Except I’m starting to think that the idea of “belonging” anywhere is false. We go through our whole lives thinking that we belong in one place and not in another. We think certain ideas and actions have to be relegated to the tiny little boxes we place them in. What if we just react instead? What if we take whatever the world gives us and instead of focusing on what it isn’t, we enjoy what it is?
I lean back against the couch and don’t think as I begin to talk. I tell him about my journalism major, and how social media is changing the way news happens, changing the way the world interacts and reacts. He tells me about football, and how it’s been the only thing he’s wanted since a coach plucked him out of a standard PE class his freshman year. He pulls the rubber band from my hair, and I lay my head back as he spreads the long strands out over his chest. He combs his fingers through the waves carefully while he tells me about going to the state championship with his high school team and then losing.
“Before that . . . the world felt so damn small. Like a pair of shoes that didn’t fit right. We lost and there were all these guys on my team, some I liked and some I didn’t, and they were all crying and falling to their knees, and I was just standing there staring at the stadium around us, and all the people that came out to see these two tiny schools duke it out. And it didn’t feel like I lost. Instead it was like I kicked open some door, and crawled out of my cage, and could stand up straight for the first time in my life.”
“So that’s how you knew I was suffocating. That had been you, too.”
He picks up a lock of hair and twists it, and I shiver again.
“I think we were suffocating in different ways, but yeah. I guess that was it.”
His hand in my hair has me so relaxed that I could fall asleep right there beside him on the floor. I close my eyes and turn my head to the side to rest against the cushion. Quietly, I ask, “You don’t feel that way anymore?”
“I didn’t. But lately the world is starting to feel pretty fucking small again.”
“So kick open another door.”
He continues playing with my hair with his left hand, but his right slips down to drag a knuckle over my cheek.
“I’m trying.”
I WAKE UP when his roommates come home, but Silas sleeps right through it. I take them both in the kitchen to explain what happened.
“Hold up,” Torres says. “Silas is doing community service? Is this because of the whole arrest thing? Or the fight with Keyon? Is Coach making him do it?”
“No. He’s doing it because he’s trying to get better.”
The other roommate, Isaiah, is more serious, more intimidating. “Better from what?”
“I don’t know. Something has him all stressed-out, though. And now he’s hurt on top of that, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add to that.”
Torres cracks the knuckles of one hand against his other palm. “We got this. Silas is our boy. You don’t need to worry about us, Captain Planet.”
I roll my eyes, and go back out to find my keys where I left them on the coffee table. Silas looks younger when he’s asleep. I mean, he’s still beautiful and powerful, but that dangerous quality that had both repelled and attracted me from the very beginning is missing.
Or maybe it’s just because I’m beginning to understand him. When I look at him now I don’t see the sexy stranger with bloodied knuckles. I just see Silas.
I remove the cold packs from his knees that have melted and gone soft. I take them back into the kitchen and return them to the freezer. Torres is gone, but Isaiah is there watching me.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
“Because he’s my friend.”
That’s what I say. I’m nowhere naive enough to believe things are as simple as that.
“Silas doesn’t know how to be friends with girls. Either he’ll break your heart or you’ll break his.”
I don’t have an answer to that because it’s the fear in the back of my mind that I haven’t allowed myself to voice. But I’m not sure that’s a good enough reason to stay away anymore. If I let all my fears become locked doors, then it will be exactly as Silas said. My life will get smaller and smaller until nothing else fits except me and the empty space from all the things I’ve let pass me by.
I’m figuring out what I want by trial and error, and maybe that’s not the best way, but it’s all I’ve got. All I know is that I need to be my own person, someone shaped by my desire, not fear of disappointing the people who are supposed to love me.
I just have to stay realistic, and I won’t get hurt. From the very beginning, Silas has told me to keep things simple. That’s the only reason I can do any of this. Because as long as we’re just having fun, I’ve not made any irreversible decisions.
I’m just . . . exploring. Whatever is happening between Silas and me is a stepping-stone between the old me and the new me I’m working to find. It’s meant to be temporary. As long as I remember that, we’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
I say goodbye to Torres and Brookes, and then make my way home still thinking about the things that Silas and I talked about. He’s different than I expected him to be. So different. His tidy room. The gentle way he touched my hair. The hurt and the hope in his voice as he talked about football.
Silas might be less refined than Henry. Less traditional. Less open.
But even so . . . he feels like more.
And that’s how I know I’m on the right path. It’s not what’s on the surface that matters—not in other people or myself.
Chapter 17
Dylan
Maybe we could do a letter-writing campaign?” I ask.
Javier steeples his fingers down at the head of the table and looks at me. His accented voice is soft when he replies, “They didn’t listen to the petition, so I doubt they’ll listen to letters.”
“So we just do nothing?” I look around at the rest of our student activism group, and I can tell I’m the only one who wants to keep pushing the subject, and it makes me angry. “These are people’s lives at stake. If this shelter closes, the one at St. Mary’s only has thirty beds a night available. What about all the other people who don’t fit? What about them?”
