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I squeeze my eyes shut, then grip the edge of the bathroom counter and breathe deeply.
Just the mention of his name makes my heart race with anger. Or at least I think it’s anger. Maybe it’s something else.
Anger …
Excitement …
It’s odd, how both emotions make your heart beat as quickly.
Am I really going to do this?
An hour later, I’m walking the six blocks down Main Street to the back of the parking lot of Spruce High.
What is wrong with me?
How could I possibly put myself through this?
All my questions go unanswered as I continue to walk.
I cut through several cars and trucks parked in the lot behind the gymnasium. One moment, I have such a long way to walk, cutting through the cars and across a field. The next moment, I’m standing in front of the gymnasium doors, listening to music and chatter on the other side.
I take another breath, mutter, “Fuck it,” then push inside.
The gymnasium isn’t decorated in the least. It’s dim with just a few safety lights on here and there. The bleachers are pulled out, but no one’s sitting on them. Instead, everyone is gathered in tiny clusters and groups on the basketball court, laughing and chatting mildly, where one long table has been set out with punch bowls, stacks of paper plates and plastic cups, and a few platters of finger foods that look like they’ve been pot-lucked here last-minute.
This mixer is clearly an un-thought-out, spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, thrown together by a couple of dudes with an idea. I mean, I know if the Strongs had caught any wind of a potential mixer, the whole thing would be a fully-catered event complete with a DJ, fortune teller, and some sweet no-name country singer.
Maybe this is far easier a pill to swallow.
Especially with the dim lighting, which helps mask who the hell I am. Or anyone else, for that matter.
An eerie calmness settles inside me, still and certain.
I can do this.
Just consider the alternative: having stayed home in LA, with Salvador and my vile ex Richie making out on my couch.
Which is probably what they’re doing right now.
Push away the thought, and start walking.
With renewed nerve, I make my way through the crowd to the table. My eyes gaze across the platters of food. Too full of steak to even consider a nibble of any of these munchies, I go straight for the punch. With any luck, it’ll be heavily spiked already. After a quick pour into a plastic cup, I prepare to bring it to my lips.
The gymnasium doors burst open, stopping me.
I look up.
And there he struts in like he owns the whole school, thick broad shoulders gleaming with the sweat of hard labor.
Does this sound familiar?
Plaid shirt, sleeves torn off like an animal.
Just enough buttons undone to reveal his muscled chest.
Slender hips and tight caboose squeezed into a pair of dirty Wranglers with a belt buckle the size of Texas.
And that same sparkly blue-eyed baby face I recall with agony from my high school days.
Chad Landry.
He looks my way, as if the drumming racket of my heart can be heard clear across the gymnasium.
Our eyes lock.
Chad.
I’m paralyzed to the bone. My heartbeat is trying to climb out of my ears. I’m being eaten alive.
This, I believe, is where we left off.
2
Mixed Up
“Holy crap! Lance Goodwin??”
The shout in my ear doesn’t even pull my eyes away from Chad Landry, who is somehow moving in slow-motion as he struts across the gymnasium like he literally just stepped off the set of the hottest country-farmhand porno. His gaze is still locked on mine, too, like a snake to a charmer’s Pungi—but I don’t know who is the snake and who is the charmer.
“Lance?? Wait, am I wrong? Are you someone else?”
Chad reaches a group of his friends, and then he faces them and all his buddies explode into a loud, bro-ish fit of back-slapping and greetings.
The spell is broken at last. I spin around to find a handsome, sturdy man in a button-down shirt and jeans in front of me. I recognize him. He has smooth, warm russet skin and a muscular, toned build. His eyebrows, thick and blunt and strong, are pulled together as he looks me over in wonder.
And then he smiles warmly. “Yeah, I’m right. It’s you. Lance.”
“It’s me,” I agree, my mind still reaching for a name, “and you were … on the football team …?”
“Harrison,” he reminds me. “Everyone gets me mixed up with the Spruce Juice Tanner, I know.” Then he snorts at himself. “Just kidding. Literally no one mixes us up. I can’t believe you’re here!”
I blink. “I didn’t think you knew I existed back then.”
“You kidding? Everyone knew you.” He lets out a big, nervous laugh and slaps my shoulder. “You’re the Lance! You were a one-of-a-kind. And … by the looks of it … still are.” With that, he drags his eyes down to take in my attire, then slaps the side of my arm. “You’re looking great. Healthy. Happy.”
