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WE PARK AT what appears to pass as a convention center in this small town between Louisville and Lexington. I scan the area, trying to figure out which client would want to meet us here and come up empty. Never claimed that rich guys made sense.
A prospect is with us and he stands by his bike as Dad, Eli and Pigpen take off their cuts and lay them on the back. Pigpen flashes that I’ve-been-judged-mentally-insane-by-a-court smile at the prospect. “This better be here when I get back.”
The prospect turns green and Dad pats the guy’s arm for him to suck it up. Eli jerks his head to the building. “You’re in on this, Razor.”
I slip off my cut and lay it with the others. Sometimes, like school, this happens. There are places that refuse people wearing club colors and then there are times that, out of respect, we take them off. It’s rare, but as I said, it happens.
We enter the building and receive plenty of terrified glances. Lots of people here. Families mostly, and people my age. Most of them dressed like they’re at a fancy business meeting. My stride slows when I realize how many people are in uniform...a private school uniform.
Pigpen grins at me when he opens a door but then puts a finger to his lips. “We’re running late and they just said they’ll kick anyone out who makes a sound.”
The world moves in slow motion when we walk into the back of a darkened auditorium. On the lit-up stage are two tables full of people and in the middle is one person explaining rules of how the academic competition will play out.
My heart stops and I’m frozen in place. At the end of the table is long raven hair and the most beautiful face in the world. It’s Breanna and I almost drop to my knees when a burn hits my throat and eyes.
“You okay, brother?” Pigpen asks.
“It’s Breanna.” My voice is rougher than it should be.
Pigpen cups the back of my head. “You showed faith in us and we came through. Her parents have laid down some serious rules, but if you follow them, that girl is yours as long as she still wants you.”
I nod and join Pigpen in a seat in the last row and sit back and watch something I wasn’t sure I’d ever see—Breanna on stage, showing the entire world how her mind works.
Breanna
I CAN’T STOP touching Razor.
Not that we can really touch—not in the way he touches me in my dreams, but at least we’re touching and he’s here and he’s looking at me and we’re still together.
On a blanket at a park across the street from my private school, Razor and I hold hands. He’s been catching me up on what’s been happening at school, with Violet, Oz, Chevy and Emily. Nothing he says is too detailed. He speaks in generalities as my older brothers are also sitting on the blanket staring at Razor like they would happily toss him into a meat grinder.
But I don’t care... I’m touching Razor.
My parents are at the picnic table full of fixings from KFC. Chicken, mac ’n cheese, mashed potatoes. Name it from the menu, it’s there. All courtesy of the Reign of Terror. Across from them are Razor’s dad, his girlfriend and Rebecca. Eli and Pigpen are playing kickball with my younger siblings.
Razor squeezes my hand, then clears his throat. “Mr. Miller?”
Talk about epically weird. Razor from the Reign of Terror just properly addressed my father and I try to stymie the silly grin on my face.
The picnic table falls silent and my father answers, “Yes?”
“Can I take Breanna on a walk? I’ve been watching the joggers and there’s a loop that runs along this place.”
I hold my breath with each second of awkwardness that follows. It’s extremely obvious they’d like to scream no, but instead Dad says, “We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
Yes! Razor stands and I waste no time accepting his hand to help me up. I glance back at my parents and I wonder if the smile on my face is insulting. The thought causes some of the joy of this moment to falter, but then Mom offers me a soft encouraging lift of her lips.
“Thank you,” I say, and Mom nods a “You’re welcome.”
We’re quiet as we walk on the path and there are a million thoughts in my mind. All the things I’ve been dying to tell him, all the things I’m dying to know from him, and then this nagging fear that maybe he doesn’t fully feel the same way I do, that maybe this road is going to be too difficult for us to navigate, that... “Forty percent of long-distance relationships break up and seventy percent of long-distance relationships fail when there’s a change in plans.”
Razor’s lips tug up and he rubs his thumb over my hand. “Then we’ll have to make sure we have a plan in place in case plans change.”
I giggle and Razor chuckles.
“I read up on it,” I say. “In case my parents did let me see you again.”
“Are you happy here?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks and I wonder what he wishes my answer would be, but then I chastise myself for thinking such things. Razor craves the truth.
