“That’s good.” He takes a few steps closer, stopping just short of the place where his driveway blends into the shared grass between our yards. My gaze flits down to his feet, his socks rolled down to expose the difference between the clean skin on his legs and the dirty. He’s wearing the same Nike slides he’s had since junior high.
“Your feet never grew after that big burst, huh?” I nod toward his shoes and he lifts his right toes. This natural conversation feels so strange but so nice. I’m a little sad Tory is here to witness it, because his presence keeps things from getting too deep.
“Yeah, well, it took me a few years to grow into my size thirteens.” His laugh is raspy. It’s real. I trace his body up to his face, catching a glimpse of his mouth before he raises his head to look at me. He’s biting his lip like a child, amused by his own giant feet. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a softness there that’s been so fleeting. It’s the same face he wore in the truck on the way to the hospital and when he sat next to me in the ER.
Such sweetness ruined in a blink by the sound of his father’s truck pulling in the driveway behind him. Lucas looks down and to the side, his muscles automatically growing harder and his attention shifting. He takes a few steps back as his dad stops just short of pulling into the garage.
“Lucas?” He slams the door closed behind him and takes a few long strides in our direction. I swear Lucas swallows hard.
“I was just talking with Tory,” he says, leaving me out of the picture. Tory’s elbow moves into my side in acknowledgement and I swallow down the hurt feelings.
“Mind telling me why Coach called me tonight?” His dad couldn’t care less that Tory and I are feet away from them.
“Well, I wasn’t on that call, you were, so . . .” There’s an edge to Lucas’s voice.
Sucking in my lips, I make myself quietly invisible as I look to my left and meet Tory’s heavy stare. He shakes his head slightly, a hardness to his jaw and sadness in his eyes. This is something we aren’t supposed to see, a moment Lucas would rather keep from my view.
“Tory, do you know why my son skipped out on an hour of practice today?”
Tory’s eyes don’t immediately shift from mine, and I keep my head turned to face him, not wanting to be questioned next or see the look on Mr. Fuller’s face that matches his tone. Tory blinks his gaze up a notch and casually shrugs his shoulder.
The quiet brews thicker, so much so that there’s almost a smell to it—a choking thickness with the scent of iron.
“Thanks, Tor. You’re a real fuckin’ help,” Mr. Fuller says.
Tory’s eyes dim and a heavy grimace glues his lips shut.
“Let’s just go inside,” Lucas says, his shoes rubbing along the pavement with belabored steps that scratch and pull, as though he’s trying to drag every ounce of this topic and conversation somewhere private along with him.
“This a joke to you, Luc?” The sound of his steps halts with his dad’s accusation.
I shouldn’t get involved.
“Maybe Mrs. D’Angelo knows.” The words come out without a plan or a filter. My voice is loud, and my eyes scan the stars above my head in an effort to seem indifferent. Tory snorts a laugh at my side, because he thinks I’m saying random snarky shit to help Lucas out. There’s nothing random about the words I chose.
With a deep inhale, I sit up and slide from the back of my car, my stare finding the one I knew would be waiting for me. Todd Fuller has always had a heavy brow. It’s a little gray, a peppering that matches his short, well-trimmed beard. He wears a suit well—the look of a boss with expensive ties, his gold watch exposed when he raises his arm. His glare is purposeful, meant to intimidate me, but it also hides some major fucking fear. I shot close to home, and he knows there’s no coincidence in anything I said.
A menacing grin flashes across his face, wicked like his eyes, and then he resumes his act, shaking his head and waving his hand at me, dismissing my words as garbage.
“Get inside,” he finally huffs, marching past his only child, his golden boy who I’m starting to think only ever played football to make his old man happy. Pity they’re both so miserable.
Lucas stays put until his dad climbs back into his truck and hits the button to raise the garage door. His mom’s car is already parked inside, and I can’t help but believe Mr. Fuller is taking this inside because he doesn’t want her overhearing.
“I gotta go, Mabee.” Tory squeezes my shoulder from behind, then leans to grab one more slice of pizza as he heads back to his car. “Call if you need me, Luc.” He holds up a peace sign and Lucas does the same. His gaze follows his friend’s path until he pulls away in his car, then it flits back to me, a deep crease cut between his brows.
A few wordless seconds pass, and my need to fill silence gets the best of me.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out. I feel a heavy coat of shame, and I don’t know whether it’s my empathy for Lucas or for what I know but don’t fully disclose.
“Don’t be,” he says, no bite or warning in his tone. His mouth forms a tight line, a forced smile meant to cover serious hurt and pain. He glances to the side of me and nods. “Glad you got your car back.”
I nod, keeping the details of the blown engine and my lack of transportation to myself for now. This isn’t the time for favors, and my ride is covered. Plus, I can tell Lucas wants to get whatever is waiting for him in the garage over with; I’d rather not have to look him in the eye.
This is a good place to leave things.
Chapter Thirteen
It was an impulsive decision. Almost as knee-jerk as when I blurted out Mrs. D’Angelo’s name in front of Lucas’s dad. Whatever it was that made me go through with it, when I walked into school on Tuesday morning after Abby drove me in, I went straight to the office and begged my counselor to put me in an independent study for my physics credit. As much as I want to have forced interactions with Lucas every day, I haven’t wanted them for the right reasons. Starting every morning like that, so negative and contentious, won’t get either of us anywhere healthy. I might not see much of him anymore, but I’d rather have rare, meaningful interactions that he chooses to be present for than ones where we show up for attendance.
I easily got my mom to buy off on the plan. I’m good at physics, and I did most of the work my junior year in other ways. I just need the official credit. I took advantage of my mom being busy and distracted, trying to get out of the house with arms full of gear and her phone on speaker while she spoke with her broker about the studio space she’s renting in Old Town.
I miss our angsty morning battles—little pushes and shoves and biting comments—but the void is the kind a druggie has when going through withdrawal. Maybe that’s why I agreed to the game tonight—a little taste of Lucas from a safe distance.
Controlled abuse.
As the fourth quarter ticks down, I don’t feel any giddiness at all over the sight of him. We’re down by two touchdowns. I’m not much of an optimist, but the small fraction of me that is knows that even the great Lucas Fuller can’t close that gap against Pinewood Crest in less than two minutes. Their defense is rabid, borderline on sportsmanship, and twice the size of our offensive line. Lucas has been sacked three times this half, two the first half. His dad left at the end of the third, forcing his mom to leave her spot in the away stands so he could drive them home. He didn’t even stand during the game like he normally does. He was disappointed, and he wanted to make sure anyone looking knew he was not proud of his son’s performance.