Page 34 of Little Pieces of Light

Xander

I sagged against the wagon, the memory of Emery’s tears battering my heart.

Because you broke hers.

“Fuck.” I gave the hard wood a sharp jab with my elbow, but the pain wasn’t nearly enough.

“You want to talk?” Dean offered gently. “Before Tucker finds you and smashes your teeth in? Sorry. Bad joke.”

“It’d be no less than I deserve. But no, I’m good.”

“Love you, man,” Dean said, giving me a hug. “And whatever just happened with Emery, it’ll work itself out. The best things always do.”

He left, and I was alone. Distantly, the party was still going. Any second now, Tucker was going to show up with fists swinging. Because I’d held Emery in front of the whole school like she was mine. Like she was precious to me…

But no one came, so I left.

Harper and I had arrived at the festival separately; when I’d asked her to accompany me—as friends only—she’d given me a knowing look. “As friends only,” she’d repeated. “Love triangles aren’t my thing.”

I found my bike, which I’d chained to a fence far from the entrance to Bennington Farm, and jumped on.

I pedaled hard through the late fall chill that would only get colder as we headed into a snowy winter.

The cold fell away as my blood heated at the sense memory of Emery’s body pressed to mine, how she felt in my arms, how perfect and right it had been.

And how fucking radiant she looked, baring her heart to me…

Even so, I’d lied to her. I’d lied when I said what happened when we were kids wasn’t one of the most impactful moments of my life.

And then more lies of omission because I didn’t tell her that some part of me recognized her, this beautiful girl who made me feel like I belonged somewhere in the world.

There was no logic behind such a feeling. Nothing to be gained but pain, so I held back. I kept my feelings locked away because I’d written them to her in letters, but the letters were lost, and I wasn’t willing to speak them aloud a second time and tell her…

That I’m in love with her.

My bike nearly careened off the road as the thought announced itself in my mind, body, and soul like a sonic boom. I pulled over and rested one foot on the ground.

“ Fuck. ”

My heart banged against my ribs, and my breath came short as I finally admitted what I knew seven years ago.

The feelings I’d tried to kill during the years of silence came back with a vengeance the minute I’d laid eyes on Emery on the first day of school.

My mother’s abandonment had taught my mind to keep itself protected, but apparently my stupid fucking heart had never learned the lesson.

But my father’s mind was deteriorating, and I wouldn’t abandon him or his reputation.

I had to stay here and take care of them both, while Emery had to get to California.

I couldn’t start something with her only to watch her leave and then suffer through years of long distance…

of waiting for her to tell me she couldn’t do it anymore.

I got home and let my bike crash against the wall of the house. Inside, it was dark and quiet. I ran upstairs to my loft and straight to my desk. I grabbed Meditations and opened it to the page where Emery’s daffodil lay pressed. A symbol of my hypocrisy. I’d told her it meant nothing and yet…

The delicate, papery flower trembled in my grasp. My fingers were ready to crush it and throw it away. To let her go…

…and then I laid it back between the pages and shut the book. I folded my arms on the desk and buried my face in them as the jangling sound of our old piano rose up from the first floor, discordant and loud.

“Xander, my boy!” my father called above the tumult. “Come down and play with your old man. Your mother wants to hear the Schubert!”

I squeezed my eyes shut in the blackness.

“Xander? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Dad,” I called back. “I’m right here.”

***

The morning of the Narragansett Bay Regatta dawned bleak and windy. Thick, gray nimbostratus clouds hung in the sky, promising rain. As I pulled up to the Academy marina in our Buick, I saw that the waters were churning and whitecapped.

“Should make for interesting races, eh?” Orion Mercer said, falling into step beside me in the student parking lot.

“But hey, check out the crowd.” He jerked his chin to where the bleachers were full of spectators offsetting the gray sky with their colorful banners.

A huge black and gold sign read LET’S GO LIONS!

Orion chucked me on the shoulder. “Let’s give ’em a bloody good show.”

I barely heard him. The Royal Pride dance team was set to be at the regatta to support our crew, which meant Emery would be watching. Pain squeezed my chest.

Too late now, jackass. You ruined everything. Royally.

In the clubhouse, the crews put on our racing gear: black, long-sleeved unisuits with gold trim and our last names printed across the back. I expected Tucker to give me hell, but both he and Rhett were surprisingly relaxed. Almost friendly.

