Page 63 of Breaking Away

When I saw her, she was laughing with her head thrown back, open water bottle in hand. It was clear some had spilled on her.

Her laughter burned my ears.Why is this chick so damn happy at being a klutz? Why is she acting like nothing bad ever happens while I'm here, praying my dad hasn't started drinking again even though I found an opened beer can in his room last night?

I didn’t think she caught me staring. And then I prayed she didn’t, because like a bad accident, my dad showed up, hiccuping. “They took my license, son. You have to drive me home."

I couldn’t check if she noticed us, because I was too busy dragging my dad to the nearest washroom to chug water. By the time we came out, she was gone—but I kept imagining the reaction I’d get from a girl like her. How the planes of her face would soften like butter nuked in the microwave. There would be so much pity.

A week later, I officially started classes. It was my mission to avoid her. School was supposed to be the place where the crap in my personal life couldn't follow me, but now someone might know that whatever I pretended to be in those hallways—strong, uncaring, bored—I went home to an unpredictable mess every night.

My reality fucking embarrassed me. I didn’t want to give her a chance to bring it up.

To avoid her, I became hyper-aware of Kavi Basra’s every move.

She eats a sandwich for lunch every day, but can't cook for shit. She almost burnt the cafeteria down on one of her many volunteer shifts. Yes, she volunteers, frequently giving her labor away for free. Something about her dad being the hockey coach means living up to a certain image. When she's not assignedtasks, she's doodling while she waits for that ride home from him.

I don't think she has friends.

Her hair is bushy when it rains and wavy when she braids it for most of the day before untying it loose for the last period. She's short. Average or below average in most subjects except... art. Her drawings are incredible. I can't deny that, but it's not like anyone else cares. She never submits anything to the school gallery shows or contests.

Rather, she enjoys invisibility. She hates being called on to speak in front of the class, but teachers pick her because she will always say yes. She's such a damn people pleaser.

In the last year of high school, her dad's assistant moved away, so he volunteered her for the job. She started running errands for the hockey team.

That's how Smith got to her. They started dating. She was his, and with him, she got even smaller. Her hair mellowed to a color only called bright under the sun. Then came the collared shirts, painted nails, and perfect ponytails. Whatever it took to live up to being the captain's girlfriend.

Meanwhile, my dad tried rehab. It didn't stick but rubbed off somewhat. His bad days and good days became more my fault. The more I trained with him to play hockey, the happier he was.

So I told myself it was for the fucking best Basra became busy. I didn't need to watch out for her or her pity. Or wonder what really went through her head when her mouth pursed like that. I told myself she wasn't beautiful, compelling, or gorgeous. I didn't want to kiss her. That she never made my cock so hard it hurt.

My entire mission in life was to get drafted as a professional hockey player.

And yet?—

Right now, as I kneel beside her bed, I don’t care about hockey. Wiping her brow brings me peace, clears my head, and makes it so I can finally breathe. The pressure I’ve trained myself to live with isn’t crushing me right now. It’s not even there.

All I want to do is more of this.

Screw my dad and his dreams and everything I’m expected to become. I don’t give a fuck about continuing the family legacy. If I don’t get drafted, I’ll figure something else out.

And that’s when I know I have to get out of this house. Because those kinds of thoughts aren’t an option for someone like me. Not when I’ve trained my whole life to succeed at the only thing I’m good at.

She’s fallen asleep. I wish I could tuck her in, but I don't. I refill her water, put her medicine on her table, and then I slip away.

The plan is to never see her again. I can’t.

Princess, you are the kind of trouble I could never afford.

25

KAVI

(Prom - many years ago.)

“You got this,” I tell myself in the mirror.

My mom isn’t home, but she laid out my prom dress for me last night. The bodice has florals, the skirt is a breezy tule, and there’s a flirty thigh slit that goes up to my knee. It’s perfect and everything I couldn’t find in a store. Anything with tulle in my size drowned my shape, instead of showing it off.

But in this?—

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