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I don’t need to.
It’s almost like a repeat of the first time I saw him, only this time he’s in black shorts and a matching jersey. His van is here too, parked so close to the concrete he may as well be playing against it.
Earbuds in, Jace moves with ease, twisting and turning in ways so fluid it almost seems rehearsed, choreographed, and who knows? Maybe with him, it is.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never trulyknowJace Rivera. I’ll never know why he doesn’t slow down when he passes me in the mornings or why he’s never offered me a ride, even to work or back. Why he’s never asked me how I am, or how my day’s been, and come to think of it, he’s never even greeted me. Not even a hello. Not once. I’ll never understand the side glances or the full-frontal glares or why he seems so adamant on making sure I have zero presence in his life.
The worst part is that I’m drawn to people like Jace. To people like my mother. And I’m fully aware that the same people who ignore my very existence are the same people I want to notice me.
Just once.
It’s the very reason I can’t stop watching Jace, even if I wanted to. I’m drawn to him… in this stupid, visceral, inexplicable way.
I scan the area for somewhere to sit. It’s unfortunate that the basketball hoop is permanently fixed, otherwise we would have gotten rid of it. Since my mom can’t stand the sight of it, all our outdoor furniture lives on the front porch. So, I head over to his sketchy van, perch on the bumper, and watch him.
Steadfast and silent, I study him.
And I don’t know how long this goes on before I close my eyes, and instead, listen.
It feels like I’m in my old bedroom, just above the garage, and Harley’s in the driveway, practicing. Hours upon hours upon hours. I can hear the ball bouncing off the ground, the backboard, the hoop. His shoes scraping along the concrete, dragging, squeaking, landing. And I get lost in those thoughts, in those memories, and it’s those memories that create the tears, and they’re right there… but, if I release them now, I won’t be able to stop. So, I keep my eyes closed, holding tears hostage, and I breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Suddenly, the bouncing stops. The movements too. And it becomes so quiet that I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my eardrums. Slowly, carefully, I open my eyes, only to be greeted with Jace standing in front of me, the ball held to his side, looking down his nose and judging me, just like the stupid posters of him all over town.
I lock my eyes on his, refusing to look away.
Sweat coats every inch of him, dripping from his hairline down his forehead, and he just stands there. Mocking. And it’s so pathetic that I expect him to say something, because why would he?
Instead, he lifts the bottom of his jersey to wipe his face, exposing his bare torso, and even in the darkness, I can see the cause of the void in his eyes. Bruises, multiple, mar his flesh, from his rib cage down to his pelvis, and when he lowers the fabric again, he freezes, and for the first time in forever, he holds my gaze. His throat moves with his swallow, and his lips part, then slam shut again.
I want to hold him.
That’s my first thought.
I want to tell him I’ll protect him. Not physically, but in any other way I can, because I understand secrets.
I understand pain.
I’ll protect you, I almost say,the way you have with me. But what comes out instead is: “I won’t tell. I promise.”
After a beat, Jace sighs, then walks toward the driver’s side door, saying over his shoulder, “Come for a ride with me.”
9
Harlow
The “ride” Jace spoke of lasts all of two minutes. He drove from my backyard, through his backyard, and into the trees that lined the property. I’d explored the area before and discovered the creek that runs parallel, but that’s as far as I’d gotten.
I’d obviously missed the narrow road that leads to the creek because it’s so hidden from the distance and barely wide enough for his van to drive through.
Jace didn’t speak on the ride—not that I expected him to—and it wasn’t until he’d pulled into another hidden turnoff and put the van in reverse that I finally took stock of my surroundings.