Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

Unable to watch the torrent of emotions on her face, I look toward the back door, knowing that a boy who’s soon to lose his father is only forty yards away. I saw him walk into the barn while I was doing dishes, hence my hyper-focus on the cleaning rather than letting my gaze wander outside.

“He needs you now more than ever,” Nan whispers.

God, how I wish that were true. Even if there were no romantic expectations, even if we hadn’t ever kissed, I wish we were friends because I know he doesn’t want me to console him. He doesn’t want a shoulder to cry on. Being close to losing his dad will only make him meaner. It will make him lash out more, blame me for everything wrong in his world, and the worst part is, I understand. I’m not close to my parents, but I would be miserable knowing one of them wasn’t long for this world.

I don’t know about his relationship with his dad, but I pray he doesn’t have years of regret that have piled up like I have with my own.

“Take him something to drink, dear.” Nan pats my hand before standing and disappearing into her bedroom.

I feel guilty for my hesitation. I want to obey her. Hell, I want to be what he needs, but I know I’m not. As much as I’d like to imagine things would be different in the face of what he’s going through, I know better, and it’s that knowledge that slows me down when I get a glass from the cupboard.

It’s never taken me ten minutes to pour a glass of lemonade, but that’s how long it takes today. I don’t even feel the cool of the glass in my hands as I walk toward the barn, and the mumbled curses and slamming sounds make me want to turn back around and leave him to it. Invading his space right now seems like the least favorable thing.

This boy is going to lose his father soon, and no matter what he’s done to me in the past, I can’t let that cloud this moment. I can be the outlet for his anger if that’s what he needs. I just hope I’m strong enough to survive whatever he plans to dish out.

I jump when something crashes against the wall in the back room of the barn, sloshing some of the lemonade on to my hand. I don’t think he’d physically hurt me, but his hateful words have the power to do just as much damage. I steel my spine, mustering all of my courage as I wait for him to leave the back room. I’m only allowed a few moments to calm my frazzled nerves before he shows his handsome face.

“Now isn’t the time,” he mutters when he notices me standing at the rear entrance to the barn. He carries a broken wooden chair, tossing it toward the bed of his truck before turning back around.

“I thought you might be thirsty.” I hold out the glass of cold lemonade to him, expecting him to either rebuff me entirely or knock the glass from my hand.

After staring at me for a long moment, he walks toward me. I tense, anticipating some scathing remark or another outburst of irritation, but surprisingly, he takes the glass from my hand.

I don’t know if he’s working through a new insult for me or what, but his fingers linger on mine before he pulls the glass from my hand. I swallow down the lump in my throat, not knowing what to say to him.

I know he wouldn’t appreciate my telling him how sorry I am for what he’s going through, so I keep my lips clamped shut, watching his face while waiting for him to turn on me.

“Thank you,” he whispers just before bringing the cup to his lips.

Like the fool I’ve become, I watch his throat work as he drinks, mesmerized by the sleek line of his neck and the dark stubble dotting his chin.

He must shave every day because this is the first time I’ve noticed the hair growth. It makes him less of a boy and more of a man, but the shape of his body wrapped in layers of muscle have never left me confused of that fact.

He drains the glass, licking his tongue at the ice as if he’s still thirsty and needing more. My throat dries, making me wish I’d brought two glasses of the refreshing liquid out here, one for him to drink and one to pour over my head to cool myself down.

“Want me to get you more?” I ask as I hold my hand out to take the empty glass.

“No.” When he hands me the glass, he makes sure not to touch my fingers this time.

And even though he doesn’t sneer at me or throw an insult my way, I still can’t help but feel chastised when he turns around and walks away.