“Dylan.” I can see Javier is trying to be kind, but he’s done with this conversation. Matt places a hand on my knee beneath the table, but I keep going.
“There are whole families that need help. Children who do poorly in school because they didn’t get a good night’s sleep or any food the night before.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, kid,” Matt murmurs to me.
“No, I’m preaching to a group that’s given up.”
“We do not give up,” Javier answers sharply. I forget sometimes that he’s been doing this a lot longer than any of the rest of us. He and his parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina when he was twelve after his brother was killed during a political riot. He’s a quiet, thoughtful kind of guy, but he can be pretty damn serious when he wants to. “We stop, rethink, reevaluate. And we face facts. Nothing will change if we are the only ones fighting. So we find support from more prominent members of the community. We wait for classes to start back in two weeks and come back at it then.”
“But the shelter is closed now. What do those people do in the meantime? While we’re waiting?”
“I don’t have that answer. But we must be smart about this. We cannot effect change with sheer force of will.”
He’s right. I know he is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. We could spend every day protesting outside that shelter or City Hall or wherever, and it wouldn’t change a thing.
Because the world isn’t fair. It just fucking isn’t.
So I stay silent when Javier asks, “Any other business before we adjourn?”
A senior named Alana passes out stacks of flyers for a lecture at one of the local libraries about religious awareness and tolerance. I take a handful and promise to drop them off at a few business
es around my apartment and my parents’ house. Javier lets us know that at the next meeting, we’ll begin talking about state legislature elections, and what kind of stuff we can do on campus to get more students to vote. Then he calls the meeting to a close.
While the others say their goodbyes, I take off. Matt is hot on my heels.
“Hold up there, spicy pickle.”
“Don’t start, Matt, not if you want your organs to remain in their correct locations.”
“Jeez. I think hanging out with a certain sexy football player has made you more violent.”
I really wish I were the kind of person who could follow through on my violent threats.
“I’m not more violent. I’m just tired of staying quiet.”
“Riiight. Where are you off to?”
“Home.”
“You mind if I come with you? I wanted to ask Nell a question about one of the classes I’m taking. The professor I signed up for is out on maternity leave, and now I’m stuck with some dude that is apparently the biggest jackass this side of wherever Shia LaBeouf is currently standing. Someone said they thought Nell had him last year.”
I shrug. “Sure. I’m not sticking around, though, and you know you’ll annoy Nell if you distract her too much.”
“That girl needs some distraction like whoa. If she doesn’t spend some time out in the sunlight soon, she’ll end up all pasty white like me. You won’t even be able to tell she’s Italian anymore.”
“Please tell her that. I’d like to see her hand you your ass in the argument that follows.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t care what you say, Silas is rubbing off on you.”
“Yes, well, you’ve rubbed off on me, too. Ooo! That’s it! I’ve finally thought of an appropriately awful nickname for you. Rash. What with your red hair and persistent personality, I think it’s a good fit.”
“If you call me Rash, I will call you Pickle every chance I get.”
“You already call me Pickle every chance you get.”
“Hmm. Good point. But have some pity . . . how am I ever going to land a hot guy or girl of my own with the nickname Rash?”
“Think of it this way, Rash . . . when you do land that lucky person, you’ll know it’s for real if they stick around.”
“You, my dear, are one coldhearted preserved cucumber.”
He climbs into my car, and I’m treated to two more pickle puns in the eight minutes it takes to get to my apartment. Antonella is seated on the couch with her computer when we enter, her long dark hair pulled into a knot on the top of her head. I drop my purse by the door and head back to my bedroom to change clothes. As I pass, Matt asks, “Whatcha looking at, Nell?”
She keeps her eyes on the screen and answers, “Summer internships.”
“You do realize that summer is pretty much over, right?”
“Next summer.”
Matt whistles, and I leave him to pry whatever professor advice he needs from Nell, and close myself in my bedroom at the end of the hall. There are still a few outfits laid out on my bed from my attempts to decide what to wear before the Voice for Tomorrow bimonthly dinner meeting.
It’s been a week since Silas was suspended from the team, and he gets to go back to practice tomorrow. His roommates are having a get-together at their place to watch some baseball game, and I’m going. Mostly I’ll be there to keep an eye on Silas and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid the night before his big day back. But it’s also the first time we’re officially hanging out with no ulterior motive. He went back to work at Renew with me twice this week. When he showed up the second day all on his own, I might have pulled a muscle, my jaw dropped so fast.
I hadn’t even bothered asking him to come because I figured he needed to rest more. And I was still feeling guilty about getting him hurt in the first place.
Lo and behold, the next morning I was standing toward the back of the group, far away from Henry, when he drove up in his rusty old pickup.
It didn’t make me feel like the butterflies in my stomach took acid. I swear it didn’t.
But something I’ve learned about Silas . . . when he sets his mind to something, he goes all out.
And oh God, I throw myself on my bed and cover my face with my hands because I can’t help but make that dirty in my head.
