“Well thank you,” I said. “For everything. It was an amazing experience.”
“Anytime. You’re welcome here anytime – you’re much politer than any of the Lost Boys.” He jerked his head at Burn and Wolf, and I laughed. We shed our synthetic clothes and headed back to the car, my arm pumping madly as I waved goodbye to Jakob. Wolf sat with me in the backseat, Fitz up front fiddling with the music stations while Burn drove. Fitz stopped on some corny country music and air-banjo’d hard at a stoplight. The older couple in their car next to us shot Fitz nasty looks, but that only made him mime playing harder. I joined in with another air banjo, and Fitz laughed as Burn hit the gas and left them in the dust.
The highway at dusk was beautiful – the pink sunlight made the road look like a massive velvet ribbon winding over the hills. Only a few cars were on the road, blinking red and white in the twilight air. There was the smell of fresh pines so green and alive I could almost taste them. It was a beautiful night. Everything looked different from the sky, but at the same time it made me grateful to see the beauty of it all from the ground, up close.
I looked over at Wolf. He had one elbow on the car door, his hand cradling his chin. The wind played with his hair, his eyes riveted to something in the far distance. He was thinking. About his mom? Maybe. About his problem? Maybe. I wanted to know what he was thinking, to ask him. I knew he wouldn’t tell me. And I hated being that person – the one who poked her nose in everyone’s business.
But I guess it was too late for that. It’s exactly who I was.
I looked down at the brown leather of the seats between us. My hand rested on one side of the middle seat, his on the other. Just a few more inches, and –
I looked up to see Wolf staring at me looking at our hands. I felt a hot wave roll over my cheeks.
“I wasn’t –“
“Just one more time?” He asked, voice soft. He turned his hand palm-up, as if waiting for mine.
“But –”
“I know. You said you’d never help me again. And that’s your right. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about –” He cut himself off and shook his head. “No. You’re right. Nevermind.”
His hand started to close, and I darted out and met his palm with mine. Wolf’s face looked shocked, completely thrown off.
“Just one last time,” I repeated, hard, like it would make it real and final. He grinned.
“One last time.”
The sun said its final goodbye and the moon said its first hello. Wolf curled his fingers, hesitantly, slowly, between mine, the two of us fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle. It was cliché. It wasn’t right for enemies to do this. There was a hundred things wrong with it, and yet it felt absolutely perfect. The heat of his skin, the feel of his fingers, the soft music Fitz decided on, the chill of the wind, his smile – this was a moment I wanted to remember for the rest of my life. Even if it was only to help him. Even if it meant nothing. Even if it was fake, a way to make him like me, a way to keep my scholarship – I could still keep this moment to myself.
All the memories I’d tried to erase about him came flooding back, and this one joined them.
Chapter 14
WOLF
I hate competing.
Which makes the fact I’m swimming in the county semi-finals today a little weird.
I have to be here, is partly it. That’s one of the requirements when you join the swim team. I roll my neck out as Coach yells at someone to stop stretching their calves wrong. The whole pool is bustling with activity – the stands are packed, and the three other schools competing besides us are doing all kinds of warm ups. A particularly entrepreneurial spirit jogs around selling candy and popcorn and drinks to the cheering family members in the stands. It’s an uncommonly warm day – probably the last one we’ll have for a while.
Everyone’s on edge. I can sense it from here – guys looking at each other sideways, laughing nervously in their groups as they huddle together and talk about who looks the fastest, the toughest. I recognize some of them – public schools have just as many talented athletes as Lakecrest does. That’s the beauty of amateur sports; it doesn’t matter how much money you have – there’s always going to be someone better. Someone who trains harder. Someone who’s more naturally talented. I recognize one of the guys from Redtree High School. He’s a senior who smashed the 50 meter butterfly record last year.
“Blackthorn!” Coach shouts. “James isn’t on his game. You’re up for the breaststroke 200.”
Great. Just as she says that, the announcer comes on with the introduction. He calls for the breaststroke 200 first, and I get up and move to the starting platforms. I pull on my swimming cap and goggles. The other guys look driven and concentrated as hell, and here I am, just wanting to get through this meet with the least possible stress. Some of them wave to their families in the stands, who cheer and wave back. It’d be nice if someone was here for me like that. But Dad never came to these. Not that I expected him to – he was a busy man full of busy money-making school-boarding. Not that I want him to. He’d just haughtily look on, never clap or cheer, and make some offhanded stinging comment about how I must love this sport since there are a bunch of men without shirts around.
I’d given up a long time ago waiting for him to come to these.
Burn and Fitz do, instead. Well, Burn does. He likes watching me compete. Fitz is a little less enthusiastic about it – preferring his computers to actual sun and exertion. But today I watch them slink into the stands; Fitz with a too-thick layer of sunscreen and massive sunglasses on. He even carries a black umbrella to shade himself, the drama queen. Burn is much less picky – only a bottle of water to his name.