Page 10 of People Like Us

“Hi,” I said, softer than I felt.

I lifted him out of the bed and he immediately tucked his head into my shoulder, heavy and warm and still half-dreaming. I held the journal under one arm as I carried him to the bathroom.

The bath ran too hot at first. I adjusted it with my wrist until it settled into a temperature I wouldn’t feel guilty about setting him in. He splashed, delighted, as soon as I placed him in the water, like he had forgiven the world in exchange for bubbles.

I sat down on the bathroom floor, tile cold on the back of my thighs. The sound of him laughing echoed in the small space as he kicked water against the sides of the tub.

The pages of the journal turned easier then, like they’d decided I was allowed to inspect them now that there was a witness. Another poem, same handwriting, slightly more controlled. As if I’d been trying to impress someone who didn’t exist. I read it slowly.

All my sins buried in that corn field

Wonder if it’ll infect the harvest

My hands are stained,

But I wonder

Will it all still come up gold?

I let the words sit there between the sound of running water and my son’s occasional delighted gasp at his own reflection. Inside the tub, he kept playing, unbothered by the idea that memory could do that—turn something like guilt into something that grows.

Chapter Four

The next morning I got to class before Mrs. Deal did—which, judging by our usual habits, was exactly what I’d expected. What I didn’t expect was to find August leaning against the opposite side of the closed door in the hallway.

He was wearing a faded band tee layered over a white thermal and dark baggy jeans, silver chains hanging from his neck and belt loop. His fingers combed through his dark curls, and the rise of his arm hiked up the hem of his shirt, exposing the deep v at his hips. I forced myself to look away, ignoring the warmth spreading through me at the sight.

“Hi,” I spoke softly as I settled against the door frame.

“Good morning,” he replied as though he’d been rehearsing the two words all night.

“You’re early,”

August didn’t look at me as he lifted his shoulder briefly. “I always am. But I usually wait for the bell in the cafeteria with my friends.”

“Didn’t feel like sitting with them today?”

He stared at the stainless-steel thermos in his hands, tapping his long ringed fingers against its side: three quick taps, a brief pause, then three more. When he looked up, his expression was earnest. “I noticed you’re usually early.”

“I run on the track in the mornings,” I offered, hoping it sounded plausible.

He considered me for a moment. “You’re not on the track team.”

“No.”

“Then why do you run?”

“I like it,” I said with a lift of my shoulders that I hoped looked more careless than I felt about the matter.

His head tilted to the side as he pressed, “Then why aren’t you on the track team?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, stalling for an answer. The easy lie would have been “I don’t want to,” but instead the truth slipped out: “I can’t pass a physical.”

The dimple in his left cheek appeared as he smirked. “Did they ask you questions about marine biology?”

I shook my head with a wry grin. “No. I’m just severely underweight.”

His smile faded. He fell silent, and I realized I’d gone too far with my joke. His fingers started tapping the thermos again, in that same pattern of three.