Page 177 of Did They Break You

“You want to be a writer?”

The question comes out of nowhere. The fire is out, the temperature still dropping as we huddle in the tent, an electric lantern at the end of it, our blankets scattered all over the tent floor. I have one wrapped around my shoulders, and I’m still in his EU hoodie, but I’ve got black cotton shorts on, socks too.

I was flipping through a book that I’ve already read. One he saved for me, over two years ago.Pet Sematary.The cat stares back at me from the cover when I let the pages go.

He was on his phone, watching highlights from an NFL game last week, but now his phone is down, soft music playing from it.

“Moments Passed”by Dermot Kennedy.

I know that’s for me. Doesn’t really mesh with all his Deftones.

He’s got his elbows on his knees, wearing a pair of sweats and a West River T-shirt. His hair is a mess, perfectly tousled, and his eyes are sleepy but even still, he looks happy.

“I think so,” I tell him, feeling nervous discussing it, like I always do.

“Do something fucking useful, Remi.”My stepdad’s words. I lied and told him I was taking all my core classes before I declared a major, but I already have. I wonder how Cort knows.

I think about my new laptop, tucked away back in my dorm.

There’s a sick feeling in my stomach as I recall all of my lies to Sloane. She thinks I’m working on a paper for my lit class. But I sense something in her texts.

She knows I’m full of shit.I push that all aside. Tomorrow, I’ll have to deal with it. But tonight, I’m just letting it go.

I clench the fuzzy material of the blanket tighter in my fist, think about Cortland sitting across from me at that café as we sipped on lattes.

Well, he guzzled his black coffee down and inhaled eggs and bacon.

But I sipped while he kept asking every other bite if I wanted some of his food.

I didn’t eat until around noon, when we made hotdogs on the fire after a hike in the woods.

“You think?” he asks me, dipping his chin and smirking, his dimple making an appearance. “Or you know?”

I shrug, glancing at the horror novel in front of me. He’s sitting on the edge of the air mattress and I’m on top of a thick pad of blankets, a few feet between us. Still, it’s not enough to hide my blush and I’m sure he sees it.

“I know,” I tell him quietly. “But I also know it doesn’t make money.” I look up and try to hold his gaze without shame. “So, I’ll probably look into something else?—”

“Why?”

I blink at him, then laugh, my nerves on edge. He doesn’t even smile. “Because I have to pay bills, Cortland,” I say, shrugging. “You know, I have to actually make money.”

He threads his fingers together, nodding as he stares at me. Then he shrugs, and I watch the muscles in his shoulders flex as he does. “True,” he says, “but what if that didn’t matter?”

I swallow, shifting a little on my pad of blankets, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, my entire body covered from the blanket I’ve got draped over my shoulders like a cape. “It does, though.” I run my tongue over my teeth, not really liking the look he’s giving me. “What about you?” I deflect. “What do you want to do? Play professional football?”

He laughs, his white teeth flashing. “Nah,” he answers me. I think about him on the field, that throwing arm that never seemed to fail. Running the ball, never making a big show when he got a touchdown, his team rallied around him all the same.

People adored him.

I did too.

Do,I realize. Idotoo.

Despite the fact I’ve seen him at his worst, I adore him. Even this new version of him, angry and an asshole, I kind of like that, too.

And the words are at the tip of my tongue, waiting to come out. The truths I want to spill.

But I swallow them down.

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