Page 33 of The One I Left Behind

“Clay!” Her mom voice is a scary one. “I called you how many times and texted.”

He must be saying something because she’s silent for a moment.

“Sleeping? Fine. Listen,” she says in a more nurturing voice. “Remember, I went out to breakfast.” I can hear him on the other end. “A friend.” Another pause. “No, not Laurel.” She fidgets, straightening her back and cracking her neck. “I’m coming home now, but I have something to tell you.”

She wipes her tears with her palm. I wish I could take the phone and tell Clayton myself so she doesn’t have to, but at the parade, it was clear the kid doesn’t like me. Instead of doing what I want to do, I put my hand on her knee again, this time not letting go. She needs to know I’m here for her right now.

She looks at me, but I ignore her eyes piercing into the side of my head. If she wants my hand off, she can remove it.

“Coach Marks suffered a heart attack last night. As far as I know, he’s not in any type of crisis. But I’m on my way home, and we can head up there. Be there in, like, ten?” She poses it as more of a question, her eyes still watching me.

I nod to confirm.

“Just shower quickly and get dressed.” She hangs up and stares out the window.

“I’d like to drive you and Clayton to the hospital.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Gill…”

She whips her head in my direction and glares at me. We’re not at that point yet. Noted.

“Gillian, you aren’t in any condition to drive. I’ll take you, and you can get a ride home. Hell, I’ll give you the truck to drive home if you want.”

It takes a minute before she answers, “fine.” She leans her head back against the headrest allowing the wind to whip her hair around.

We pull up to her house, and it’s like déjà vu, except it’s not Gillian waiting for me, but Clayton on the porch, his head buried in his phone. I honk my horn and he lifts his head, rearing back for a moment.

He walks toward Gillian’s car, a reliable grayish sedan.

“Clay, come on. Ben’s taking us,” she calls.

I’m surprised, since it’s the first time she’s used my name in front of me.

“What? Why?” He glares at us.

“Just come on.” She waves.

Clayton lumbers over, his face growing more and more pissed off with every step. Gillian opens the door and slides over next to me. Again, I have to tighten my hand on the steering wheel so I don’t put my arm around her. Who knew a habit from over a decade ago was still alive and kicking inside me?

“Hey, Clayton,” I say, waiting for him to put his seat belt on.

Gillian elbows him when he doesn’t say anything back, and he murmurs, “Hey.”

The truck putters for a second, but when I give it more gas, it runs smoother.

“Aren’t you worth millions?” Clayton asks. “What’s with the rust bucket?”

“Clay!” I do kind of love Gillian’s mom voice.

“It’s fine.” My hand falls to touch her leg, but she slides it away. Glancing to the side, I can see that Clayton clocked the move and his lips thin into a straight line. “I borrowed it from a friend.”

“It’s Sheriff Watson’s,” Gillian says.

“Why didn’t he give you one of the new ones he fixes up?”

At least the kid is making conversation instead of sulking. “I didn’t want one of those.”

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