Kit’s voice stalls me from leaving. I turn to find him standing too close to my nearly six-foot frame. He stares up at me, unfazed by my standoffish personality. Eyes as green as an apple Jolly Rancher with dark splinters of deep blue.
“Jasper.”
“Casper?”
I clench my jaw, unsure if he’s messing with me or not. As soon as his strawberry-colored full lips twitch, I let out a groan. His lips continue their amused journey to split apart, curling into a pleased grin. A dent of a dimple forms at the same time a loud laugh barks out of him.
“Gotcha, quark.” He holds up his schedule. “Help me find my next class?”
I want to tell him no. To remind myself I only promised lunch. Instead, I find myself nodding. It’s what Julian would do, right?
Another quick glance tells me he has every single class with me.
Every. Single. One.
What’s happening?
I shoot Mr. Halston a confused look. He’s a physics teacher. Maybe this is some rule of law we haven’t learned about that pushes this colorful force into my dark void, infiltrating every corner.
Mr. Halston watches us with an intensity I can’t quite interpret. Hope. I see hope in his eyes. A hope I don’t understand. I’ve been hopeless for so long that it’s staring me in the face and it’s as foreign as an alien being.
So much hope. And gratitude.
At first I think he’s smiling at me in a grateful way because he knows I’m taking in this goofball and literally showing him the way.
His smile isn’t for me.
It’s for Kit Strong.
Like he’s the one saving me.
“Enjoy your day, boys,” Mr. Halston says, waving at us.
Kit waves back while I frown.
I start walking toward the door, imagining Kit is walking behind me. But the moment I step out of the classroom, he’s right there next to me. Head held high. Grin affixed and aimed at everyone.
Happy.
He’s so happy.
Julian was happy.
I clung to that sunny disposition like a lifesaving raft. My brother was my everything. Normally, I would dive down into the grief of my loss, but not now. Not when people are pointing and laughing. Not when they tease.
“Homos,” Eric coughs out, shooting a hateful glare our way.
Eric adored my brother. Might have even worshiped him at one time. They were teammates and good friends. Behind the smiles and jokes, I see a familiar pain. One that is an echo of my own.
“You’re Eric Davidson,” Kit says, stopping right in front of Eric.
Too close.
Too close, Kit.
This bright boy doesn’t understand personal space. He’s invasive. An infection. I want to grab him by his colorful backpack and pull him back a few feet so he’s out of our school’s wide receiver’s punching distance.
Kit’s smile is too pretty to destroy.
“And you’re the new nerd.” Eric twitches, clearly uncomfortable under Kit’s close scrutiny. “Welcome to Mountain Grand High.”
“Thanks,” Kit says. “Are you really going to Notre Dame?”
Eric’s brows furl. “Yeah, what’s it to you, stalker?”
Kit laughs. “You call it stalking, I call it learning. Nerd, remember?”
Eric shifts on his feet, shooting an uneasy glance my way as though I can make sense of the new kid.
“Your mom works at Mountain Grand Memorial.” Kit cocks his head, his dark curls bouncing. “Right?”
“Are you threatening me?” Eric asks, his voice shaking with a mixture of anger and confusion.
“No.” Kit cackles. “It means your mom will work with mine.”
“She a nurse?” Eric asks.
“Pediatric surgeon. Five bucks says my mom will befriend your mom. She befriends everyone. Dinners at the Strongs are unforgettable. Do you have siblings? My brothers and sisters don’t know anyone yet since we just moved here.”
As Kit continues to babble, several kids crowd around us. Eric has lost some of his animosity, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“We’re going to be late,” I warn, my voice barely a whisper.
Kit pulls a business card—a fucking business card—out of his pocket and hands it to Eric. “Text me.”
Eric frowns as he accepts the card.
Kit finally looks at me, waiting for me to lead the way. I let out a sigh and then keep walking. Kit takes long steps, keeping up with me. We reach our English class with less than a minute to spare.
I stalk to the back of the classroom and plant my ass down in the last seat, hoping it’ll keep from Kit breathing on me the whole hour. Predictably, he bounces my way, his dark hair zinging with each step. He plops down, turns in his seat, and grins at me.
Too close, Kit.
Too close.
“Can you take me home from school? Mom is still being weird and won’t let me drive. Dad says she’s babying me. Again.” He rolls his eyes playfully and speaks as though I even know what the hell he’s talking about. “Unless you have a motorcycle. Mom will flip if I ride on a motorcycle.”
I blink at him, unable to form words.
“I, uh, I have a car.”
“Cool.”
He turns back around, leaving me stunned. This kid is a force of nature. He’s intense and in your face. It’s distracting.
I had plans.
His smile and voice and apple Jolly Rancher eyes messed it all up.
There’s still tomorrow.
I just have to get through today.
Jasper
I make it through all of second hour and part of third, wholly distracted by the new boy. It’s like my eyes find reasons to land on him. I note that, contrary to my initial observation of him, he’s not exactly small. Shorter than me, yes. But, sitting behind him in two classes now, I note he has curves to his shoulders, his back, and arms. Just enough to indicate he takes care of his body, but not enough to make him beefy like Eric. I should focus on my Native American history teacher as she explains one of the tribes in Eastern America, but I can’t.
All I see is him.
Kit Strong.
Kit checks his watch several times in a row, then glances up at the clock. With a slight sigh only I hear, he leans over to unzip his bag. He pulls out a banana and begins unpeeling it. I glance up at Mrs. Rowe to see if she’ll get onto him for eating in her class, but she’s busy writing on the board.
He inhales the banana quickly and with purpose before setting the peel on the corner of his desk to continue taking notes. I watch the clock, counting down the minutes to lunch. Exactly fifteen minutes pass and Kit checks his watch again. Another sigh. Back into his bag he goes, rifling through it until he pulls out a juice box like a little kid. He’s not quiet—his movements jerky and almost angry—as he tries to unpeel the wrapping from the straw. Something in the shakiness of his hand has me reaching past him to grab the straw. I tear the edge open and hand it back. He rips it away, shoves it into the box, and then sucks it down. His gulping is loud, earning a couple of annoyed glances. When he reaches the end, he slurps at it loudly.
“Lunch is in twenty minutes,” Mrs. Rowe states, her irritated glare burning into him.
“I know.” His tone is grumpy and annoyed.
“You need to keep the snacking to outside my classroom—”