Page 11 of These Secret Years

We’ve arrived at the tunnel, and Tyson is huddled up with four other guys. He looks up at us as we enter. “We need to get some wood. Looks like that’s where they build the fires.”

He nods toward a wide circle of scorched earth just inside the entrance to the tunnel. It’s on the left side of the tracks marked with an improvised barrier of scattered rocks.

“Do we know for sure there’s not gonna be a train?” Knight asks.

“No clue, but my brother never said anything about a train.”

“Why’s it called The Front?” I ask.

“Maybe because the fire pit is at the front of the tunnel?” Knight suggests.

The rest of the group has caught up, and soon, we’re all gathering wood for a fire. The twins build it like they’ve been doing survival training since they were in diapers. Before we know it, the front of the tunnel is all lit up, illuminating years’ worth of graffiti on the dark brick. Everyone’s flashlights turn off, and I have a seat near the tunnel entrance, my ass on the ground and my back against the brick. I’m close enough to the fire to feel warmth but not the heat. Deandre makes himself comfortable on my left, and Knight sits on my right. It’s a loose gathering, the fire not quite at the center of it but more behind it.

Three bottles of liquor are being passed around, and two of the non-athlete guys are sharing a joint.

“What would you be doing if you weren’t out here right now?” Knight asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? What would you be doing?” I ask.

“Don’t do that. Why do you keep doing that? I ask you a question, you don’t answer it, and then ask me the same question.”

“And you answer it,” I say with a short laugh. “I thought that was our thing.”

He rubs the back of his neck, a slight smile turning up his mouth. “It’s pretty late. I’d be sleeping.”

“Me too, but that’s not really what you were asking, huh?”

“No,” he says. “I guess not.”

“You know, just because we’re from the same place doesn’t mean we have to be friends.” I’m not sure why I say that. It’s not like I’m all stocked up on friends here and can’t handle a single extra one. I have none, but the quarterback? Red shirt or not, I know how big of a deal football is at this school. Maybe it feels like a waste of time? Energy? Effort? Hope?

Knight seems like a genuinely nice guy, although historically, I’m not the best judge of character. I miss red flags all the time. I sometimes don’t even listen to direct warnings. I’d like to be better about that. There’s something refreshing about him, though. His dogged attempts to continue this conversation are impressive even if I don’t understand them.

“Gabe would be sad you said that,” he says.

I laugh. “Sorry. I just meant you’ve got a lot going on this year and a lot of other people you could be getting to know.”

“Maybe I’m homesick.”

“Already?”

“You’re not?” he asks. “A little?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. But seriously.”

His knees are bent in front of him, same as mine. He leans one of his legs over, and our thighs touch. It sends a bolt of awareness through me, shocking me more than anything. Deandre passes a bottle of Jim Beam to me. I take a long drink of it, and Knight watches me do it.

I realize I’m staring back at him as his gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth to my throat as I swallow.

Understanding finally manages to snake its way through my body from where our legs are touching to my lips that now sting from the alcohol on them.

He’s been flirting with me. I hold out the bottle for him. He takes it, watching me as he puts his mouth where mine just was and takes a long swallow.

I’m suddenly hot and uncomfortable. The ground is hard as hell beneath me, and his leg feels like it’s burning mine. There’s interest on his face, but nothing like greed. Nothing like what I’m used to.