I was afraid. Terrified.
“Do you need to hear it again?” Gyver growled as the final notes echoed through the SUV. I shook my head and he turned off the stereo. My ragged breathing was the only sound in the Jeep. “It’s just a song. They aren’t even a band anymore. What’s going on with you?”
“It’s been a long day,” I whispered, then changed the subject before he could ask why. “Is the party going to be busted?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d want underage drinking on your perfect record right before college apps. You’re lucky you’re so bewitchingly gorgeous and I couldn’t resist rescuing you.” He poked my knee and smiled at me.
I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t drinking. I just needed a night out.” A last night.
“You had a cup.”
“Of water.”
“And I’m sure The Jock’s playing quarters with apple juice.”
“Ryan! The girls! They’re going to worry about me. Do you think they got caught? I’ve got to call.” With everything else clamoring in my brain, I’d forgotten them.
“Why?” Gyver scoffed.
“’Cause he’s—”
“He’s what? Your date when it’s convenient for him? Your hook-up buddy? How exactly would you define it?”
“It’s casual,” I mumbled. “I’m not sleeping with him.”
“He’s an ass. You can do better.”
“It’s no big deal. And you should talk—either you have some impossible standard no East Lake girl can meet, or you get off on disappointing the ones who ask you out.”
Gyver laughed and shrugged.
We were friends. Just friends. We’d been friends our whole lives. He’d seen me in footie pajamas and heard our mothers discuss my first training bra and the more embarrassing “milestones of womanhood.” His mom made me a cake when I got my first period—there was no chance he’d ever see me that way. Besides, I had Ryan. Sort of. And my dating life wasn’t a priority right now. I’d almost forgotten. My breath caught in a mangled sob.
“Calm down. I’m sure The Jock’s fine. He’s a fast runner. Your cheer-friends too.”
“You should’ve warned everyone else.” I wasn’t too worried; we’d never gotten caught before.
“You’re lucky I was allowed to get you. I begged for a ten-minute head start to pick you up. I had to pull the old Halloween photo of us dressed up as Sonny and Cher off the fridge and bring up how you chased down the sixth grader who stole my candy.”
“Gyver, I just needed …” My voice was shaking. I’m not afraid.
“What? What do you need, Mi? I’ve been patient. Tears over a song? That’s extreme, even for you. Even if you were drunk—”
“It was water.” I wasn’t sure yet. I wasn’t ready to tell everyone. But he wasn’t everyone. He was Gyver. I needed a sign. Or a distraction. “Why isn’t that band together anymore?”
“Something Corporate? The lead singer wanted to pursue a solo project. Then he got leukemia. You’ve heard some of his new band’s music. Jack’s Mannequin?” He searched my face for recognition. “No? I’ve played it for you. You like it.”
I gripped the seat with both hands. “What’d you say?”
“You like Jack’s Mannequin?” Gyver reached toward his CDs, but I shook my head.
“Before that.” I hadn’t meant to whisper, but it was all the volume I could manage.
“He made a new band? He got leukemia? His original band was called Something Corporate? What part?”
Signs don’t get much clearer than that. “I’ve got to tell you something.”
Chapter 3
“Can we stop somewhere? I hate talking in the car; I never know where to look. I know you have to watch the road, but I feel like I’m having a conversation with the side of your face and you’re talking to the windshield.”
Gyver eased his car into the parking lot for East Lake’s “beach.” It closed at sundown, and the only other things on the pavement were litter: sunblock bottles, deflated floaties, snack wrappers.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to begin. I took a sip from the water bottle in his cup holder. It was out of a need to do something, not thirst. I choked it down with an awkward coughing noise.
He snorted. “You okay?”
I didn’t want to tell him what was strangling me—saying the news aloud would make it real. I pulled my knees up and tucked them beneath my chin.
Gyver’s hair looked blue black in the glow of the parking lot’s lights. His face was a series of beautiful angles and shadows, but I could still see him as he’d been: the little boy who’d been bullied in elementary school for being named MacGyver after a cheesy eighties TV show about a guy who liked duct tape. I’d defended him then, and he’d been my best ally ever since. I needed him now.
“Remember about a week ago when you asked if Hil and I were cat fighting—because I had bruises?” I regretted my choice of openings; annoyance spilled across Gyver’s features.