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“Okay.”
His lips meet mine again, warm and electrifying.
I’m surprised—and unsettled—to realize I would happily stand here all day.
And that’s a massive problem. Because everyone knows Caleb Winters is destined for big, impressive things. In places bigger and far more worldly than Landry, Kentucky.
And I’m…not.
I’ll be here, long after he leaves.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
LENNON
It happens gradually: the shift in my life to accommodate the different way I view Caleb Winters.
I oversleep on Monday morning, since there was too much bouncing around my head Sunday night to fall right asleep.
Instead of avoiding Caleb, I look for him in the halls between periods. But I don’t see Caleb until English. He’s talking to Marcus Cooper when I walk into the classroom. Our eyes connect and we share a smile, but that’s the extent of any interaction.
Throughout the rest of the day, my nerves about Gym multiply. I managed to hit the ball three times before Caleb and I left the field yesterday, but that was out of too many unsuccessful attempts for me to feel any confidence. And it feels like there’s a lot more riding on this than a grade.
“You’re up, Lennon,” Mr. Evans calls, halfway through class. I’m the only person who has yet to successfully complete the requirement
By the time I reach home plate, my palms are so sweaty it’s a struggle to hold the bat. I run the advice Caleb gave me yesterday on repeat, praying it’ll be enough to get me through this.
Mr. Evans throws the first pitch. I swing too early, missing the ball by millimeters. My stomach clenches, dread and nerves swirling around. The second pitch glances off the top, skittering to the side as a foul ball.
I try to block out the whispers behind me, but it’s a challenge. My grip tightens around the bat as I glance over my shoulder, finding Caleb’s gaze immediately. He gives me a small nod.
I turn back around, choking up on the bat a little and waiting for the next pitch. When it comes, I swing at the perfect moment. Ball and bat connect with a satisfying crack. I watch with a mixture of shock and satisfaction as the baseball goes flying. Farther and farther, until it disappears from sight.
Mr. Evans is just as stunned as I am, his eyebrows flying up his forehead. “Congratulations, Lennon. You passed.” He glances past me. “Nice work, Caleb.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, burying the urge to snap at a teacher. “Lennon is the one who hit the ball,” Caleb replies.
Mr. Evans smiles. “Of course, if you want to be modest. No wonder the baseball team is so successful.”
I drop the bat. The blatant favoritism is hard to stomach. Just one of hundreds of examples of Landry’s snobbery.
Everyone stares as I walk back toward the dugout. I pause in front of Caleb. “Thanks for your help, Winters.” The words come out snarkier than I mean them to, Mr. Evans’s dismissal fresh in my mind.
A muscle jumps in Caleb’s jaw. “That’s it?”
“Is there something else I should be thanking you for?”
He shakes his head. Scoffs. “Nope.”
I keep walking. We don’t speak for the rest of class.
* * *
Three days later, I grab a racquet from the bin in the equipment room. We’ve moved on from baseball to tennis.
When I turn around, Caleb is standing there.
Impulsively, I grab another racquet and hold it out to him. “Hi.”