He’s ruined me.
Doesn’t help that I’m a huge, hormonal mess because despite turning me on every eight seconds or so . . . we’ve not done anything but kiss this week. And I’m just about ready to beg for more.
And now I have to decide what to wear for this party with his friends, and nothing I own looks good enough.
I groan and lay back on the bed, probably wrinkling several of my wardrobe possibilities in the process. I take a deep breath and stare at my ceiling.
I should put something on my ceiling. Glow-in-the-dark stars or posters or paper cranes. That’s something teenagers do, right? To make their rooms their own? I never did that, but it could be cool. Especially the paper cranes.
I’ll do that. Just as soon as I learn origami.
I sit up and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is loose and wavy, and I’m just wearing a plain V-neck tee and some jeans.
“You’re being silly, Dylan. It’s a baseball game on television at his apartment. It’s not a date. Not dinner or a movie or anything that requires this much thought. Just pick something.”
God, I’ve resorted to actually talking to myself. In a mirror.
Who’s the craziest of them all?
On a whim, I pick up a pair of shorts that are a little similar to the ones I wore the night Silas and I met. They come up high on my waist and show a good amount of leg. This pair is a bright kelly green. I pick a cute but comfy sheer top and pull it on over a white camisole. I look in the mirror and decide it’s just sexy enough with the sheer fabric, but not trying too hard since it’s loose and covers a decent amount of skin. That decided, I check the time on my phone. It’s half past seven, and I think the game starts at eight.
I debate trying to kill half an hour so I can show up fashionably late, but I’ve never really been a fashionably late kind of person, and if I don’t get out of this room now I might start freaking out about my wardrobe again.
I flip off my light as I head back down the hall.
Nell’s head is still down when I enter the living room, but she looks up when I pass. She’s exasperated, probably with Matt, but when she sees me, she puts a hold on whatever she’d been planning to say and mimes holding a gun to her head.
I swallow a laugh and head for the door.
She says, “Where are you going? You’ve barely been home at all this week.”
Matt cocks one eyebrow. “Barely been home all week, you don’t say?”
Then he makes an obscene gesture with his tongue and his cheek, and it’s me pretending to shoot him with my fingers this time.
“For your information, I’ve been doing that stuff with Renew. And I went to my parents’ place a few times.”
“And . . . ?”
“And I hung out with Silas once or twice.”
Matt jumps up from the couch. “Dingdingding! We have a winner, ladies and . . . ladies.”
I ignore him and focus on my roommate. “Okay, then. Nell, I’ll be back later tonight. Sorry to leave you with this guy. Feel free to kick him out whenever he starts annoying you.”
I pick up my purse by the door and Matt says, “You know, a true friend would give me details. Let me live vicariously through you.”
“Goodbye, Rash.”
“Cruel and heartless, Pickle! Cruel and heartless!”
I’m smiling despite my aggravation with Matt’s obsession. He’s a good friend, and I vow to fill him in on everything just as soon as I wrap my own head around it.
A number of cars are already parked around Silas’s place when I arrive. I pull mine up across the street and one house down. I’m relieved to know it won’t be weird that I’m here before
the game starts. Little pebbles get stuck between my foot and the sole of my sandal on my way up his driveway. I ring the doorbell, and am trying to shake one of the pebbles out when the door opens.
It’s Brookes. And behind him is the pretty girl, Stella, that I met my first night here. The girl Silas hooked up with last year.
It shouldn’t bother me. It really shouldn’t.
But between her surprised expression and her quiet “Oh,” I can’t help it. It does bother me.
“Silas is in his room,” Isaiah says. “You can go up if you want.”
Torres passes by, carrying two bowls of chips from the kitchen. “Yeah, tell him to quit being antisocial and get his ass down here.”
I feel weird going up the stairs, especially because Stella and Brookes are watching me and whispering. I put them out of my mind and jog the final distance to Silas’s door and knock. No one answers, but there’s music playing inside, so I figure maybe he didn’t hear me. I knock one more time, and when nothing changes, I turn the knob and push the door open a few inches.
For one sinking moment, I cast my eyes toward his bed, afraid I’ll see something there that I don’t want to, but his bed is neatly made just like the last time I saw it. I push the door a little farther, music spilling out into the hall, and then I see him. He’s by the foot of his bed, shirtless and doing push-up after push-up. There’s a faint sheen of sweat across his muscled back, and I swear watching the way his muscles move could give reality TV a run for its money as far as entertainment goes.
Why isn’t there a reality TV show filled with hot guys doing sweaty, mouthwatering tasks?
Oh, right. That’s called sports.
I step over to the dock where he has his phone plugged in to play music. I turn down the volume, and he plants a knee on the floor to turn and look at me.
I suddenly feel weird about intruding on him here in his bedroom. I’ve only been in here the once, and that was really out of necessity. And he wasn’t in here with me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies. He grabs his discarded T-shirt off the foot of the bed, but instead of slipping it on, he uses it to wipe at his face. “I didn’t expect you this early.”