There’s a set of low metal bleachers at the edge of the field, and I hop up onto a bench and dig the phone out of my bag. Still no text from Jason. I take a long, steadying breath, then dial his number. It rings and rings and rings, and as it does, the maybes play through my head.
Maybe Jason gave me the wrong number by accident.
Maybe Bethany dropped the necklace, like she did in the locker room.
Maybe Mr. Phillip made enemies.
Maybe—
And then the phone cuts to voice mail and I hear Jason’s voice telling me to leave a message, and the maybes come falling down. I slide the phone into my shirt pocket and notice Cash down on the field, less elegant than Wes, and louder. He beams as he steals the ball, bounces it into the air, and drives it toward a makeshift goal. But Wesley is there at the last moment, lunging into the ball’s path and plucking it out of the air with his hands. Cash laughs and shakes his head.
“What the hell was that, Ayers?” demands one of the other boys.
He shrugs. “We needed a goalie.”
“You can’t play all the parts,” calls Cash, and for some reason that makes me laugh. It’s the smallest sound—there’s no way anyone could have heard it—but at that moment, Wesley’s eyes flick up past the players to the metal bleachers. To me. He smiles, and punts the ball back into play before abandoning the pickup match and jogging over to the bleachers. A moment later, Cash ducks out, too.
“Hey, you,” says Wes, running a hand through his hair to slick it back. Muscles twine over his narrow frame—Look up, Mac, look up—and the scar on his stomach is healing fast and well. It’s now little more than a dark line.
Before I can tell him why I’m here, Cash catches up.
“Have to admit, Mackenzie,” says Cash, “you never struck me as a bleacher girl.”
I raise a brow. “What? I don’t look like a sports fan to you?”
Wes laughs. “Bleacher girls,” he says, gesturing down the metal rows to a cluster of green- and silver-striped girls, eyes trained hungrily on the pickup match and the collection of shirtless and otherwise sweaty seniors. A couple of faces have drifted over to me. Or rather, to Wes and Cash. I roll my eyes.
“No offense, boys, but I’m not here to fawn over you.”
Cash clutches a hand to the school emblem over his heart. “Hopes dashed.”
Wes brings his shoe up to the lowest bleacher and leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I came to find you,” I say; this time, Cash seems to genuinely deflate a little.
Wes, on the other hand, gives me a strangely guarded look, as if he thinks it’s a trap. “Because…?”
“Because you told me to,” I lie, adding an impatient sigh for good measure. “You said I could borrow your Inferno, since it’s a better version than mine.”
Wesley relaxes visibly. Now that we’re both back in our element—both lying—he knows what to do. And I have to hand it to him. Even without knowing what I really want or where I’m going with this, he doesn’t miss a beat.
“If by ‘better version,’” he says, “you mean it’s marked up based on past pop quizzes, tests, and final exams, then yes. And sorry, I totally forgot. It’s in my locker.”
Cash frowns and opens his mouth, but Wes cuts him off.
“It’s not cheating, Mr. Student Council. Everyone knows they change the tests each year. It’s just a very thorough study aid.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” snaps Cash. “But thank you for clarifying.”
“Apologies, Cassius,” says Wesley, digging his bag out from under the bleachers. “Continue.”
Cash toes the grass. “I was just going to point out that Wes copied off me for half that class—”
“Lies,” says Wes, aghast. “False accusations, all.”
“—so if you want any help—”
“Really, as if I wouldn’t find more creative ways to cheat,” continues Wes.
“—I’m probably your best bet.”
I smile and push to my feet. “That’s very good to know.”
Wes is still grumbling as the soccer ball gets lobbed our way and Cash plucks it out of the air. “Just here to help,” he says brightly, turning back toward the field.
“I’ll add it to your feedback card,” I call after him as he jogs away. My attention drifts back to Wes, who is standing there, shirtless and staring.
“I’m going to need you to put your shirt back on,” I say.
“Why?” he says, arching a brow. “Having trouble concentrating?”
“A little,” I admit. “But mostly you’re just sweaty.”
His smile goes mischievous.
“Ugh no, wait—” I start, but it’s too late. He’s already closing the gap between us, snaking his arms around my back and pulling me into a hug. I manage to get my hands up as he wraps himself around me, and my fingers splay across his chest, the rock band sound washing over me, pouring in wherever our skin meets. And through his chest and his noise—or maybe in it—I can feel his heart beating, the steady drum of it hitting my palms. And as it echoes through my own chest, all I can think is: Why can’t things be this simple?
I mean, nothing is ever going to be simple for us—not the way it is for other people—but couldn’t we have this? Couldn’t I have this? A boy and a girl and a normal life?
He brings his damp forehead against my dry one, and a bead of sweat runs down my temple and cheek before making its way toward my chin.
“You are so gross,” I whisper. But I don’t pull away. In fact, I have to fight the urge to slide my hands down his chest, over his bare stomach, and around his back. I want to pull our bodies closer and stretch onto my toes until my lips find his. I don’t have to read his mind to know how badly he wants to kiss me, too. I can feel it in the way he tenses beneath my touch, taste it in the small pocket of air that separates his mouth from mine.
I force myself to remember that I’m the one who said no. That I’m the thing keeping us apart. Not because I don’t feel what he feels, but because I’m afraid.
I’m afraid I’m losing my mind.
Afraid the Archive will decide I’m not worth the risk and erase me.
Afraid I will give Wesley a part of me he can’t keep.
Afraid that if we go down this road, it will ruin us.
I will ruin him.
“Wes,” I plead, and he spares me the pain of pulling away by letting go. His arms slip back to his sides and he retreats a step, taking his music with him as he crouches and digs his key out of his bag. He slips the metal back around his neck before he straightens, polo in hand.
“So,” he says, tugging the shirt over his head. “Why did you really come?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could give me a ride home.”
His brow crinkles. “I wasn’t joking, Mac. I don’t have a car.”
“No,” I say slowly, “but you have something better. Fastest way around the city, you told me, and I happen to know it leads right to my door.”
“The Narrows?” His hand drifts to the key against his sternum. “What’s wrong with Dante?”