“Tease.”
I’d recognize that slow, deep voice anywhere. Over the years, he stopped calling me Tee like everyone else and had nicknamed me Tease. Why on earth is he here? Isn’t he in college at Cornell? Is it his fall break? Oh God, talk about the last person I want to see!
“Tee?”
I slowly turn toward him.
Ezra Carmichael.
The guy who filled my thoughts for years and years.
The first time I met him, I was ten. For elementary school, I went to a private girls’ school, so I hadn’t met many of my brother’s friends. It was Oliver’s twelfth birthday party, and he had invited a ton of boys over to the house for video games, swimming, and a game of football. Mom said they had to play two-hand touch, but as soon as she went to the back patio to drink mint juleps with the other moms, Ezra announced to the boys that they were playing tackle.
“No wimps!” he said, and of course, none of the boys tried to bow out. You had to play tackle or you’d be considered a pansy forever.
With hands on my hips, I stood on the porch in my little red dress and announced, “I want to play!”
“No way!” Oliver said.
“Let me on your team or I’m telling Mom you’re playing tackle and you’ll be in trouble!”
Ezra scowled. “Just let her play, Oll. She can be on my team.”
The other team kicked off. I sprinted forward and somehow managed to catch the ball. “I caught it!” I yelled, and Ezra waved his arms, screaming, “Run!”
I took off for the end zone, my red skirt flapping in the wind. I was nearly there—and then this whale of a kid tackled me into the ground. A rock gashed my forehead.
I felt blood trickling down my face as Ezra slid to a stop in front of me. He pulled off his sweaty T-shirt and held it to my forehead, stopping the flow of blood. It hurt like the devil, but I couldn’t cry in front of these boys, especially Ezra, who had stood up for me and argued to let me play. So I bit down on my lip.
He crouched over me that day. “Tee? You okay?”
“Did I score?”
Ezra burst out laughing, and that’s when I knew I wanted to marry him.
When we were in high school together, I spent a lot of time secretly doodling Ezra + Tee and Tee + Ezra in the margins of my notebook, then scribbling over it so no one would see. I thought our names sounded perfect together, looked perfect together, and thus we would be perfect together. But he didn’t think so. Or at least I don’t think he did. I base this assumption on the fact that even though he flirted with me, he never made a move, and I chickened out the few times I might have had a chance to.
After what happened on my sixteenth birthday, we stopped hanging out. So of course, he’d show up again when my entire life is falling apart because karma.
His deep voice calls out again. “Tee.”
I open my eyes and face Ezra Carmichael.
Modeling Integrity
Ezra is at the sugar station, pouring half-and-half into a steaming cup of coffee. The sight of him turns my knees to JELL-O. Dark, cropped hair. Serious green eyes that glance away from mine to make sure his coffee isn’t overflowing. The way he licks his lower lip when he’s concentrating. I’ve rarely seen Ezra out of a white button-down Oxford shirt, khakis, and blue plaid tie, which is the dress code for guys at St. Andrew’s. Now he’s wearing holey jeans spotted with paint and a bright-white T-shirt that is magnified by his warm tan. He’s carrying a construction helmet under his muscled arm.
“What are you wearing?” I blurt.
His cheeks flush at my outburst. “What are you wearing? Where’s your uniform?”
I look down at my jeans and cardigan. It’s been weird trying to figure out what to wear—I’ve never had to pick out school clothes before. I own one pair of jeans, because when I’m not at school or soccer practice, I wear dresses and skirts to parties and political events.
“I don’t need the uniform anymore,” I finally reply.
“But you’re a senior.”
“I am, but I’m going to Hundred Oaks now…”
His eyes go wide. “Why?”
“You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“I figured everybody knew. I bet the guys on the International Space Station even know.” Ezra’s face is blank. “It was all over Facebook,” I tell him.
“I didn’t see anything, I guess,” he says quietly. This is not a surprise to me. He doesn’t have a Tumblr or Twitter account. He never posts anything on Facebook. At least not in the past several months. Not that I noticed or anything. I’m no stalker. Well, not all the time.
It’s weird that he’s never online. My brother’s phone is practically fused to his fingers.
“Are you home for fall break already?” I ask.
He rubs the back of his neck, meeting my eyes for a long moment, and just as I’m asking why he’s holding a construction hat—“Isn’t it a little early for Halloween?”—an older man dressed in a T-shirt and dirty jeans comes into the diner and waves at him.
“Ezra, man, let’s go!”
“Take care, Tease,” he says, then hurries out the door and jumps into a truck with a construction logo on the side. As they drive away, he stares at me through the window.
Okay. So that was weird.
? ? ?
I definitely went through my first day of school in a haze.
I don’t remember seeing any of these people yesterday. Which is odd because my calc teacher has the most Biblical beard I’ve ever seen. Seriously, this guy could’ve given Moses a run for his money. How did I miss that?
After first period, I go to the school office to find out who the soccer coach is, and the receptionist directs me to the athletics hallway where I find the office that says “Coach Walker—Soccer.”
I knock on the door.
A man opens it, and I sigh, relieved that he doesn’t have a Biblical beard. He’s a normal guy, probably in his early thirties. He is chewing gum and wearing the typical coach’s uniform: khakis, a ball cap, an unflattering polo shirt the color of corn.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Hi, I’m Taylor. I was hoping to talk to you about the soccer team.”
He smacks his chewing gum. “For the school newspaper or yearbook or something?”
“No, I play. I know tryouts probably already took pla—”
“We’ll take you.”
“What?” I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Don’t you need to know if I’m any good?”
He shrugs. “We’ve only got twelve girls this year. We could use the help.”
There were only about a hundred girls total at my old school, but we still held tryouts every year. We couldn’t risk having a bad player, or we’d lose. They only have one sub? St. Andrew’s always had at least three.
“So you play?” he asks.
My voice cracks when I admit, “I used to play for St. Andrew’s.”
His eyes perk up. “Oh, so you’re the new transfer student the principal mentioned? The one who was kicked out—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”