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CHAPTERFIVE
LIAM
Idebate between bringing my navy or my black swim trunks for a few seconds, then decidewhat the helland tuck both into my duffel bag. I’m in a rush, already running late thanks to a group of middle schoolers who wanted to stay in the pool past closing. I pat my pocket to make sure I have my phone, keys, and wallet, then sling the strap of my bag over one shoulder and head downstairs.
Maeve is leaning against the banister, her own monogrammed duffel at her feet. I suppose I should be grateful matching bags, matching backpacks, and matching lunch boxes were the extent of our mom’s attempts to coordinate her twins. We both ditched the lunchboxes and backpacks a long time ago, but the duffels have held up.
“Mr. Perfect running late?” I ask, dropping my bag beside her and rifling through the hall closet for a fleece and a ball cap. “I doubt he had car trouble, since his is only a couple of weeks old.”
Maeve scoffs. “You’re leaving, I hope?”
“Yep.” I tug the ball cap on and stuff the fleece in my duffel.
“Say hi to Parker for me.”
“Yeah, I will.” Parker Davis was my randomly assigned roommate freshman year at Arlington. Despite our differences—he’s artsy; I’m athletic—we became good friends. He’s from Philadelphia, but his extended family owns a beach cottage in Chatham, out on the Cape. Parker invited me to visit for the Fourth of July weekend. “Have fun in Florida. Hear it’s supposed to be hot as hell this time of year.”
Maeve flips me off.
I grab my duffel off the floor and sling the strap over my shoulder. “Fly safe, okay?”
Maeve’s annoyed expression melts away before she steps closer and gives me a quick squeeze. “Drive safe, big bro. The sedan is making that clanking sound again.”
“Yeah, I noticed. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Don’t do anything stupid, like set off homemade fireworks.”
I raise a brow. “Does that sound like me?”
“No, not really. Lately, it seems like you take everything I say the wrong way, though, so I guess it was my way of telling you to have fun.”
My fingers fiddle with the strap I’m holding. Things have been strained between me and Maeve this summer. They’ve been tense since she walked into my room and told me about her and Weston, honestly.
It’s been an uncomfortable barrier lingering between us ever since. When Maeve spent time with him alone, and when we were at Arlington and he wasn’t, it was much easier to pretend like it was invisible. But Maeve seems intent on not tiptoeing around the issue any longer. Weston has come over for dinner almost every night this week. She brought him to a party Brooke had last weekend. I watched him laugh with a couple of my former linemen.
The thing is, I get that the rivalry with Alleghany is stupid and pointless. Hating someone based on where they live is discrimination, not heroic. But I was supposed to be Glenmont’s hero. When I look at Wes, all I see are my own failures staring back.
I get that Maeve is in love with the guy. It’s disgustingly obvious after spending any time around them, and I’ve spent a lot lately. Girls have always taken a backseat to football for me, but I don’t have to experience it firsthand to know that love doesn’t always come in convenient packages.
It’s that most people don’t fall in love based on one glance at someone. Definitely not people with personalities like Maeve’s: thoughtful, deliberate, and considerate. The fact she spent enough time with Weston Coletofall in love with him feels like a betrayal. Not of Glenmont—ofme.
If there was an easy way to move on from that, I would have already. And it’s nothing I can put into words without sounding immature and selfish. So I let it fester, hoping one day I won’t care as much and it will no longer matter.
“Bye, Maeve,” I say, then turn and walk out the front door.
The sedan is the only car in the driveway. My mom is at a showing and my dad is off golfing. I toss my duffel into the backseat and climb into the driver’s seat, cranking up the radio as I pull onto the street and take a left.
Ten minutes later, I park in front ofDaily Grind. They’re dead at this hour, the parking lot close to empty.
Annoyingly, I think ofheras soon as I climb out and walk into the coffee shop, same as I have the past few times I’ve been here since encountering Alleghany’s head cheerleader on the pavement outside.
Natalie Jacobs.
It was easy to find her name, not as easy to justify to myself why I bothered to look it up in the first place. I guess I didn’t like how she knew who I was, and I didn’t know who she was. It made me feel like I was at an unfair disadvantage; like I was running behind.
She’s part of Alleghany’s most popular crowd, which I could have easily guessed just by taking one look at her. Girls who look likethatdon’t go unnoticed. Social media was plastered with photos of her with the football team and the cheerleading squad. Weston was in a lot of them.
Curiosity played a role in the decision to look Natalie up as well. I was distracted when I literally ran into her—hurrying home from the morning shift and rushing to meet the guys at the park. Taken aback by one, running into her, and two, learning she was the person literally leading the cheer against me. Realizing we’d met off a football field before—at the Fayetteville police station. I didn’t mention that encounter. I wasn’t sure if she recognized me—she barely glanced at me that night.
