edged forward. The man at the counter handed me two steaming cups wrapped in cardboard sleeves and a pile of nachos in a paper tray. My gloved fingers curled around the warmth as I paid and turned back toward the stands.
Cradling the tray and balancing both cups, I hustled back. My phone vibrated against my leg. I slid into the seat beside Lindsey and set the nachos between us. Wisps of cocoa steam curled in the air.
“Thanks,” Lindsey said, her attention glued to the field. She curled her fingers around the cup and blew across the surface until ripples appeared in the chocolate foam.
I lifted my phone and read August’s reply:
Roleplay games. Very nerdy, I know.
I grinned, warmth blooming beyond the cocoa’s reach.
At least you are self-aware. I texted back.
I am painfully self-aware of my nerdiness, Lola.
My lip twitched into a half-smile. Lindsey craned her neck, curious.
“Who are you messaging?” she asked, scooping a cheese-coated chip from the tray.
“My tutor,” I said casually.
Lindsey’s eyebrows shot upward. “Since when do you need a tutor?”
I took a slow breath, the cold air stinging my lungs. “I’m behind in science.”
She shrugged. “I hate science.”
My phone buzzed a final time. I peeked at the screen:
Have to go—no phones at the table. Enjoy the game. Hope your boyfriend gets a home run.
A soft snort escaped me. I imagined August sitting stiff at a dinner table fielding questions about homework and friends from parents who cared. It sent a pang of tender jealousy through me.
When the final whistle blew, our team erupted in victory chants.
Andy looked over, grinning and waving me toward the tunnel.
He wanted me to go to an after-party, but I shook my head, pointing to a watch I wasn’t wearing.
Curfew called, and responsibility won. I stood, brushing flecks of frost from my clothes.
I sent him a quick text, that I knew he wouldn’t see until after he’d removed his gear and showered in the locker room.
I’ll make it up to you Wednesday.