Bad Son (Wild Men 3.50)

He shoves his hands into his pant pockets, shoots me a smirk.

Says nothing.

And that feels natural, too. That’s how he is. Letting the silence settle between us. Waiting for me to break it.

“So...” I tug my ponytail over my shoulder and chew on the end. “Life okay with the Lowes?”

His brows go up. He shrugs. Kicks at a pebble.

Right.

“How is having Sebastian as a brother?”

He glares briefly at the street ahead, then huffs.

Okay...

My mind keeps returning to his hand gripping my arm, so warm and strong, to his words. He was trying to keep me there, convince me to stay.

He wants me here, with him.

I have to remember that, when he’s quiet.

And then he says, “They’re okay. Too good for the likes of me.”

He speaks! But then his words sink in. “You can’t seriously think that. You’re great, Jarett—”

He shakes his head so vehemently I fall silent again.

This conversation thing isn’t working out today. So I fall back on my habit of talking about everything and nothing—about school, and Mom, and Sydney who has so many boys following her around and I don’t get it, like how can you be just friends if you’re a boy and a girl?

“Sydney always said that it’s something that almost never happens, you know?” I mutter, mostly to myself. “A girl and a boy, just friends. Almost never,” I repeat, thoughtful. “No idea why.”

I realize he’s stopped walking and I turn to face him.

He has a light flush on his cheekbones, an intensity in his green eyes, and a flicker of fear lights them up right before he turns around and starts walking back.

“Hey.” I take two steps after him but he doesn’t turn around. “Jarett!”

He doesn’t even slow down this time. He keeps going until he vanishes between the trees, leaving me to stare after him, hurt and confused.

What was that about, huh?

Boys.

And this particular boy is the most confusing of all.

Chapter Five

Jarett

“Jarett!” Mrs. Lowe’s voice calls through the house. “Jarett, come down here now!”

No fucking way. Sitting on the ledge of my attic room window, legs hanging out, I draw on my cigarette and contemplate the street.

Empty.

A metaphor for my life, or some shit like that, I’m sure. Mrs. James keeps harping about metaphors in English class. As if I care. As if it matters.