Playing Hurt

Clint

out of play





Todd reels backward, his shoulder thumping against the bed of the truck.

“Damn it, Morgan,” Greg shouts, pushing me away from Todd, sending me stumbling backward. “This is getting old. You think we didn’t lose somebody, you stupid a*shole?” He pushes me again. I’m already off-balance, so my feet tangle and I trip. The seat of my Levi’s smacks against the dirt road.

“Not like I did,” I shout.

“I’m not talking about Rosie, I’m talking about my friend,” Greg says, towering over me. “You’re here, but you’re not. You hide away in textbooks, in fifteen stupid summer jobs. And I’ve had enough.” He kicks my foot, then lunges forward and grabs the collar of my shirt. “You want me to beat the bullshit out of you? I’ll do it, Morgan. And I’ll feel good about it. Gimme a reason.”

His face is less than a foot from mine. The hand that isn’t gripping my collar is clenched into a fist.

I finally swivel my arm, pull his hand off my shirt.

“Ass,” I spit, standing and dusting the dirt from the back of my jeans.

Todd’s still wiggling his jaw back and forth, testing it to make sure it works.

“We got a six-pack and we’re headed to the lake,” Greg says. “You gonna follow us or not?”

Calm hasn’t taken hold of me completely, but looking at Todd’s face, red from where I hit him, I instantly feel bad. And I’m really not sure what I’m so pissed about anymore. Not sure why any of it—Chelsea telling Mom at Pike’s she has a boyfriend, or Kenzie flirting with me, or Todd making assumptions—should make me so angry.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Todd says, squatting to get a look at his face in his truck’s side mirror.

“Whatever,” Greg says. “Anything’ll help you look better.”

“Don’t I even get any sympathy?” Todd asks. “I bet some pretty girl at Pike’s would give me sympathy.”

“No Pike’s. Not tonight,” Greg says. “Just drive.”

I shake my head, climb into the cab of the GMC. I follow the Chevy, under the moonlight, already tasting the tinny cold of a can of beer.





Chelsea

double dribble





No,” I snap at Dad. “There’s no problem.”

Brandon reaches for my cell and all the paper messages, but I snatch them away from him so furiously, I accidentally scratch him.

“Hey,” Brandon yelps.

“Chelsea,” Dad chastises. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I need to make a phone call,” I snarl through my teeth, glaring at Brandon.

“Don’t be too overjoyed about it or anything, Chelse,” Brandon mumbles. “I mean, he’s only your boyfriend.”

“A phone call,” Dad repeats, oblivious to what Brandon’s just said. “At this time of night. You can’t do it tomorrow?”

“No, I can’t do it tomorrow.” Every last drop of my pent-up anger comes out in my words. “What do you care, anyway?” Suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m not talking about phones. I’m talking about the last few months. I’m talking about the way I’ve been watching some crummy recording in my room late at night, because one of the things I ache to remember is what it was like when he cheered for me.

Dad takes a step into the moonlight, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t understand you, Chelsea. Ever since the accident—I tried to give you time. I tried to make excuses for you. If anyone had a right to feel badly, it was you. But this—this doesn’t make any sense anymore, Chelse. The way you lash out—”

“The way I lash out—”

“Yes, the way you lash out. Just like you’re doing to Brandon right now. And the way you mope—”

“The way I what?”

“You don’t even try, Chelsea. The old you would have found a way—some way—to keep going.”

“What?” I bellow. “I didn’t quit! It was taken from me.”

“You’re no one I even know anymore,” Dad says, reaching for Brandon’s hand. The way he examines it, you’d think I’d done permanent damage.

I can’t stand to be in the room. I stomp out of the cabin onto the porch, where I swear the kiss I’ve just shared with Clint has a lingering smell … like a fresh pan of Mom’s white-chocolate brownies. The hot sweetness still clings to the air. And I’m a girl on a strict diet who’s just downed the whole batch. Guilt overpowers me.

I have to get away from this, too—the thought of kissing Clint. I race through the cool moonlight toward the lodge.

I stop just outside the door, tears cascading. There’s no way I can talk to Gabe now, not like this. Maybe though, I think as I stare at the messages in my hand, Brandon’s on to something. Maybe Gabe would be more suspicious if I didn’t return his call—make that calls. About a hundred of them, from the looks of all these messages.

