I run on my own after practice.
Doesn’t Coach Walker understand that if we don’t run at least three to four miles a day, our team won’t have the endurance to last an entire game, much less win one? Today’s practice consisted of a half-hour scrimmage during which Nicole showed off and everyone else chased the ball around like kindergartners. Whenever I rushed for the ball, Nicole went out of her way to boot it out of bounds. Some team player.
After practice, I tried to share a few words with the goalie, Alyson, to encourage her, but she told me to mind my own business.
Hopefully, our game on Saturday will go better.
I run up Spring Hill, down Spring Hill, past the crumbling flour mill that closed ten years ago, around the sheriff’s station, avoid looking at the cemetery because it scares me, and go back out into the country.
Running reminds me of how Ben and I used to jog before dinner sometimes, him training for basketball and me for soccer. We enjoyed being alone together—away from our classmates, who unfairly judged him.
He had a hard time at St. Andrew’s. Beastly Buick aside, my classmates knew my father is wealthy, so they treated me like one of their own. But nearly every day, some asshole would make a crack like, “You’re really into dating down, huh, Lukens? You must like ’em on their knees.”
I speed up. Run faster. Harder. Run, run, run. Forget, forget, forget.
When I reach my driveway, I sprint the quarter mile to my house. I dart up the back porch stairs, then lean over onto my knees, panting hard. Air is all I need, all I want. I feel good, and I grin.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I open the back door, and I’m heading for the stairs to my room when I hear voices in the formal living room. His voice. All the air whooshes back out of my body.
I enter the living room to find Mom talking to Ezra.
He stands when he sees me, ever the gentleman. After a long moment of us staring at each other, Mom breaks the silence. “Taylor, isn’t it nice that Ezra stopped by?”
I swallow hard as I look into his green eyes. He’s changed clothes since I saw him earlier. Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, he’s wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, navy pants, a silver watch, and chestnut-brown leather shoes. Definitely Ralph Lauren and Prada, but I doubt he knows that. His mother always picks out his clothes. Just like my mother does with Oliver.
He checks me out too. I took off my shin guards and cleats earlier, but I’m still wearing the same tank top and short shorts I wore to practice.
“I remember those socks,” he says, nodding at my smiley faces. “Those are your lucky ones, right?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“He dropped by to see how we’re doing!” Mom says. Seeing Ezra is a treat for her. “I’ll go pour us some iced tea while you two get caught up.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ezra says.
He watches her leave the living room, then turns back to me with a slow smile. A smile that gets my lady parts all revved up. Stupid lady parts.
I glance down at my white tank top as I take a seat on the couch. Yup, I’m covered in embarrassing sweat stains.
Only once I’m seated does Ezra sit back down. I had forgotten how much I love the dark freckles on his tan nose and cheeks.
He speaks first. “I’ve missed you.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re in Franklin.”
“I was surprised to see you too… I talked with Oliver,” he says softly with a knowing look in his eyes.
“Great, so you heard everything.”
“I’m so sorry, Tee.”
I bite a hangnail dangling from my thumb. The pain distracts me from my thumping heart. Ezra has gotten cuter and cuter over the years. Now, I’d call him handsome. And buff. His tan forearms are corded with muscles. He’s a man.
“How do you like Hundred Oaks?” he asks.
“The soccer team isn’t that good,” I say, knowing he’ll understand, since he was the St. Andrew’s goalie for four years.
“Are you okay?” he asks with genuine concern.
I give him a curt nod.
“Do you want to talk?”
No thanks, I don’t care to gut myself. It took forever to get over Ezra. Only when I met Ben did I think there might be more than one guy for me, and look how that turned out.
I internally repeat my mantra. No. More. Boys.
I decide to go on the offensive. “I texted Oliver this morning. He didn’t know you’re here.”
“He knows now.”
“Why are you here?”
He turns to stare out the window into our garden. The sun is beginning to set. “Would you want to go out tomorrow night?”
He’s asking me to do something on a Friday night? Everybody knows that’s date night. Is he asking me on a date? “To do what?”
“To talk. Maybe over dinner?”
I don’t even bother asking if he means as friends or more. It doesn’t matter. I will not put myself in a situation where a guy could hurt me again.
I stand up from the couch. “I’m sorry, Ez. I can’t.”
He hops to his feet in gentleman mode. “No dinner. Got it.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe I could get us into the Cumberland Science Museum after closing? We’d have the whole place to ourselves.”
My eyes go wide. Of course he’d have a connection. I bet his family knows the curator or something.
He’s good. Real good. He knows exactly how to entice me. Museums. Set me loose in one, and I could stay for weeks, reading all the little placards describing each exhibit. When Mom finally convinced Dad to visit Europe, I went to the National Gallery in Vienna. I couldn’t stop staring at the Venus of Willendorf, a tiny statue of a voluptuous woman carved twenty-five thousand years ago, in a time when no one was voluptuous, when humans were cold and hungry. I wanted to know more about who carved that woman. I loved thinking about how much the world had changed since then. My parents finally had to drag me away before we missed our train to Prague. Museums are my Kryptonite.
Still, I say “no thanks” to Ezra’s invite.
“If you’re grounded, I could talk to your mom—”
“No, now’s just not a good time. I need to take a shower, so I’ll see you around, okay?”
The confusion in his eyes is strong and clear. I’m hurting him. But I’m saving myself.
It was two years ago. I was stepping into chemistry class when he took my hand.
“Tease,” he said in a playful voice. “Your parents sent me an invitation to your cotillion.”
“Yeah?” I said softly. I knew my parents would invite him to my sixteenth birthday party because he’s my brother’s best friend. On top of that, the Carmichaels have more money than God and have always supported Dad’s politics.
Ezra tugged on a strand of my hair. “You’ll save your first dance for me, right?”