“So, should we do this?” Sawyer’s tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, and I swear I almost cave.
There is something so sexy about that tiny action, and I nearly break and say yes. But pride, and self-preservation, act for me. When he begins to lean in, both of us holding our breath, I push my hand to his chest.
“In your dreams,” I try to joke, but it comes off cold.
I can see his green emeralds through the darkness, that’s how close they are, and the expression there is confusion. Because he doesn’t know that I know. And he was just about to test a theory, not fulfill a long-standing crush. That’s what guts me. I’m just a science experiment to him, something not fully worth pursuing but not giving up on either. Given the choice, I’d pick him every time. I’d have given anything for this to be real.
I just feel like crawling into my bed and crying into my pillowcase.
“You okay, B?” He uses the initial nickname he gave me when we were five.
There is no way I can answer that without breaking down in tears. And the only thing worse than walking out of this closet blushing would be walking out of it crying. So I push the doors open and exit.
Everyone wolf whistles and jeers
“He kisses like a frog prince … and that breath.” I wave my hand in front of my nose.
My eyes slide to Sawyer, who stands next to me, and I see the hurt flit over his face. Right before it’s replaced with anger. But I keep going, because I need to protect myself. I need to hurt him before he hurts me worse. As it is, I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover from the daggers he secretly threw my way.
“Believe me, girls, you do not want to go there. The saliva I was choking on.” I cackle evilly, and inside another piece of my heart breaks.
“What the fuck?” Sawyer looks at me, his eyebrows slashed together in angry dashes.
“Oh shit, well, I thought it would be more impressive than that.” Hailey gives Sawyer a once-over.
My best friend turns to me, fury and hurt colliding as his gaze burns me.
By the time sophomore year started two weeks later, our relationship was gone.
All love lost.
Nothing but animosity, revenge, and bitterness.
That was how Sawyer Roarke became my ex-best friend. And made my life a living hell as my sworn enemy.
1
Sawyer
It feels like I’ve been waiting forever to pull into this parking spot, one of the prime locations in the senior lot at the high school.
My chest swells as I swing my red Jeep Wrangler in between the lines, the doors and roof completely off in the warmth of early September. The stereo is cranked up, my phone blaring Linkin Park through the Bluetooth. Heads swing my way, and my ego is satisfied.
First day of senior year. A day I’ve been looking forward to for a number of reasons, but mostly because this year we’re alpha dogs. No more answering to whiny-ass older guys or girls who think they’re too good for me. Being captain of the soccer team. Slacking off enough in class so long as it secures our college acceptances. And of course, partying our faces off on the weekends before we leave this town for the next four years.
We feel golden, right now, on this precipice of the next chapter. But I can’t wait to enjoy the spoils in the coming months.
“Truck’s looking perfect, dude.” Glavin, my best friend and goalie on our soccer team, gives me a fist bump as I hold on to the roll bar and climb out of the driver’s seat.
A few girls and guys in our grade follow him over, and we all congregate around our cars before we’re forced to walk inside for homeroom.
The scene looks like that of any suburban, upper class high school. With the parking lot full of mostly new or gently used cars gifted for seventeenth birthdays. The school building, a pretty glass and steel structure, is only about four years old. It houses state-of-the-art science labs, athletic facilities, and even a swimming pool that got approved two budget votes ago. And all the students filtered out into groups containing the beautiful people, the band nerds, the art kids, the burnouts, and everyone in between.
“Thanks, man. Where is my breakfast?” I rub my stomach, lifting my shirt a little to show my abs.
Nearby, I see two of the girls who joined our group staring, and I wink at them. Not only am I out to win a state championship on the soccer field this year, but I plan on living my best life ever. I’m college bound this time next year, and I’m going to enjoy the spoils of this town even if it chews me up and spits me out.
They giggle and flutter their eyelashes at me.
Glavin pulls out something wrapped in tinfoil, and my mouth waters. He lives closer to Genardi’s, the town’s best deli, and since his stomach is the size of Mount Everest, I know he has two Taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches in the brown paper bag for himself. I unwrap the tinfoil, and see my own bacon, egg, and cheese bagel.
“Clutch, dude, you’re the best.” I high five him.
“What do you have first period?” Hailey, one of the girls hanging around, curls into my side.
I don’t move into her, but I don’t move away. She’s a fun option for some weekend party or other. “History.”
“The smart kids’ kind. I don’t even know why you’re taking real classes this year,” Glavin adds.
“Woah, you’re in AP classes?” she asks, referring to the advanced placement courses some of the more intelligent kids are enrolled in.
I shrug, biting into my bagel. “Yeah. It’s not a big deal.”
In my circle of friends, though, it kind of is. I’m a part of the popular crowd, made up of mostly male and female jocks. It’s uncommon for kids in this crowd to actually thrive in school, because most of them are killing it out on the field. But my dream was never to go pro, like a lot of my other friends. No, I want to work for my dad at his architecture firm. That means advanced classes and a really hefty college course load. Becoming an architect is no joke, and I know I’ll have to work hard for it. Which is why I’m not taking my foot off the gas during senior year.
“You know what they say about guys with big brains, though …” Hailey gives me what is supposed to be a sultry side-eye.
“Who the hell is that?”
Glavin hits me in the shoulder. I turn my head to look in the direction that he’s staring, and my gaze runs straight into a perfect, perky ass.
It’s facing out to the parking lot, the upper half of whoever’s body that is bent into their car, a silver, newish-looking Camry. And Jesus Christ, is it spectacular. Round, encased in frayed denim jean shorts, and I can make out the tiny waist it leads up to. What I wouldn’t—and most of the guys turned around staring at it—do to follow that around for a while.
Matthew, our other best friend and quarterback of the football team, whistles low in his throat. “Dibs.”
“You can’t call dibs. We haven’t seen her face yet.” I growl, annoyed.
But if those legs, toned and tan, have anything to do with it, I don’t even need to see her face.
The girl straightens, and a head full of long brown curls blows in the morning summer breeze. She waves to someone, a bunch of gold bracelets jingling on a slim wrist.
And then she turns.