I slide my fingers along the mattress and pick up the last few pictures left out. One image catches my eye, so I leave it to the side, putting the rest away. I don’t recognize this one, but I remember the day it was taken. I don’t know that I ever really saw the photo, and I’m not sure how it got into this bunch, but my chest starts to thump rapidly looking at it, almost like I’m…nervous.
I’m pretty sure I was fourteen, and Will…he’s sixteen. I know it because this was the summer he grew. The Hollister boys blindfolded me and took me down to Peterson Lake to see their surprise, and they didn’t pull the cloth away until my hands were wrapped around the scratchy rope and my feet were balanced on the small piece of wood fused to the bottom. They’d always talked about making a rope swing, and they finally made it.
I was nervous on it, unsteady on my feet, maybe a little untrusting of the wood that had been singed into the rope. The fall wasn’t far, but it was enough to leave me frozen. Will promised to take my first swing with me. Seeing the way his arms wrapped around me, his hands dwarfing mine on the rope while his body cradled mine a breath before we both kicked off and swung our way into the icy, crystal-blue water, brings back the rush of feelings I had that day—that moment.
Will always felt older, even older than he was. Maybe it was the way his body had changed. Or perhaps it was the fact that I was fourteen and growing more curious about my body, feeling things. Puberty is a twisted bitch, and I’m sure it was at work then, too. When Will held me, he didn’t let go—not even in the water. And I remember it as if it was just minutes ago, because at the time, I didn’t want him to let go. I didn’t want him to let go at all. And when he did, I got scared because feeling something like that, for Will Hollister, wasn’t how my story was supposed to go. He was older, and my crush had always been on Evan.
None of that explains the beating in my chest right now, though. My hand trembles holding the photo, so I grab my wrist with my free hand.
“Stop,” I tell myself.
I pull the lid onto the box and climb the ladder, leaning to put one foot on the shelving system as I slide the box back into the darkness and dust. I leave the photo of me and Will out, though. I’m not done looking at it, and that isn’t okay.
Will
My stomach is so tight I don’t think I could even convince my muscles to help me throw up if I wanted to. My left knee has been bouncing for the entire drive back to the club; I race into the driveway with enough force that my wheels spin out a little on the rocks.
I’m not sure why I’m in such a hurry. There’s no deadline for anything, and having to look Curtis in the eye before I take off isn’t going to be a pleasure. Hell, I should have driven slower and maybe he’d have been gone for the day.
I push the gearshift back into reverse, but I’m not fast enough to escape his attention. Curtis holds up a hand, waving hello while he holds the front door open for a group of young swimmers and their parents.
I gnash my teeth together hard and plaster a smile on my lips while I mentally repeat the word fuck over and over again. I don’t like confrontation. Avoiding conflict is half the reason I’m as miserable as I am. If I’d embraced it, once—the important time—I wouldn’t be carrying half of the misery that I walk around with every minute of the day.
But I can’t change who I am, and I’m a lying chicken shit.
Curtis holds the door open for me while I lock the car and jog up the front walkway, mentally running through every possible excuse I can give. His reaction is going to be terrible regardless of what I say, but not nearly as awful as it would be if I just spoke the truth.
“You remember being that young?” he says as I step up next to him. I turn and look at the young bodies wrapped in towels all making their way to idling cars.
“I don’t think I was ever that young,” I say.
I feel Curtis looking at me, so I hold my attention on the last kid, watching as his mom dries off one leg and then the other so he can push his feet into a pair of socks. I can tell by the look on the kid’s face that the last thing he wants is to put socks on, but he’s still too young to be defiant. I’d say he’s seven, maybe eight. Hang in there, buddy. When you’re twelve, you can decide about your damned feet on your own.
“You were that young,” Curtis says, drawing me from my trance. I squint one eye and look at him. “You were a lot better of a swimmer, and maybe twice that kid’s size, but you were still young, Will. And oh my god were you a pain in the ass!”
I wince on instinct, but when Curtis starts to laugh I relax a little.