So I push through the door of the lodge, toss all the messages into the wastebasket in the lobby. I wipe my face, fish some coins from my little purse, drop them into the phone. As soon as Gabe’s cell starts to ring, I pray that it’ll just go to voicemail.

“Hey, babe,” Gabe says, surprise lacing his tone. “Didn’t think I’d ever catch you. Where—I mean, what’ve you been up to?”

Gabe Ross, you are as transparent as a Ziploc bag.

“Birthday party,” I blurt.

Gabe chuckles. “Don’t I wish.”

I instantly feel the burn of shame creep up my entire body, starting with my toes, inching toward my knees, my neck, my face …

“Thanks for the present,” Gabe says.

I hold the phone away from my face a moment as I spit a few whispery curses at myself. You’re an ass, Chelsea Keyes. An ass. The picture of a braying donkey actually fills my mind.

At least I had the foresight to leave Gabe’s present with his mom before I headed out of town. But little more than one week after driving away—just one measly week—I’ve already done the unthinkable. I’ve forgotten to call Gabe to wish him a happy birthday. I didn’t even wish him a happy birthday in the crummy email I sent earlier.

No, no, no. That’s not the worst of it. That isn’t even close to the worst. And I know it. My hand flies to my mouth again. When I close my eyes, I can feel Clint against me. His lips pulling me closer, but not just my mouth. Pulling my legs, my arms. I’d wrapped myself around him for the brief moment before I’d slid down, before my feet hit the ground. What kind of person does that? And Clint knows I have a boyfriend. What must he think of the way I just acted?

What if Clint doesn’t want to work with me anymore? How can I explain that to Dad without the word quitter glowing in his pupils?

And if Clint doesn’t want to work with me, would that just confirm everything that Brandon suspects? Would it be the proof he needs? Would Brandon decide to side with a guy, squeal his suspicions to Gabe? I don’t want to lose Gabe—not that comfort of sliding my hand into his. Not the daydreams that pop up as I linger in the grassy green of his eyes.

This night could not possibly get any worse. At all.

“You win,” Gabe mumbles. “You one-upped me in the gift department.”

Correction, I think, as a new tide of guilt washes through me. It could always get worse.

“It’s not a star or anything,” I say.

“An eternity symbol is definitely more than a star,” Gabe protests. My heart twists painfully, feeling tight and tiny and desperate inside my chest.

“I bought it after prom,” I say softly, my hand turning into a fist around the receiver as I think of the black titanium ring I’d purchased with the lazy, sideways “8” carved into it. “After you traced the symbol on my shoulders—”

“—while the sun rose,” Gabe says. “First thing I thought of when I saw it.”

My tongue is melted. I’ve forgotten how to speak. Please, Gabe, don’t suspect.

“You all right?” he asks. “You sound funny.”

“Fine,” I say. “My cell gets crummy reception around here, and I’m on this old pay phone. That’s why—why I wasn’t carrying my phone. Why I haven’t called more.”

“Yeah. You told me that in an email. I just really wanted to talk to my girl on my birthday. Haven’t taken my present off since I unwrapped it, though,” he says, and I’m eternally grateful he’s decided to make a u-turn in the conversation, veering away from my lame excuses. “You know, I got pretty nostalgic tonight. Dug up that old picture Brandon took of us the night we went out for the first time. You remember the one, right? I swear it probably sounds all mushy, but the way we’re looking at each other, it’s like we knew, even that first night, that we’d found something special.”

Okay, now I’m not so grateful. I can feel the tracks of Clint’s lips shining like glow-in-the-dark paint against my mouth. My eyes tingle, and I know I’ve got to hang up before I say something completely stupid. “You sound tired—I should—let you go—you’re probably working really hard.”

“Yeah. I just couldn’t let my birthday go by without talking to my girl. Love you, Chelse.”

“I’ll—I’ll call more. I promise. Everybody at the resort has to share the same pay phone, and I just—happy birthday, Gabe.” I hang up and gasp all in the same motion. I probably look like a near-drowning victim who’s just broken the surface of the water.

I hurry out of the lodge and start to drag myself back up the trail to cabin number four when it suddenly hits me—this is the first time in more than a year that I’ve ended a phone call to Gabe without actually using the words I love you.

Has the thought occurred to Gabe, too?

God, I hope not.