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“Yeah, for fun,” I respond. “I don’t want to be nitpicked for tone and range and whatever else they’re always talking about on those singing competition shows.”
“There wouldn’t be anything to nitpick, Lennon. I mean, everyone was saying…”
He trails off before he finishes the sentence, but we both know what he was going to say. Neither of us have brought up Gramps’s funeral since the August morning it took place.
“You’re good,” he finishes.
We walk out of the atrium and into the September afternoon. I’m silent; so is Caleb.
“I wish I could call him and tell him everything I just told you,” I admit, keeping my gaze on a gray squirrel scampering along the paved path we’re walking on. “About my classes and about the fire alarm going off in the middle of the night. About all of it.”
“He’d be crazy proud of you, Len,” Caleb tells me quietly.
“I know,” I whisper.
I’m not just saying it to agree. I know Gramps would be proud. It’s just not the same as getting to see the look unfold on his face first-hand. Hearing it in his voice.
“Come here.”
I turn and collapse against Caleb’s chest, resting my cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. This isn’t the weather where snuggling and sharing body heat appeals as an enjoyable experience, but we do it anyway.
He smells familiar. Comforting.
He feels solid. Safe.
“I love you, Len,” Caleb whispers into my hair.
I pull back and give him a wobbly smile. “Yeah, I love you too.”
“Text me a photo of your clay creation, yeah?”
Wobbly turns steady.
Caleb’s always been excellent at knowing just what I need.
Letting me fall apart.
Helping me hold it together.
“Yeah, I will,” I assure him.
He gives me a quick kiss and then strides away toward what I’m assuming is the sports center.
I thought it was the other way, but I definitely won’t be telling Caleb that.
I head in the opposite direction. My pottery class starts in a half hour, and it’ll probably take me every minute to find the art building.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE
CALEB
The atmosphere in the locker room is electric. This is our first scrimmage against another team. Not officially the start of the season, but the start of something.
None of the games we play will count for months, but this game is against Lancaster, one of our main rivals. It’s our chance to set the tone for what sort of team we’ll be this year.
A championship-winning one, if I have any say in it.
Normally, I close myself off before games. I let the world fade to white noise aside from visualizing exactly how fast and how far I’ll throw a sphere of leather-coated cork and yarn.