Coach Daniels gathered us around as he took a knee.

“The water’s going to be shit; I’m not going to lie,” he said. “Like a big pot of boiling stew that’ll freeze your nuts off.”

“This is already one helluva pep talk, Coach,” Dean said, and everyone laughed.

Despite the poor weather conditions, morale was high. Our two thousand meter had been under seven minutes the other day; even Coach was smiling.

He gave advice to our fours, pairs, and to Cassian Thorne, who rowed single, then turned to my eight-man crew. “You’ve been working hard, and I have no doubt we’re going to give New Haven Prep a different Royal Pride crew to contend with this season. What do you say?”

He put his hand in the center, and we all followed suit.

“Royal Pride on three,” Tucker bellowed. “One, two, three!”

“ Royal Pride! ”

The circle broke up to a lot of backslapping and shit-talking of our Connecticut opponents. Even Tucker gave me an encouraging nod.

Outside in the cold, the crews from the various schools around the Eastern Seaboard—some coming all the way from Massachusetts—were on the dock, stretching and pinwheeling their arms. Our nemesis, New Haven Prep, wore green and yellow.

They looked smug and confident; no doubt last season’s victories were dancing in their heads.

I found my competitive edge that only came out when rowing.

With my team, I was no longer an isolated individual, separated by my intellect or anything else.

On the water, in that shell, I belonged.

Dean slapped both hands on my shoulders. “You good, stroke seat?”

“Losing builds character,” I said. “They’ll thank us later.”

A slow smile spread over his lips. “We’re going to win. Oh, shit, we are so going to win.”

I grinned, but then my bravado slipped when I caught site of the Royal Pride dance team. The girls were huddled near the bleachers that were packed with spectators bundled against the oncoming storm. My gaze went to Emery automatically. When she was around, nothing and no one else registered.

She stood with her team in black leggings and a black sweater with a gold lion on the front.

Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her arms were crossed against the cold.

Our eyes met—an instantaneous exchange of electricity that went straight to the center of me.

Her expression tightened, as if she’d flinched, and then she looked away.

I expected nothing less. It was for the best. It was what I wanted; I’d told her that myself. But that didn’t stop my chest from feeling as if it had caved in.

I averted my eyes and fought to regain my focus.

The crews—eight in all, each with their own eights, fours, pairs, and singles—lined up in rows on the dock, our hands clasped behind our backs.

The president of the Narragansett Bay Row Association made a speech, welcoming the other teams to our waters and encouraging us all to have a clean race.

The singles, pairs, and fours were up first, right in front of the bleachers.

We watched from the dock, cheering our guys on.

Our pairs came in second, our four-man took a disappointing fifth, but our single, Cassian Thorne, pulled off a win.

Then it was our turn to race. Every eight-man crew boarded schooners that would take us to the starting line so that we’d finish the two thousand meter race in front of the bleachers.

At another smaller dock around the Bend, eight shells were tethered, and officials from the regatta association watched us closely to ensure a clean race. Teams climbed in and readied their oars. Our shell had an outside lane closest to shore, with New Haven Prep on our port side.

When I rowed bow, my oar had been to my left. As stroke seat, it was to the right. I’d thought it’d be a difficult adjustment, but I found I had more strength and control on the right. I gripped the oar with both hands, my every muscle tensed like a coiled spring ready to release.

The eight-man shells moved to the starting line in choppy water. From the dock, someone raised an air horn.

“We got this, team,” Tucker said from the five seat. “Let’s show those New Haven fucks and everyone else what we’re made of.”

Murmured assents from behind me, while directly in front of me, Dean adjusted his headset and readied his digital metronome. “Nice and easy, guys. We need that clean starting burst. Remember, high twenty right off the horn.”

He shot me a confirming glance, and I nodded. High twenty meant the first strokes would be twenty high-powered bursts to get to maximum speed and establish racing pace.

Our team grew still. Ready. On my port side, the New Haven Prep team did the same, each rower gripping his oar and waiting.

The air horn broke the silence—a match to a fuse deep inside me, flaring into action. I pulled, and the crew—lined up behind me—pulled with me. It was my job to set the pace, matching every tick of Dean’s metronome with my drive so that the sound and the movement became one.