I know Mallory is worried and watching me. She’s been intentionally slowing the pace of the group for the past mile, and I’m still lagging. But I don’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of . . . what? Knowing that I’m in pain? I have no idea why that matters, but I march forward, barely blinking.
When we come to Highway 10, Mallory’s had enough. She jumps out in front of the group, stopping us.
“Okay, this is ridiculous,” she says. “You can’t keep this up.”
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep moving. She blocks me easily with a hand to my chest and then bends down to check my leg. The stitches are still in place, but it feels swollen. And now that we’ve stopped, the pain is nearly unbearable. It’s all I can do to not scream when she accidentally causes me to shift my weight to my bad leg.
“We need to call someone,” she says to Wayne and Sinclair.
Everybody we know is at a party or halfway to the beach by now. Or drunk. But Sinclair and Wayne still brainstorm a list. Every number they call follows the same pattern. Dial, listen for a few seconds, followed almost immediately by some intense cussing when nobody answers. They’ve gone through almost ten numbers when Jake finally jogs up.
“What’s going on?” he says.
Mallory drops her hands to her sides. “Are you serious? Look at his leg.”
Jake bends down to inspect my leg the same way Mallory did and says, “I’ve walked on worse.”
“You’ve walked on worse? Are you kidding?”
A peculiar look of nostalgia comes over Jake as he talks, completely ignoring Mallory’s indignation. The knives in her eyes.
“You remember that, Thomas? When I cut my toe with the lawn mower? Nearly took the whole thing off.”
It had looked like hamburger, but we walked back to our house, him trailing blood down the sidewalk and me freaking out. That was the summer we were supposed to mow lawns together. The summer before Jake’s junior year. The money was going toward the truck, which needed a new axle and—if there was money left over—a bed liner. I mowed all summer without him, getting the axle, the bed liner—and a new set of tires.
But I don’t want to think about the truck or engage Jake’s sudden nostalgia trip. I refuse to look at him as I step around Mallory and start down the road again.
“We could call your parents,” she says, easily matching my shortened stride.
I want to fight. It would feel good to fight, to be loud and truthful. But I tamp down the urge to bring out the claws. And besides, Mallory isn’t the problem. I slow down and face her.
“I can’t explain this to them. Not tonight. Okay?”
I can tell she doesn’t want to concede the point, but she finally sighs and says, “As long as we can agree that you’re being an idiot right now.”
She smiles, almost embarrassed. Before I can say anything else, Jake surges past us like we’re not even there, Wayne and Sinclair in tow.
“That’s the best team Ford’s had in twenty years,” Jake tells Wayne. “Me, Teague, Wagner—Bryant? If it wasn’t for that bullshit call, we take State.”
He marches them down the road like they’ve got orders, taking the lead for the first time in months. I try to keep up, to hear what he’s saying. To maybe figure out how he can go from mute to discussing high school football legacies with such ease.
I’ve pulled ahead of Mallory by a few steps, but I can’t keep up with Jake. The last thing I hear is Wayne saying, “Bulllsshhhiiitt,” loud and with feeling. Followed by laughter that carries through the dark country night.
The next sound is Mallory’s phone.
“Is that Will?” I ask, pausing to wait for her.
“Of course,” she says. When it beeps again, she nods and types out a quick message before looking back up at me. At my leg. She grimaces. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but—”
I shake my head. “I can’t call them.”
And yes, every step is a warning—infection, paralysis, worse. I’ve been so careful up until tonight about not risking anything. And in less than a few hours I’ve resurrected my friendship with Mallory, lost the practical use of one leg and now my truck.
What can a five-mile walk possibly do to me now?
“Something’s going on with you,” Mallory says.
“It’s Jake,” I say, trying to shore up any emotion leaking into my face. Act like nothing is wrong.