Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,88

that remark at the end of our conversation? How can I be selfish when people have lost more than me? If anything, my dreams shouldn’t come true for that sole reason.

Chapter Twenty-One

Ella

Three weeks and sadly after a week delay from our landlord, Jen and I are moving back to our apartment. Plumbing issues have been fixed. This is definitely a better situation for Jen, who opted to sleep in Brax’s room while he claimed the couch. Saucey tried to apologize, but every time, she denied him. I could fist-bump her.

As for me, I’m sad to leave Crosby’s bed and his arms at night. Truthfully, this whole needing-a-place-to-live has made us closer faster. At first, I thought he should woo me, take me to the movies and out to dinner, but we don’t need that because we had that when we were fifteen. My body only wants more when he’s around, and I have no doubt it’s the same for him.

Especially if you look at his melancholy face right now.

I entwine our fingers, and he looks over at me, sadness clear in his eyes. Or he’s apprehensive since we’re waiting for the newspaper writer to come and talk to us.

“I’m going to miss you.” He looks at me, and his shoulder slightly presses to mine, his lips grazing my neck.

“I’m going to be five minutes away.”

“Five minutes too many,” he says.

I fight the urge to agree, but we got back together at warp speed. Maybe space will be good for us. Not that we’re currently having any problems, except for the fact that the charity game in Beltline is two weeks away.

Ariel told me she heard from a friend that Mrs. Bishop is planning a boycott. That her group of friends is going to try to block people from attending. How she could do that to the Weathers just because of her misplaced anger at Crosby, I have no idea. She was always protective of Kedsey, and I only assume that didn’t die when her child did.

“Crosby Lynch.” A young blonde comes up the stairs of the library with her hair in a ponytail. She glances down at the paper and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Ella Keaton.”

We both stand, our hands locked in solidarity.

“That’s us,” I speak because I’m fairly sure Crosby might throw up his burrito from lunch at any moment.

“Great.” She holds her hand out and shakes each of ours. “I’ve reserved a private room for us.”

She swivels on her Chuck Taylors, and we follow her down the library hallway until she reaches a door and opens it for us.

“You don’t mind if I record, do you?” she asks before we even sit down.

“No,” Crosby grunts out, taking a seat across the table. His eyes are on that small recording device.

“Great. Let’s get started.” She pushes up her glasses again.

I get a good look at her. Either she looks really young for her age, or she’s only a freshman. Why would they give a freshman a center-page article for this story?

“You two are currently dating?”

“Yes,” Crosby answers, his hand now resting on my knee.

The girl eyes where Crosby’s arm disappears under the table. She smiles and concentrates back at her paper. “Can you take me through the accident?”

Crosby’s hand tightens for a moment, and I inch up to start talking, but he intercepts me.

An hour later, we emerge from the small room. I hurt like a punching bag from the amount of questions we answered, having to relive that night. There are many facts we left out. One being, Kedsey unbuckled herself. That Crosby might have been slightly distracted by his girlfriend singing at the top of her lungs. That no one but Crosby was conscious right after the accident. That he was the only survivor with the ability to rehash the scene every night afterward.

“Need you,” he whispers in my ear as we climb in his truck.

Without waiting, he claims my lips, his head practically pushing mine back into the seat. His hand ventures up my skirt, pushing the thin fabric of my panties to the side and digging a finger in my warmth.

I part my legs and slide down on the seat to give him better access.

“Take me home,” I murmur during a break from kissing.

“Now. Please,” he mumbles.

His hands leave mine, and he sits down on his seat. He presses the button to bring the seat back and starts unbuckling his pants.

“Cros,” I say, looking out the window at the classmates