Page 28 of Taking It To Overtime
Maybe we can stick as close to the truth as possible. We didn’t plan for this, we just couldn’t avoid our connection any longer. Or I could leave Spags at my parents’ and join Vera at the hotel myself. Press her into the generic coverlet as I lick my way down her stomach. Shift her hair over her shoulder as I suckon the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. Push my hips into hers as I bend her over the bureau and meet her eyes in the mirror. A shudder runs down my spine and Spags narrows his eyes at me like he can see my thoughts.
“Focus on the job, Spags,” I say, and his answering grin makes me want to slew-foot him.
“Sure thing, Dad.” He winks. “We can figure this out later.”
Or never. Never sounds good.
She looks cold. That’s the first thing he thinks when she gets off the bus, both because of her skirt and the look on her face. She’s not happy to see him, but that’s okay. He’s happy enough for the both of them.
She won’t meet his eyes, stomping down the metal steps with her fists clenching the straps of her backpack. She’s taller than most of the girls he knows, but still a little shorter than him and he thinks it’s cute how she sticks her nose in the air to avoid looking at him.
He knows she’s mad. All summer she talked about how excited she was to be in the same school again, to ride the same bus, and then he had to break the news that because of hockey and wouldn’t be able to sit with her. He’s practicing a lot now. Ice time in the mornings to work on his skating, team practice in the afternoons, and games on the weekend. She doesn’t see him on the playground anymore either, not now that they’re in middle school, and she has choir practice and orchestra during the morning's free time. Even lunch is separate now, but he still tries to wave when he sees her at her bright blue locker.
It’s been a month since she waved back.
Today is different. There’s no afternoon practice, so here he is, waiting by the overlarge sycamore tree, coat pulled tight to ward off the late November chill, for Vera to get off the bus so he can walk her home. He knows it’s only down the street, but atleast this way she can’t avoid him. Even if she doesn’t say a word or look in his direction once.
“Hi,” he says, and she steps onto the street, two other kids pushing off the bus behind her.
The accordion door slides shut with a snick and the bus brakes sigh as they disengage. She stands stock still, not looking at him, but not rushing past him either. He thinks this might be the best it’s going to get.
“No hi back?”
She still doesn’t answer, staring at the empty branches of the tree, the leaves having long since changed and fallen. This town never got the message that November is still fall, already they’re pushing into winter with temperatures low enough for coats and hats and gloves. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck too, and even though he’s used to the rink and ice and cold, even he’s been shivering while waiting on the bus. She must be freezing. Not only can he see the freckled skin above her knees, but her hair is up in a ponytail and the tips of her ears and nose are red.
He reaches up to unwind his scarf, intent on wrapping her up in it, but she chooses that moment to step past him and start trekking down the street. He hustles after her—her legs are long, and she’s quick, but he’s faster—still loosening the wool from around his throat. He holds it out in front of her and she stops before running into his arm.
“Are you cold?” Still no answer. “Not even going to look at me?”
That gets her, just like he knew it would. Green eyes meet brown and the chill fades away, a bubbly, warm feeling sprouting in the pit of his tummy. It feels like when he takes that first sip of hot cocoa after a grueling practice, feeling the heat from the liquid thaw him out as he swallows.
“I miss you.” The words fall out of him before he can stop them, not that he would. He has missed her.
“What do you want?” She asks, tucking a few strands of hair back behind her ears. She always has some that escape her ponytail or braid to frame her face.
“To walk you home.”To see you.
Her hands leave the straps of her backpack, fingers peeling back one by one, and for a blissful moment he thinks she’s thawing for him. Then she crosses her arms over her chest and pulls her lips to one side.
“Why?”
Why? What does she mean why? They haven’t seen each other in weeks, not in more than passing, and even then she’s frosty. They spent every day together over the summer, at least in some capacity. She had dance, and a theatre camp, and he had hockey, but they worked around it, meeting down by the creek or at the playground—even when it was overrun with little kids. He saw all three of her performances of The Wiz. Once with his parents and twice with hers. She came to his scrimmages. Now? Nothing.
Apparently, he doesn’t answer fast enough.
“I don’t need your scarf. I’m fine.” She pushes his hand down and starts walking again. He’s quick to loop it around his neck as he chases after her.
They’re already even with Rachel Reuben’s house, which means his time is almost up and this idea has been a total disaster. The only thing he’s learned is that she’s mad at him. Or she no longer cares about him. Hopefully, just the first. The second makes his stomach turn.
“What did I do?”
She starts walking again, and he has no choice but to follow. Drawn to her like a compass to magnetic north. She’s a homing beacon he looks for in the dark, the one who can always guide him. He feels a little lost without her, and the idea of neverhaving her back makes him want to heave into Mrs. Edgemere’s rose bushes.
“Please, V. You’re my best friend.”
She whirls on him, skirt swirling around her legs and eyes flashing.
“No.” Her pointer finger stabs into his chest and he rubs the spot, fighting the urge to smile. Here she is. His mom told him once that hatred wasn’t the opposite of love, just another side of the same coin. He didn’t understand then, but he thinks he might now. Not that he really understands love. He loves his mom and his dad, his Gram and Pops, even Irwin, the one-eared calico that walked in the back door one day.
