Page 3 of The Way We Are

Savannah gestures her hand to Axel leaning on the front panel of his over-waxed car, watching our exchange with amusement on his face. “Do you guys need a lift? Or...” She leaves her question open for us to fill in how we see fit.

I open my mouth, preparing to tell her I’d rather eat shit than get in the car with her dickhead boyfriend, but Chris’s words fire off his tongue before mine, foiling my endeavor. “Ryan’s battery is dead. Can we get a jump?” He slaps my stomach with the back of his hand before adding on, “Get your cables.”

My back molars smash together as I glare at him.Too bad if Savannah wants to say no.

“Umm... sure,” Savannah replies with a shrug. “I’ll ask Axel to bring his car around.”

I wait for Savannah to be out of earshot before rerouting my focus to Chris.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “What would you prefer? Asking him for a jump or sitting in his back seat watching him grope her like he is now for the ten-mile trip home?”

My eyes snap to the right. Just as Chris mentioned, Axel's hands are all over Savannah's ass.

“If a feel-up is payment for a jump start, imagine what he’d request for driving your sorry ass home.”

“Shut the fuck up, Chris,” I grumble, my annoyance more directed at Axel than Chris.

Axel’s response to Savannah’s request for help proves what I’ve always known. Unless he benefits in some way, he’d leave a man to bleed out. He only looks out for one man and one man only—himself.

After securing the jumper leads from the bed of my truck, I head back to the hood. I clench the cables tight, reminding myself time and time again that Savannah isn't my girl, and that who she spends her time with has nothing to do with me. My attempts at ignorance are borderline, but when you’ve got nothing to work with, half-assed attempts must do.

“Thanks for doing this,” I say to Savannah, who is leaning over the hood of my truck with her nude lips twisted into a sexy pout.

Savannah has the type of beauty that doesn’t need to be accentuated with makeup. Her lips are the color of a peach, and her hour of cheerleading practice has given her cheeks a rosy red hue no amount of blush could match. With thick, luscious eyelashes gifted to her by her German grandmother, she looks like she's wearing mascara. Only I know she isn’t. I peered into her eyes many years before she started enhancing her god-crafted assets with girly products, so I’d know if they were augmented in any way.

“It’s fine, Ry-Ryan. I’m happy to help.”

I smirk at her stumble over my name.Perhaps she does remember my nickname?

After raising the hood of Axel’s car, Chris directs him so our batteries are appropriately aligned. Although my cables could reach Axel’s battery now, I pretend they can’t, happy to use Axel and Chris’s distraction to my advantage. Getting a minute alone with Savannah the past five years has proven more difficult than prying a bottle of scotch from my father’s hand—fucking impossible.

“How’s your mom?” I ask Savannah, starting with an easy question before smacking her with the big hitters.

Savannah's lips quirk as a glaze filters over her eyes. “Good. From the postcard I received last week, she loves the Hawaiian sun."

“She’s in Hawaii?” I question, shocked.

Savannah and her mom are tight, so I’m surprised to hear she’s hundreds of miles away. It was a good five months before Savannah’s mom stopped arriving at lunch to check on her during our first year of school. Most kids would be peeved by her overbearing nature, but not Savannah. She loved having her mom’s utmost attention and greeted every visit with a happy squeal and a gigantic hug.

When Savannah answers my question with a blasé nod, I ask, “On vacation?”

Savannah’s nod turns into a shake. “She relocated there nearly two years ago.”

“Oh.”

I’d like to say more, but I’m left speechless. Savannah’s family always valued their privacy, I just didn’t fathom it extended this far. Furthermore, gossip circles Ravenshoe more quickly than my dad can guzzle a can of beer—fast—so rumors of her parents’ separation should have reached my ears years ago.

“How’s your mom?” Savannah asks, happy to shift our conversation away from her family by focusing it on mine.

The worry in her eyes fades when I screw up my nose. “Same as always.”

My mother was a great woman; she just married the wrong man. I wish I could have met her before she shacked up with my father. The stories she told my brother and me when my dad was on nightshift filled me hope her life wasn't always as thankless as the one she lives now. Every mother would say they are lacking appreciation, but my mom has it ten times worse.

My eyes drop to my hand when a zap surges up my arm. Savannah’s hand is hovering over mine. Her touch is brief but potent enough for my body to respond, even more so since her thumb is grazing the thin red rope curled around my wrist. The string is so fragile, I’m afraid it may crumble under her touch, but considering it belongs to her, I’m not going to say anything.

The longer Savannah’s thumb grazes the friendship bracelet she crafted for me ten years ago, the greater the energy bristles between us. When we were young, I thought I was imagining the spark of electricity that fired between us, but this can’t be denied. It’s way too strong to be brushed off as a childish infatuation.

For the first time in years, I follow the prompts of my body instead of ignoring them. A blush brightens Savannah’s skin when I run my index finger down the indent in her right cheek. She chews on her bottom lip to hide her smile, making her dimples pop more. I’m glad she's finally accepting the little hollows she used to think were imperfections.

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