Page 24

Harlow
“Okay, we’ve been patient,” Sammy says.
“So patient,” Jeannie agrees.
They’re both sitting opposite me in class, where we all should be working, but no one in the room can seem to focus. Earlier, a bunch of cops barged into the room and arrested a kid, and now it’s all everyone can talk about.
Everyone but Sammy, apparently, because she leans forward, her words just above a whisper when she says, “What’s up with you and Jace?”
With a sigh, I lean back in my chair, my brow bunched. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says, looking around the room. I really couldn’t care less who overhears us, but she clearly does. “You two seemed pretty close the other day.”
“We’re not close.”
“You were practically touching. I saw it with my own eyes.”
I shrug and repeat, “We’re not close.”
She doesn’t seem to hear me or care what I have to say, because she keeps going. “And you can’t stop looking at him, and he?—”
“Completely ignores me?”
Jeannie gasps, shaking her head.
“He can’t stop looking at you either, Harlow,” Sammy says. “When you’re not looking, it’s all he does.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true,” Jeannie whispers. “He’s doing it right now.”
“Staring at the back of my head?” I ask incredulously, and Jeannie nods in response. Every inch of my body wants to turn to his corner of the room, but I force myself to stay put.
“So what happened?” Sammy asks.
I shrug. “We kissed.” Sure, I could add more, elaborate some, but what would be the point?
We kissed.
He regretted it.
The end.
It’s been about a week since I told him to go fuck himself, and during that time, I’ve found myself torn—alternating between multiple mindsets.
I could either continue to be pissed at a boy who owes meliterallynothing, purely because he didn’t meet the expectations only I had set for him.
Or I could be grateful that he was there at all. That he helped me make sense of a tragedy, and that doing so meant shining a light on my darkness.
Or—and this is where I currently am—I can accept the situation for exactly what it is. Two people connecting, if only for one short, fleeting moment. It doesn’t need to be anything more than that, and I don’t have to lie to myself to make it anything less.
The problem is that I can’t escape the guy—both physically and mentally. Of the seven days that make up a week, I have to be in the presence of him for six of those days.
Five days at school. Three shifts at work, one of them on a weekend.And, that one day I get away from him, he ends up playing ball in my backyard.
I should tell him to stop. I know this. And yet, there’s something so comforting about having him there, having the familiar sounds of that rubber hitting concrete lull me to sleep.
“Did you kiss during one of your shifts?” Sammy asks, and I shake my head.