My mom laughs lightly.
“I’m going to Dayton. I have to leave tomorrow, which I know . . . You don’t love staying alone. But the family hired me when their original photographer backed out and they want to capture the rehearsal dinner along with a few other things, and the amount they are paying is . . .” She trails off, holding her palms out in front of her to indicate a massive amount.
I smile and reassuringly tilt my head to the side.
“I don’t mind staying here alone. I’m really proud of you,” I say. Her eyes twitch and gloss quickly, which naturally forces my tough-as-nails mom to busy herself by running a paper towel around the counter to distract me from the emotion creeping up on her face.
“Just four days, four and a half max.” Her voice wavers, but she coughs the clue away.
“Piece of cake,” I say, stealing a glance out the window to the dark house just two driveways away.
“And I’ll still leave you the van for the game Friday,” she says. I was hoping she would forget that I asked to use it. My mom and Abby must be in cahoots to force me into some semblance of a normal senior year.
“Well, I need to get everything ready. I’m going to run out to Clicks and see if I can rent an extra light kit for the weekend.” Our eyes meet briefly and a silent thank-you passes between us.
I stare out the window while my mom gathers her things and heads out the side door to her van. I stand while she backs out so I can watch her go, and let my gaze get lost on the space she leaves behind. I’m not sure how much time passes, but it’s enough that I’m lulled into a deep trance that only the thumping beat of the Fuller’s backyard audio system can snap me from. Always with the Kanye. Lucas Fuller listens to Kanye more than Kanye listens to Kanye.
The house is dark, which means he’s probably just sitting in his back yard drinking one of his father’s beers and watching dumb fucking Tik Tok videos while I do our assignment by myself. All because of some childish caste system that we fell into in high school.
By the time I realize I’ve got a chokehold on the section of track in my palm, the plastic siding cuts into my hand. I relax my hold to assess the damage, a deep red line broken through the skin right along my life line. So appropriate.
Without pulling my focus from the glowing haze of lights in Lucas’s back yard, I yank the track into a few manageable pieces, gather the cars and worksheet, and stuff it all into the bag it came home in. I pull the Notre Dame sweatshirt I found at Goodwill over my head and down over my hips, and stuff my feet in a pair of Vans. I leave the same way my mom did, my long strides carrying me across my driveway, the strip of grass between our homes, and up the side of Lucas’s house. The music is so loud the bass vibrates in my chest, which only fuels my courage. What a fucking asshole!
With one deep breath to ensure I get the words all out in one go, I round the corner of his home and step onto the brick walkway that leads to the patio. The pool light is on, casting an aqua glow around the yard, but the lounge chairs and hammock I expect to see him in are all empty. My steps slow, a twitch of caution flicking against the side of my neck. The large window that looks out from the Fuller kitchen is just to my left, but the only light glowing inside is the small panel light that illuminates the floor near the pantry. Not that I’d be able to hear anything other than the music, but there is a stillness that eats up my surroundings; it feels as though I’m here all alone.
I hug the project bag to my chest and scan every possible nook as I inch deeper into the covered patio and up the steps to the deck. The fire pit Lucas and I used to roast marshmallows sits in the center, and it looks unused since the last time he and I made treats in the flames. The chairs around the deck are covered. The Fullers don’t have big parties like they used to. I run my finger along one of the tarps, drawing a line in the dust, then stop to lean against the railing and blow the particles away in the breeze.
That’s when I spot him, and he isn’t alone.
Lucas and Ava are lying in the center of the trampoline, barely visible if it weren’t for the pool light. My throat burns with fire from my stomach, and the fuming rage that carried me to this house has shifted into dread and panic over being caught. My hands shake and my legs have very little feeling. Despite the near stroke I might be having, I can’t look away. Her body is arched, her flannel shirt open to expose her white lacey bra that Lucas is slowly peeling away with his teeth as he holds himself over her from the side. His left hand is sunk inside her unbuttoned jeans, and Ava is writhing with his touch. He’s wearing his gray football T-shirt and black joggers that are low on his hips, and is probably seconds from losing his shirt and letting her touch him just as intimately. He moves like a predator, slow and stealthy, and where his shirt rises up, the side of a cut V that traces hard-earned abs dives lower. The scene is so erotic and private yet I’m glued to it, trembling with the threat of tears. I’m so fucking jealous, and I hate that I am because this is not my Lucas anymore. This feels like a betrayal, though I know it’s not. That should be me lying there. It was supposed to be me.
In a different life.
The music fades between songs and a deep, masculine moan cuts through the quiet. I swallow hard at the familiar voice making that sound, lock my jaw and hold my breath. I slowly back away, just as Ava’s hips rise and her hands help Lucas slide down her jeans. I turn quickly when I’m sure I’m out of view, but in my rush, I kick one of the chairs, the metal leg screeching against the wood deck so loudly it’s impossible it wasn’t heard.
“Shit,” I breathe out silently, breaking into a run that turns into a full sprint across our driveways and back to my house. I slam the side door closed behind me, lock it, and fly up the stairs two at a time until I’m in the safety of my room. I close my door behind me and toss the bag to the corner, burying myself under my comforter without bothering to turn on the lights.
A million futures play out in my mind, and none of them are easy. They all come with pain.
I hate this fucking school.
And I hate my fucking neighbor.
I hate that I loved him so much even more.
Chapter Seven
I wake up early to see my mom off and to bullshit my way through the project I never finished last night. I went the YouTube video route, changing all of the numbers by the same percentage so the results weren’t an exact copy.
All of the extra things added to my morning leave no time for a shower though, so I braid my hair into one long weave that runs from one side to the other. I have to lay down to finish because my arms are getting tired. I wrap a band around the end of my braid then let my arms flop to my sides. Staring at my ceiling, I replay what I saw last night in my head, dragging my own hand slowly up my side and over my shirt to my right breast. I look nothing like Ava, all flat in the places where she is round. I touch the soft peak of my breast and run my thumb over my own nipple until it hardens under my long-sleeved T-shirt and cotton bra. I let my hand fall away, trailing it down the length of my body, stopping just above my waistband, too embarrassed to touch myself anywhere else.
I’m a girl playing woman.
It’s tempting to call myself out sick today. My voice and my mother’s sound eerily similar, and nobody would think I was ditching. Running away isn’t supposed to be my thing now, though. Senior year—parties, freedom, courage and kissing. I laugh out once for nobody to hear.