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Woah!
The moment my eyes lock on the girl across the street, the oddest of sensations rack throughout my whole body. My chest tightens like a semi just rammed into it, while my heart beats erratically inside its rib cage. Even my mouth has gone dry like the Sahara, making my tongue taste like rough sandpaper. I wring the hem of my t-shirt in a knot, wiping my clammy hand on it, while the other grips my phone to my ear in an unyielding grasp.
The fuck is happening to me?
With my gaze still fixed on her every move, I stay rooted to my spot as she bends down to lace her white Chucks, straightening back up a few seconds later to pull her jet-black hair back into a ponytail. I’ve never seen hair that dark. Not even Carter’s raven head can come close to how dark hers is. She's got on a Star Wars t-shirt and plain jean shorts, showcasing her long, tanned legs. No, not tanned. That golden skin and olive oil complexion is all her.
Who is this girl?
“Logan? Dude, you there?” Quaid asks, reminding me he’s still on the line.
“Y-Yeah, I’m here,” I stutter.
“She's cute, huh?”
I clear my throat because I don’t know what to say.
Cute doesn’t even cut it.
“I’m thinking right about now, puberty just knocked on your doorstep, my friend,” he teases with a deep laugh.
“Shut up.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. It was going to happen eventually. No shame that it took you this long.”
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” I whisper into the phone, hoping Mom is too distracted in the kitchen to hear me.
Another Quaid laugh ensues, and it takes him a forever to get it together.
But I don’t really care, because right now, I’m too invested in watching my new neighbor talk to who I assume is her dad. He looks to be a little younger than my old man, but he’s just as big. With his broad shoulders and square jaw, he looks to be the type of guy who won’t let just anyone talk to his daughter. He probably has a bunch of shotguns all around his house to protect her from boys like us. I can’t say I blame him if he does. I would, too, if I was in his shoes.
"So I was thinking,” Quaid interrupts my reverie.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I quip back mockingly.
“Ha ha,” he replies sarcastically. “Like I was saying, I was thinking we play a little ball on your front lawn. What do you say?" he tempts, and I see what he's doing, even if I’m not exactly thrilled with his strategy plan.
He knows I hate football. Every time he asks me to practice with him, I come up with every excuse there is not to do it. Maybe it makes me a shitty friend, but I’d rather spend my time in front of my computer or playing video games then be outside in the blazing San Antonio heat, sweating up a storm while throwing a goddamn football to one another. Quaid loves the game though, and you can always expect to see him with a ball in his hands, so for him to come up with this excuse to be outside, it’s just his default setting.
“So are we going to play or what, dipshit?”
“Meet you outside in five minutes. Just need to change first.”
“Yeah, I knew you'd say that.” He chuckles before hanging up.
I run upstairs and pull every drawer in my room open until I find an acceptable clean t-shirt and some shorts. I give myself a quick glance in the mirror and almost kick myself for not letting Brooke cut my hair like she wanted. The blonde mess is going to always be in my eyes, getting in the way of the view, I just know it.
Screw it. Nothing I can do about it now.
I rush out of my room only to ram into my fifteen-year-old sister.
“Hey, hey, where are you going off to in such a hurry?” Rachel asks, not making any effort to get out of my way whatsoever.
“I’m going to play ball with Quaid.”
“Ball? You? Really?” she counters suspiciously, with her hands on her hips.
“Yeah! Now get out of the way, Rachel. Damn!”
