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Ford’s head rises. His jaw is grinding. “He’s talking about desire,” he says. “And the way it can make you abandon rational thought. It’s a sickness, but one that makes you so insane you don’t want to be cured.”
And then his gaze, briefly, flickers over to me.
On Thursday afternoon, there’s an assembly for the seniors about alcohol and drugs. I sit with Kappy and Alex and Lauren, all three of them quietly making jokes as a counselor tries to scare us into never using drugs. She tells us that ten percent of all cocaine contains fentanyl and shows us footage of a cop falling to the ground after only a moment’s exposure to fentanyl in the air.
Kappy speaks aloud as she pretends to type a note to herself. “Tell dealer to make sure my cocaine is fentanyl-free.”
Even the woman doing her best to scare us into not taking drugs never mentions any drugs that could make you permanently crazy, like they theoretically did to Mary Joyce. And she would, right, if that was a possibility?
When the bell rings Dr. Jeffries calls out, asking for volunteers to stay and help with chairs, but the crowd ignores him, barreling for the exit.
“I have to run,” Alex says, tapping my arm. “See you tomorrow?”
I nod and dutifully walk to the front of the room to volunteer.
Ford is behind me, the only other person who’s stayed.
He doesn’t look surprised to find me here, and with Dr. Jeffries now gone…it’s just us. I wince and grab a chair, folding it silently and carrying it to the supply closet. A small smile tugs the corner of his mouth upward.
“Just fold,” he says, with four hanging off each arm. “I’ll carry.”
We say nothing to each other as we work. We get the final chairs—he carries another eight chairs into the closet, and I follow with the last two. He takes them from me, swinging them onto a rack above him. I guess that was it. Our moment is over.
“Thank you,” I whisper. My voice is barely audible.
He nods, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my mouth. Is he thinking about our kiss? Because I am.
My heart is in my throat and suddenly, the terror outweighs everything else. I turn to leave and his hand wraps around my hip, keeping me here, pulling me closer.
There is a whisper of time where we just stand in the dim closet, my back to his chest, his hand on my hip. I know, even if he’d never say it, that he’s making sure I’m okay, that he’s waiting for me to object. But I can’t act as if this isn’t exactly what I want. As if it isn’t what I’ve wanted since the first time I saw him.
His lips go to my neck, pressing softly to that birthmark I hate as if he worships it. I sigh and he tugs me closer, until our bodies are flush. He’s breathing hard, this boy who runs so effortlessly on a football field, as his hand slides up to my rib cage, and then farther to cup my breast.
I inhale once, short and sharp. It’s as if I’m made of something lightweight and fragile, and the only solid, real thing is this cord strung tight inside me.
Nothing about this is what I’m supposed to want, what I told myself it would be like—no hand-holding and sunset walks—and right now I don’t care. Even with two layers of fabric between us, his calloused palm is almost too much sensation to bear. He plucks my nipple like it’s a harp string, and the sharp, sweet echo of it lights me up all the way to my toes.
It takes me a moment to realize what it is I feel between us, pressed to the small of my back. He is hard. For me. Even if this is all some joke to him, there’s nothing pretend about that. And the heady thrill of it—with his breath on my skin and his fingers tightening, pulling, twisting as he slides his length against me—makes me gasp.
I push back against him, and he hisses. His teeth sink into my skin hard, as if he wants to puncture me. And I want him to. I’m descending into something deep and dark, something as sweet as it is deadly, and I don’t care.
That now-familiar tingle starts at the base of my spine.
I’m going to come, just like this, standing fully dressed in school. It is seconds away.
I gasp. “I’m—”
Hinges rasp as the gym door opens.
I fly forward, out of the closet, and Mr. Scott frowns at me, at my flushed cheeks, and I try to calm my erratic breathing.
Ford remains in the closet...I imagine there are physical reasons for that.
I’m worried about getting caught, but it’s not the sort of guilt you feel when you regret what you’ve done. If Mr. Scott were to walk away right now, I’d go right back into that closet and place Ford’s hand exactly where it was.
“I was just putting the chairs away,” I tell Mr. Scott.
He raises a brow. “You can head home.”
