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I roll my eyes. “No, that’s another Leo DiCaprio movie.”
His shoulders slump just slightly. “Damn, that would have made the novel more enjoyable.” After reading the short description ofThe Great Gatsby, he sets the paper down. “Okay, you’ve piqued my interest with the millionaires, extravagant parties, and sex that you so surely think I will enjoy.” His smirk at the word sex makes my breath hitch and he takes notice.
Ignoring the enjoyment he is getting from my reaction, I say, “Why don’t we go check it out from the library and get started with how to prepare for your essay.”
We stand at the same time and head toward the books, leaving our stuff at the table. There are very few people in the library, so I don’t worry about someone taking our things.
As we walk toward the classical fiction section of the library, I can’t help but notice Camden’s arm grazing mine as we walk side by side or the goose bumps that appear at the simple touch. My normal reaction would be to step away. Physical contact has been something I have avoided for four years. At first, it made me physically ill. A simple hug would send me running to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Over time and with the help from my therapist and Emree, I have gotten better. I still don’t initiate physical touch, but now it makes me only slightly uncomfortable.
Camden’s simple touch doesn’t send me running, though. The hair from his tanned arm tickles mine and every so often I feel a slight static shock. He’s warm. I can feel his body heat beside me, like a human space heater.
We stop in front of the classical fiction section. I take a slight step away, needing the distance. He starts looking through the books on the row at eye level. “What’s the dude’s name again?” he asks.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
He turns to me with a questioning look. “You think he’d be under the Ss or Fs? Man has to make it difficult having two last names,” he scoffs.
His question makes me wonder too. Two last names does make it difficult when categorizing an author’s name in a library. “Not sure,” I say. “How about you take the Ss and I’ll take the Fs.”
He nods in agreement, and we part ways in search of the novel.
* * *
An hour later,Camden has all the tools he needs to write an A+ essay. He is still skeptical about the novel, but I think that is just because he isn’t much of a reader. I wrote out a guide for him on what notes to take while readingThe Great Gatsbyand specific questions to keep in mind that he can incorporate into his essay. If he focuses on the tools I provided for him, he’ll be fine.
I start closing my textbooks and stuffing them into my backpack. “Well, I’m glad I could be of help to you. I truly hope you enjoy the book. It really is a great classic.”
He leans back and his eyes are slightly squinted as he watches my every move. “You should go out with me,” he says casually.
I pause. That was not something I expected to come out of his mouth. I haven’t been asked out in…well, four years.
“Oh, um,” I stutter. Words are not forming correctly and I’m having a hard time coming up with a response.
He grabs his textbook. “Just think about it.” He smiles and heads out of the library, leaving me completely speechless.
9
CAMDEN
Sweat drips off my forehead and is streaming down my face. I lift the bottom of my shirt and swipe it from forehead to chin. Coach is running us hard during practice with the most brutal drills. Two of my teammates are off on the sideline, vomiting up their breakfast, Maddox is by the benches, drenching his head with his water bottle, and Conrad is lying flat on his back, trying to catch his breath.
Suicides are the most perfect name for the drill we just completed.
Our team was on a winning streak last year, ultimately gaining the title of NCAA Men’s Soccer Champions. A title I so proudly wear.
This year is different, though. We lost three of our best players as well as our team captain due to them being seniors and graduating. To say our team took a shift in our performance would be putting it lightly.
We have lost our dynamic, and with our first game coming up, we need to get it back. Like now.
Coach blows his whistle, gaining everyone’s attention. We’ve been at this practice for over two hours now and I know all the guys have reached their limit. “Get your sorry asses over here,” he shouts.
Not wanting to piss him off and get on his bad side, we all drag our bodies toward Coach by the goal and I drop my body to the ground in front of the team. Coach goes on about how we need to come back from the loss of our last year’s seniors and get our heads out of our asses to win another championship this year. I understand the need for a pep talk, but it’s not like all of us don’t know this.
“All right, men, hit the showers. Today was better than it’s been the last few weeks. We need to get it perfect before the game against Cornwall. We nearly let them win last year and I’ll be damned if I give their sorry excuse of a coach any hope for that championship,” he says. Coach Walters and the Cornwall coach, Brian Hanson, have had beef between the two of them that none of us can understand. Maddox thinks it has to do with some chick since Hanson is known for being a player, even well into his forties.
We all moan and groan as we head into the locker room. No matter how many times the janitors clean this place, it has a permanent stench of sweat, BO, and Icy Hot.
Stripping out of my sweat-drenched uniform, I wrap my towel around my waist and head for the showers. They are all divided by a wall a little over waist height and I silently thank whoever designed this locker room because it’s better than the ones where we’re all just standing around naked, just a few feet away from each other. I love my teammates like family, but some things are just…too close.
