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“We need to go to the bathroom.”

“We didn’t finish our assignment.”

Best friends…That’s what we were. It was all I wanted to be, forever.

I’d seen other best friends kiss each other on the cheek. Erica would kiss cheeks with her best friend, Sky. They’d even hold hands and sit on each other’s laps sometimes. That’s why I did what I did. Because I thought it was normal, and because the pull to do it was too strong to ignore.

We were at recess, playing Magic cards on the cafeteria steps, but we took a break because Anthony was upset over the other boys picking on him. Eventually, he’d stopped being as popular as he was before we became best friends. He spent all his time with me, and his other friends twisted that into something bad.

He looked so sullen, brown eyes glossy with the tears he tried not to shed. They filled me up with sympathy and longing to take that pain away, and to make Anthony see he didn’t need those other kids. Even if it was only ever the two of us, I could be enough.

So I laid my hand on top of his the moment before I pressed my mouth to his smooth, salted cheek.

“Stop!” he immediately shouted. He tore his hand from under mine and shoved me so hard my back hit the stair. “What’s wrong with you?! This is why no one likes you!”

Just like that,wewere shattered. Anthony never spoke to me again, and that afternoon, the other boys from class jumped me on my way home. They tied me to a tree with their sweaters knotted together into a rope, and they threw rocks at me until I cried and a neighbor lady scared them away with a Mary Poppins umbrella.

When I told Ma what happened, she said cheek kisses are only for girls, and I needed to stop spending all my free time around Erica. She said I needed to spend time with boys and men to see how I’m supposed to act. The very next week, she took me to my first soccer practice.

I cried myself to sleep for weeks over Anthony and the throbbing pain in my chest.

Now, it feels like history repeating itself, except that I’m sexually mature now, and half the time I’m thinking about Rowan, I’m rock hard. It doesn’t help that he seems intenton spending every single evening with me, getting me literally hot and bothered with all his workouts and patronizing name calling.

Two weeks pass like a shooting star across my eyes with Rowan’s face engraved into its core. He times my mile and berates me for being slow. He makes me do drills I did as a kid, but insists I do them “his way.” Wind sprints, more sit-ups and push-ups than I can remember, and we do so many burpees I puke up Ma’s cooking behind a lamppost.

“I’m going to have to put you on a meal plan,” Rowan says as he studies my barf like it’s an archeological wonder.

“Are you a sadist?” I ask, hands still on my knees, drooling down my chin.

It’s the first time I hear him really laugh, but by the time I lift my head enough to see his face, any smile he had is gone. He slaps my back and asks if I’m good.

“I’m good.” I stand, wipe my face, and remind myself that no matter what Rowan puts me through, I’ll always be taller than him.

“You look good.” He takes me in the way he likes to. Slowly. Stoically. He didn’t shave this morning. There’s black stubble across his jaw. I wonder if it’s long enough to scratch me if I rub my face against his. He’s shirtless again, cut and slick with sweat, little russet nipples tightened up to pebbles. “Losing weight.”

I roll my eyes, because that’s easier than letting them linger on the dusting of dark hair below his navel. When I was younger, I hated body hair. I thought it was synonymous with being dirty, and I would’ve shaved my whole body if I was skilled enough with a razor. Now, I can’t quit wondering how much hair Rowan has in places I can’t see. Is it soft? Does it smell as good as the buzzed hair on his head?

Thank God I wore tight boxer briefs, because as my mind wanders, so does my dick.

“Rowan!”

I look over my shoulder where two girls I don’t recognize are walking down the cement path. The one waving has her hair in a ponytail with a pink headband.

My head whips back to Rowan quick enough to see a slightly crooked grin stretch across his face. An imperfection that only proves how perfect he is.

“Yo!” he hollers back before starting a jog across the field.

Not knowing what to do, I follow him. He’s always telling me to follow him,like he’s my daddy. Talk about wet dream fuel. So, I walk, staying a few steps back in case he doesn’t want me in his business.

The way he hugs the girl stirs insecurity in with my infatuation. Just one arm before using the other to dap fists with the girl’s friend. But Rowan doesn’t strike me as a guy who gives away hugs willy-nilly, no matter how many arms he’s using.

“Ugh, God!” the girl with the headband laughs, shoving Rowan back a step. “You smell like man sweat!”

It’s true. He’s glistening with sweat from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, but where this girl pushes him away, all I want to do it glide my hand up his slick spine and kiss him someplace I know I shouldn’t.

Rowan laughs and calls headband-girl Thalia. They chat like they know each other, but there’s more to it too. They seem friendly. She mentions a party, and it reminds me of the photo evidence of Lese throwing herself at Rowan. He said he doesn’t want jack shit to do with Lese, but he still hooked up with her. Was it just because she’s cute? He’s into cute women with long hair and small waists? This girl, Thalia, fits that bill.

Are they dating?