Page 56 of Dark and Dangerous

He shrugs. “I don’t have a credit card.”

“Are you asking me to watch it with you, or would you like to just use me for my TV?”

He rolls his eyes.

I pat the spot beside me. “Come on, then.”

His eyes flick to the staircase so imperceptibly I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t watching him. I could tease him some more, force him to use his words, but I suddenly don’t feel the urge to. Or theneedto. Instead, I stand and take his hand, then lead him up to my bedroom. He gets comfortable on my bed, like he did the first night he was here, and I turn on my TV and find the movie for him. When I sit down beside him, he offers me his arm, and I hide my smile into his chest as he holds me to him. I raise the remote, ready to hit play, but he gently takes the remote from me. “Harlow,” he whispers. I lift my gaze to his. His eyes hold mine, searching between them, before he cradles my jaw in his palm. Thumb stroking my cheek, he offers a slight smile before dropping a kiss on my forehead. “Thank you.”

I wait for him to pull back, eyes on mine again. It’s as close as we’ve been. “For what?”

“For knowing what you know now and not treating me like everyone else does.” Another kiss, this one on my lips, and he lingers there a moment before pulling away. He faces the television, hits play, and says over the opening credits, “I hope you realize that to me, you’re not like everyone else.”

37

Harlow

“Where is everyone?” I whisper to my friends as they sit opposite me. I glance around the classroom, only to find it half empty. “It wasn’t like this before lunch, was it?”

Jace and Jonah were here then. They’re not now. But there’s a buzz in the air, one I haven’t felt before. Sammy and Jeannie give each other a knowing look, but they don’t offer anything more.

“It’s time,” the teacher calls out, and there’s a sudden ruckus of chairs and bodies shifting, and everyone’s rushing to pack up their things.

“Hurry!” Sammy snaps, shutting my laptop and moving it toward me. “We gotta get the best seats.”

I dump my laptop in my bag, for no other reason than I feel like I should. The moment I stand, someone shoulders me on the way to the door. “What’s going on?”

Jeannie drags me out by my arm, saying over her shoulder, “First open practice of the season!”

The gym at this school is nothing like the one at my old school, but it’s still hardwood and hoops and bleachers on either side. There’s a distinct scent to indoor basketball courts, one I haven’t smelled since…

“Move!” some kid says from behind me, pushing me to the side so I don’t hold up the stampede of people racing to get seats. It’s only now that I realize I’d stopped just inside the doors, unable to move any farther.

I have a half-court in my backyard, a basketball in my closet. Stepping into a gym shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like my throat’s closing in. Like my heart’s about to pump out of my chest. Like the world’s about to swallow me whole.

I can’t breathe.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision, and I turn swiftly, go the opposite direction of all the other students and teachers.

I can’t breathe.

Once back in the hallway, I press my back against the closest wall, attempt to fill my lungs with their life-source.

Nothing goes in.

Nothing comes out.

I swallow, my throat dry, and pull out my phone. I text Jeannie, tell her I had to use the bathroom.

I can’t breathe.

When the last people enter the gym and I’m left alone, I fold in on myself and close my eyes, let the tears fall.

Determined, I force myself to inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth, and with each pass of air across my lips, I feel my pulse slow, just enough so I canthink.

It’s justbasketball, I convince myself, just as the familiar sound of cheers and foot-stomping hits my ears.

A sob catches in my throat, memories blasting through my mind one after the other. Before I can focus on one, the gym door opens and slams shut, and I stand to full height. I expect to see a teacher, but it’s Jace who appears. “What are you doing?” I ask, panic rising inside me.

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