It’s only a few minutes into the first quarter. I’m still dubiously inspecting the settings on the camera Mr. Lee let me borrow when the crowd suddenly jumps to their feet. The cries of excitement draw my eyes back on the field. I spot Emory’s jersey number—quarterback, number 17—just in time to see him jerk his elbow back, sending a spiraling throw down the field. I fumble for a moment to position the camera, hoping to catch something good, and see the receiver through the viewfinder—number 32—glancing over his shoulder as he races toward the end zone. I press the shutter frantically when the ball comes to him. He leaps in the air, catching it effortlessly against his chest and landing perfectly behind the white line.
The stands erupt into deafening celebration.
The band kicks into gear, sending the cheerleaders into a flurry of dance. I cheer along with the crowd, albeit mainly because I’m almost positive I actually got a shot of the touchdown.
I’m crushing this.
Once the ref blows his whistle, Emory rushes over to his teammate and they move into a ridiculous and obviously over-choreographed victory dance that makes me honk an involuntary laugh. They bang their helmets together and do the ritual slapping of butts in celebration.
I get a picture of that, too.
The rest of the half continues in much the same way, and I might not be big into the sportsball, but even I’m impressed. Preston is absolutely wiping the floor with the other team. Any concerns that this year’s team isn’t up to last year’s standards are sure to be crushed. I know from my brief but frenzied afternoon interviewing students about their predictions that there’s been some worry about this. I guess when you win once, everyone wants it to happen again. On more than one occasion, I’ve overheard Emory lamenting the loss of a few integral graduating seniors and thinking it would be hard to fill their shoes. Clearly, these worries
were unfounded.
When the buzzer finally blares, signaling halftime, I’m happy to put down my equipment and take a drag of the coffee I’d brought with me.
“Seriously, how many cups are you up to a day?” Sydney asks, bounding over from the cheerleaders. She’s got glitter on her face, and I swear her skirt is an inch shorter than everyone else's, but she looks cute.
“I’ve been sleeping like shit,” I admit. “Seemed like drinking a few extra cups could keep me alert for the game, although, with the way they’re playing, that hasn’t been an issue.”
We both look at the guys running into the field house. I spot Emory with his helmet off. He catches my eye and waves. I wave back.
So does Sydney. “Your brother is so hot.”
I grimace. “Shut up.”
“Facts are facts.” She shrugs. “Hey, do you think he’d go out with me now that Campbell is gone?”
The other team has a better chance of winning this game.
“You know he’s hung up on Campbell,” I say, shooting Sydney a sidelong glance. “I feel sorry for anyone he hooks up with while they’re still attached.”
“If that’s your way of warning me off of being Emory’s rebound, you’re doing a bad job of it.” Her eyes skim the rest of the guys as they trickle into the building. She nods at number 32. “Although he certainly grew up well.”
“What?” I squint, trying to figure out, “Who?”
Right at that moment, the player takes off his helmet, revealing a sweaty head of hair and a hard-edged face that makes my stomach dip.
“Reyn,” she says, “he’s freaking gorgeous.”
This is why I like Sydney. She doesn’t apologize for saying what she thinks, and she doesn’t treat me like I’m so fragile that one mention of Reynolds McAllister will shatter me.
Of course, it’s true. If the Reynolds I knew at age thirteen was cute, then this new, harder version of him is something way too intense for such a juvenile descriptor. He’s grown into his arms and legs, that sharpened face no longer bearing the blemishes or rosy cheeks of an adolescence that hadn’t even been awkward for him. I can see from here that his arms and thighs are firm and sculpted, and he moves with a graceful, easy power that some of the other guys lack.
Just as I’m watching him, his green eyes pass over us, only to skitter back, gaze locking onto mine for a tense moment as he walks leisurely toward the field house. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until he finally breaks my gaze, letting his head hang as he jogs the rest of the way.
I exhale in a rush. “I guess it’s not a surprise. He’s always been cute.”
She nods, concern flickering in her eyes when she looks at me. “So, what’s it been like? With Reyn being back and everything?”
This is another thing no one else would ask me. Sure, my mom and dad and Dr. Cordell want to know my feelings about everything, but this usually involves a long, in-depth analysis that leaves me feeling exhausted and vaguely like a specimen who’s been placed beneath a microscope. Sydney, however, just wants to know what’s happening. Talking to her never feels like a minefield.
“Once I got over the fact my parents kept it a secret from me, it’s been... okay.” I decide not to tell her about the yard—the cat and the lipstick and the obsidian. Something about it feels fragile and private, like it’s a burden for me and Reynolds to carry alone. “I mean, it’s weird seeing him on campus, but I’m pretty sure he’s, like, avoiding me?” I glance at Sydney, unsure. “So, I don’t really have to deal with him.”
The truth is that I’m trying not to let him eat up so much headspace, but it’s hard. He’s suddenly everywhere. Loping casually down the hallway at school. Hunched over his lunch in the cafeteria, his forearm curled almost protectively around his tray. Here, on the football field with Emory. Standing like a statue on his porch, visible from the window overlooking the kitchen sink. And speaking of windows—also in the bedroom that looks right into my own. It doesn’t help that his return coincides with my reduction in meds or the fact that the nightmares are back. His little glowing bedroom light is now the first thing I see when I wake up.
Okay.