Page 7 of Wristlocked
“Remember,” she finishes, “my door is always open if you need advice or assistance.” She smiles at us, surprisingly genuine after the well-rehearsed speech, or possibly as well-rehearsed. A few students line up to talk to her as she moves to the side, chatting quietly with a coach whose name and specialty I missed. She doesn’t so much as glance at Shepard, and againstmy will, I find myself vaguely wondering how their arrangement actually works here at the school.
What I really need to know, however, is what the fuck is going on with Gia.
Vaya and Jules have their heads together, studying the class schedule. Gia is staring off into the gym, where the world’s biggest asshole is rigging his black straps to one of the far points.
“Hey.” I nudge her hip with mine to get her attention, stifling my frustration. “Let’s go check out the pool. We’ll have plenty of time in here this afternoon.”
“Okay,” she agrees, but it takes another endless second for her to drag her eyes back to me. “You guys want to join?” she asks Ren and the other girls. Vaya starts to stand, but Jules takes in the look on my face and touches her partner’s leg with a small shake of her head. Ren snorts.
“We did the pool yesterday,” Jules says. “Let’s check out the foam pit, Vy. We can mess around with the knees-to-ankles drop without me worrying about dropping you on your head.”
“We should go back to the room for our chevies, then,” Vaya replies. “The last time we tried it barefoot, I had bruises so bad on the tops of my feet that I couldn’t wear shoes for a week.”
“Chevies are too grippy for the slide,” Jules protests.
“I like the extra control.” They move toward the door, arguing fondly, Gia and I forgotten.
“Vaya should work her toe hangs on the bar if she wants to build up her pain tolerance,” Gia says, moving to follow them out into the courtyard. “But she’s right about the control. That move is way safer in chevies. My parents—” She breaks off with a scowl. She hates it when anything slips out that reminds her how much she’s actually learned from them.
I take a chance and rest my hand on her lower back, letting the tips of my fingers graze the curve of her hip above the foldedwaistband of her tight shorts. To my relief, she doesn’t pull away and even lets me hold the door open and guide her through, brushing against me as she ducks beneath my arm. I can’t help glancing back across the gym to see if Shepard is watching. He’s got a hand wrapped in the straps—the left, I notice, and wonder briefly if he’s left-arm dominant like me. Some tiny blonde with a hoop slung over her shoulder is trying to get his attention, but even at this distance, I can tell his narrowed eyes are locked on me.
6
Gia
“Do you actually want to swim?” I ask. It’s hot enough. The late-August sun bakes my skin when we leave the cool comfort of the air-conditioned gym, and I can practically feel new freckles blooming on my nose and shoulders.
“I want to know what’s going on with you and Gale Shepard.” Lyot’s voice is carefully neutral, but he’s stopped walking to look at me, his shoulders tense and gray eyes searching.
“Nothing.”
The facade crumbles into hurt as he turns away, and I grab his arm.
“Nothing I can explain,” I finish.
“Try anyway.”
“Let’s go to the pool. We can at least dunk our feet in. It’s hot.” I sigh, sliding my hand into his and trying to pull him across the courtyard. When he drags his feet, I promise, “I’lltry.”
There are three other girls at the pool when we get there, all lying on lawn chairs, wearing sunglasses and bikinis. I spare a moment to jealously admire the bronze perfection of their skin before drawing Lyot to the opposite edge. Kicking off my flip-flops, I try to dredge up something safe to tell him beforesinking my legs gratefully into the cool water. Without shade, I have about fifteen minutes before I start to burn. I stir lazy circles in the clear water and wait, not looking at him.
After a few seconds, he removes his shoes and sits down next to me. I wish he’d ask me a question I can answer or make an accusation I can argue with, but instead he sits there, silently demanding that I bare the feelings I’ve been fighting in myself for weeks.
Something safe.
“I’ve never met Gale Shepard,” I finally offer, knowing it’s an evasion. “I’ve never talked to him before today, if you even count that lovely little exchange as talking.” I’m feeling defensive and being a brat, but I can’t help myself. I don’t know how to have this conversation.
“So we’re talking angry eye-fucking for no reason? Out of the fucking blue?”
“You mean earlier? That wasn’t eye-fucking. He looked like he wanted to kill me.”
“Isn’t that your love language?” The words are meant to be cruel, but the bitterness behind them douses me in a sudden wash of guilt. However much I like to pick at my own scabs, the thought of making Lyot bleed has never been the kind of pain I crave. It’s why I’ve avoided analyzing the way my body reacts to Gale Shepard in the first place—why I’ve told myself for two years it’s only about the work and the straps.
Lyot has never held anything back from me, and I want so badly for it to be enough, but hearing him now, I know I haven’t been as good at hiding my missing pieces as I thought. All I’ve done by keeping silent is make him feel like he’s the one who’s full of holes.
“Do you remember the first time we saw him?”
“Last night?” He frowns at me, confused.
