like it hurts to do so. “Sorry, I know he’s your brother, but still. You know how tight those guys are. You can take the Devils out of the school, but you can’t take the Devil out of the boy.”
“That literally makes no sense.”
She shrugs. “You know what I mean.”
I do, which is why I’m suspicious of whatever it is those two were up to last night. Not only was their conversation a little cryptic and strange, but Reynolds’ reaction to catching me out there? Jesus. Talk about intense.
You nosing around like this? It’s just going to get you hurt again.
I still don’t know if it was a threat. The truth is, I don’t know this version of Reyn. I don’t know the meaning behind his stillness, or his quiet, or the hard edges of his face. But I know he’s trying to ‘stay away’ from me, and I know he feels my unhappiness at him being back is fair—“I deserve that.”—and I know there’s always something tight at the corner of his eyes when he looks at me. But I don’t know him enough to recognize it as anything distinct.
I know what he smells like, my brain annoyingly reminds me. And it’s true. I know the shape of his body against me, solid and strong. I know the warmth of his breath as it gusted against my hair. I know how it made me feel, like my skin was being stretched tight around a suddenly liquefied middle.
I know that I spent all night banging angrily against the sensations, willing them to leave.
The woman doing my pedicure sits on the little stool in front of me, gently lifting my foot out of the water. She starts the process of cleaning up my toes. From here, you’d never know I had a limp. It’s not like it used to be, last year, back when I still wore a brace. Gait training has brought me a long way from that horrified thirteen-year-old girl who couldn’t walk at all. Incomplete spinal cord injury, they called it. They said I was lucky. They said sometimes, bad things just happen to good people. They said if I worked hard and kept the faith, I could walk again—that I could be normal.
They said it wasn’t my fault.
The truth is that I do carry my own blame for getting hurt that night. I’d followed the boys to stop them from doing something stupid. All it took was one smile from Reynolds, one peek at those dimples, and I happily went along for the ride. The sick truth of the matter is that I’d been elated for him to hold my hand instead of focusing on driving—a suspended moment of shiny girlhood glee that overrode all sense.
So, yes. I know what he smells like. I know the shape of his body against mine. I know the way it makes me feel. But I’m not the same girl who was sitting in that passenger seat. The image of his two dimples sitting on my memory card at home will not make me pliable, and neither will his words—threat or otherwise.
This time, I’ll stop them before it goes too far.
It takes me until Tuesday to find an opportunity.
The rain comes in a sudden, rippling blanket of downfall. Everyone in the quad instantly scampers for cover, fanning out every which way. I don’t bother trying to run like that—couldn’t even if I wanted to—so instead I walk toward the closest awning, in front of the arts building.
It’s there that I see him.
He’s standing alone in the narrow, covered path that connects the old academic building to the athletic fields. I watch as his gaze slides down to his wet arms. He gives them two feeble shakes.
I walk toward him without giving myself a moment to think about it, shoes squelching in the wet grass as rain pelts my head and shoulders. Every step that brings me closer to him makes my heartbeat quicken, until it’s a sharp, rapid percussion in my chest. When I reach him, he’s turned away, and I spend a prolonged moment staring at the shell of his ear, stomach churning.
“I need to talk to you.”
Reynolds tenses, shoulders hitching up just enough to be noticeable. He turns to peer at me over one of his wet shoulders, those green eyes tightening. “We’re not supposed to be together.”
I’d suspected as much. Not that anyone told me. “That’s why I waited until I could catch you alone.”