“What, because he roams the streets the same way you do when you’re stumbling home drunk on the weekends?” I smile sweetly at him, secretly hoping to annoy him the same way he irritates me. But he takes my remark as a joke, so I roll my eyes and look away from him.
I study his room. It’s mostly navy, his bed unmade, mounds of clothes lying in the far corner, and a can or two of beer decorating his bedside table. I wouldn’t expect anything less of him. The closet is open, and on the top shelf, I spot the sleeve of a varsity jacket hanging over the edge, like it’s been thrown in there carelessly. “You play football?” I ask.
“Huh?” Tyler says, and he follows my eyes to check what I’m staring at. “No. That’s Dean’s. I’m not really the football type.”
“Dean plays football?” I’m surprised Tyler doesn’t. He fits the total alpha male footballer position perfectly, like those stereotypical quarterbacks they have in every single high school movie. “And you don’t?”
“Yeah,” he says as he walks over to closet. “So does Jake. I used to play when I was younger, but I stopped back in middle school.”
“Why?” I’m staring curiously after him, and I try to remind myself that this person infuriates me and that I shouldn’t care, but it’s no use. There are so many things I don’t know about him and, honestly, it’s intriguing. I can’t help myself.
“According to some people, football is a waste of a time,” he tells me, but his voice suddenly adopts a much harder tone. He lingers by his closet for a little while. “‘Why waste your time on sports? Throwing footballs around isn’t going to get you into the Ivy League. Stay inside and study instead so that you can actually be successful,’” he quotes, but he’s not laughing or cracking a smile. He’s just staring at the ground.
“Who told you that?” Now I’m even more curious. For starters, Tyler doesn’t strike me as the type of person who’d apply for an Ivy League school. In fact, I doubt he even likes school. People like him never do.
“Just someone,” he murmurs with a small shrug. “So that’s why I wasn’t allowed to play.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, but he still has his back to me. “Allowed?”
Immediately, he shifts uncomfortably and stretches up to tuck the sleeve of Dean’s varsity jacket back onto the shelf. “I mean, that’s why I stopped,” he says quickly, correcting himself. He might think I won’t pay close attention to him, but I do. I notice and absorb every single thing he says, and I have done since the moment he first stormed into the barbecue.
But he’s clearly unsettled, so I decide it’s best not to question his use of the word allowed. It suggests that whoever told him that football was a waste of time was someone with authority over him. And I get the sense that he greatly dislikes this person. Probably a teacher.
I focus on Tyler again, and with his back still turned to me, he pulls out a clean shirt from the closet and slips off the one he’s wearing. Just as quickly, he swipes on the new one. But in those few seconds, I spot a small tattoo on the back of his shoulder, written in calligraphy. “I really have to give Dean his jacket back. He’s been bugging me about it for ages.”
He’s adjusting his T-shirt, and I’m just staring at him, almost without realizing at first. I notice how bulky his arms are, how tanned his skin, how defined his jaw. I shouldn’t be noticing these things, but I am. I swallow.
“What does your tattoo mean?” I ask, my voice slightly croaky. I keep my eyes trained on him as he spins back around, surprised by my question. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you clearly got it illegally.”
He plays dumb. “My tattoo?” When I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips, he gives me a proper answer. “Uh, it says guerrero. It’s Spanish for ‘fighter.’” He looks almost nervous that I’ve asked him about it, and he silently scratches at the back of his head for a few moments.
Now I’m interested. “Why Spanish?”
“I’m fluent,” he tells me. “Both my parents are. My dad taught me when I was a kid.”
The mere mention of his dad reminds me of what Rachael told me earlier. His dad’s in jail, so I do the respectable thing and don’t ask any more questions. “I don’t know any Spanish,” I admit, biting my lip. “I speak French. Like the Canadians. Bonjour.”
“Me frustras,” he says in reply, and I have no idea what it means. “Buenas noches.” He smirks when he notices my puzzled expression. “That means ‘Good night.’”
“Oh.” I turn for the door to make my exit, but not before offering him the smallest of smiles. “Bonsoir.”
Chapter 10
When the weekend rolls around and marks the end of my first week in Los Angeles, I finally get another chance to call my mom during a break in her hectic work schedule. She’s working full-time, including night shifts and overtime, as a nurse at Providence Portland Medical Center, trying her hardest to support us both on a single income. Although Dad’s payments help, it’s still a struggle for her.