American Honey

I’m up to eight mph on the treadmill.

It’s been nearly two months, and my body has bounced back with a vengeance. I’m lifting close to what I was before the aneurysm and running almost as far and as long. I feel good. I feel energized, but I’m not out of the woods yet. And that’s frustrating as hell.

“Nice job, Kam.” Dylan brings my speed down to a brisk walk. I’m panting and sweaty.

“Thanks. That felt great,” I huff. Dylan laughs his cool, nothing in the world bothers me, laugh.

“I wish more of my cases said that after a thirty-minute run.”

“I’m not most cases.”

“No, you’re definitely not. I’ll be bragging about you for the rest of my life.”

I roll my eyes. “Only brag if I end up someone to brag about.”

Dylan frowns. “Still having trouble with the coordination?”

I punch the off button and the treadmill dies. “Yes. I can write and eat now, but I still can’t regain my accuracy. I picked up a football the other day and tossed it at the tire swing a few times. I could barely hit it, let alone get it through the hole.”

“It will come,” Dylan assures me. Glad he is so confident because I’m freaking out. Spending the last two months with Dylan nearly every day has built our relationship significantly. His laidback attitude annoyed me at first, but now I know it’s just what I needed. When I was battling through reps I used to be able to do in my sleep and on the verge of a meltdown, Dylan kept me calm. He encouraged me, talked to me, and I soon understood the method to his madness. Although, he would argue it isn’t madness, and that I’m the only crazy one in the room. Being on the verge of losing all your hopes and dreams can do that to a person.

“Yeah, well it better come soon. The head coach from Alabama checks in on me once a week. And the fact that all I can tell him is ‘I’m working hard, sir’ isn’t really sitting well. I’m afraid I’m going to lose my spot—my chance.”

“You’re not going to lose anyth

ing. Sometimes recovery is as much mental as it is physical. You’re in limbo right now. It will all come together, trust me. It’s just going to take a little time.”

“A little time is all I have.”

“You know what you need?”

“No, do tell,” I respond cynically.

“To have a little fun.”

“Fun? I forgot what fun is.”

“Exactly. You need to be reminded. Go out and do something new. Something you’ve never done before.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. An image of Laney naked in my bed springs to mind. That would definitely be fun. But I know that’s not what he means. There’s not much to do in this small Alabama town besides off-roading, swimming in the lake, or hanging out at Sonic on a Saturday night.

“I’ll work on it,” I tell him, an image of Laney completely bare still dominating my thoughts.

He smiles aloofly at me as I step off the treadmill. “Good.”

I really want to ask him how much pot he smokes.

I wipe the sweat off my brow, clasp hands with Dylan and confirm my appointment for Monday. One more week and I’ll be back at school. I can’t wait and am apprehensive all at the same time. It’s a really sucky place to be.

Once home, I wait for Laney like the puppy I have become, always anxious for her arrival. Spending the last two months with her has been the only thing making this recovery bearable. It’s unbelievable how she can distract me from everything going on in my life. How she can make me forget I’m supposed to be Superman and just be satisfied being Clark Kent. No one has ever affected me like that before. And the more time we spend together, the more I want to tell her how she makes me feel. But every time I get the courage, she reminds me of our place. Strictly platonic. It doesn’t matter that she laughs at my jokes or her eyes blaze whenever I touch her. She keeps a safe distance between us. She doesn’t trust me, no matter how many hints I drop. And not just hints I want her physically. I want the total package—I want Laney to be my girlfriend. I didn’t think I was ever going to want that again, not after Cheyenne and her manipulative, self-centered ways. But Laney is nothing like her. It doesn’t matter to her that I’m some hometown celebrity put on a pedestal because I’m a football god. Or that I’m the Crimson Tide’s starting quarterback next year. She’s told me repeatedly football is just a game to her. She doesn’t understand the hype, and that is sort of refreshing. Although, sometimes I want to shake her so she understands just what a big deal it is around here, what a big deal it is to me. She can drive me crazy like no other, and for some reason I love it.

I tried to kiss her last week. I couldn’t even control myself, but she retreated so fast, the room teetered. Being around her is becoming harder and harder. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know how to break down the door. I’m close to saying fuck it, tying her up, and shouting in her face with a megaphone: I like you! I want to be with you! I’m not going to hurt you! You’re not like the others!

I would actually do it too, if I thought it would work.

I hear the doorbell. She’s finally here and she’s late. What’s that about? Then I remember that volleyball tryouts were this afternoon. Who knew my little, surly city girl was an athlete at heart? Makes me love her even more.

Laney comes bouncing into my room, her book bag slung over one shoulder and a pizza box in her hands.