“I’m already regretting this,” I groan, walking away from her with my drink. Her laugh echoes as I escape to the back and absorb the coach’s words in silence.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone has thought the worst of me, but I was determined to make it the last.
Porter is throwing another tantrum over not being able to have friends over for his birthday. Based on the way Mom rubs her temples, she’s seconds away from losing it. She’s been getting headaches a lot lately, and I try doing whatever I can to make her stress less, but it usually never works.
I’m supposed to go get ice cream with Aiden, so I do something I usually don’t. “Want to come along with me and Aiden to Cones?”
My little brother’s eyes widen and quickly shoot to Mom to ask in silent permission. Her head picks up to examine us, me longer than Porter, before pressing her lips together and nodding once.
She says, “Fine, but watch your brother carefully. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“I won’t.”
Hesitation creeps into her eyes before she walks over to her purse and digs through it. Her shoulders tighten and then drop. “I only have $3 on me right now.”
Porter starts to whine, but I don’t let him get far. “I have money. I’ll pay for both of us.” I won’t tell her that Aiden will probably get money from his mom that he’ll most likely pay with. Mom doesn’t like it when Mrs. Griffith gives me things. She said we don’t take free handouts, that we work for things in this household.
When Mom turns around, there’s sadness in her eyes I don’t understand. But I also don’t feel like analyzing the dull gaze, so I tug on Porter’s hand and tell him to put his shoes on so we can leave.
When it’s just me and Mom, she murmurs, “Thank you for doing that. I know you don’t like sharing time with your friend.”
She’s right, I don’t. I like that Aiden is all mine, but sometimes we have to sacrifice things for the greater good. If Mom isn’t stressed, she’ll be happier. And when she’s happier, she and Dad won’t fight. Well, not as much at least.
It’s a win for everyone, especially me.
Aiden doesn’t seem fazed to see Porter trailing close behind me as we walk down our driveway where he’s waiting. He’s in a pair of cargo shorts and a loose t-shirt I’ve seen him wear tons of times. It has some famous football team across the front, but the words are faded from all the wash and wear.
“Hey, dude,” he greets my brother, offering him a hand which Porter smacks eagerly. Whenever I tell him I’m going to hang out with Aiden, he gets angry with me when I say he can’t go.
They chit chat as we walk down the street, talking about school and sports and other things that I slowly tune out. One of the neighbors waves at us, which we all return.
When Cones comes into view I take Porter’s hand, but he fights me. “You know I have to hold your hand when we cross the street. There’s a lot of traffic here.”
“No!” he smacks my hand away as we stop at the edge of the sidewalk. “I’m not a baby, Ivy! Just don’t tell Mom.”
“Porte—”
“NO!” he yells louder, making me cringe when I see people across the street turn to see what the commotion is.
My face blasts with heat as I exchange a panicked look with Aiden. He turns to Porter and kneels in front of him. “You don’t want your mom to be upset if you get hurt crossing the street do you?” he asks my annoying little brother. The brat twists his face and crosses his arms in defiance, clearly not caring.
Aiden tries again. “Do you want Ivy to get into trouble if something happens? I’m sure she promised your mom to take care of you.”
There’s contemplation on Porter’s face. A moment where his eyes peek up at me through his lashes before he returns his focus on our neighbor. Slowly, his head shakes.
My friend nods once. “Okay, then. Hold her hand only until you get to the other sidewalk and then I’ll get us all ice cream. Mom gave me extra money anyway when I told her what we were doing.”
It’s not, but I don’t tell him that.
Hopefully, Porter doesn’t tell Mom.
Three ice cream cones later, and a bowl for Porter because it’s hot out and he’s a slow eater, and we’re taking up one of the last picnic tables. Porter is swinging his legs back and forth on the bench on the other side of Aiden, seemingly content.
“You’re quiet,” Aiden says to me, nudging my shoulder with his. “Are you okay?”
My eyes go to Porter for a moment, my best friend understanding my lack of conversation. I think I see his jaw tick before he goes back to his vanilla ice cream. I’ve tried getting him to try new flavors, but he always hates the ones I offer him and says, “There are certain things that shouldn’t be made.”
Clearing my throat and lowering my voice, I lean in and say, “I think my parents are going to get a divorce.”
His eyes roam over me. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound it though. “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
My heart drops into my stomach when I consider he may be right. “Maybe,” I murmur, eyes peeking at my little brother again. He’s happy people watching. His face lights up when he sees a dog on a leash walk toward Cones with a family.
“You like dogs?” Aiden asks him.
Porter quickly nods. “I want one but Mom and Dad say—”
“They’re a lot of work,” Aiden finishes for him, shooting me a knowing look having heard it before. “Do you know I have a dog?”
Porter suddenly acts shy, humming out a confirmation of his knowledge over Cap. He’s asked me about him before, wondering if he could take him on walks. I told him no because Cap would pull him too much since he’s so big.
“Maybe you can play with him,” is what my friend says, like Mrs. Griffith told me.
I find myself staring in awe, unsurprised by his kindness but still taken aback all the same. I’m lucky to have him, I tell myself that every single day. He’s the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person that crosses my mind when I go to sleep.
Mostly because he’s close by.
It’s not my parents.
It’s not Porter.
It’s Aiden Griffith.
I hope that never changes.
Chapter Thirteen
Aiden
“We’re tied at the third, but if Griffith keeps playing like he has tonight, the Dragons will take home yet another win,” the sportscaster says as I grab water from the sidelines.
Coach Pearce walks over and slaps my back in praise. “Way to turn it around, son.”
I’m nodding absently while looking at the packed crowd waving red and white school memorabilia at us. The person I want to see is probably serving coffee and pastries across town instead of front and center where I want her to be.
I left out an old jersey on the bed for her to wear today, but when I passed her on campus she was in a pair of black jeans that clung to her long legs and a shirt that should be fucking illegal on her figure. She looked untouchable—her outfit screaming “fuck you” as a direct response to me.