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Maybe I’m getting over it.
Maybe there’s only so long you can be consumed by something before you risk letting it consume you.
And honestly? I’m sick of it. I can’t do a fucking thing to change my record against Alleghany. Getting up at six to lift weights and shower before school was the tip of the iceberg when it came to my dedication to beating them.
Alleghany wasn’t better than me. Weston was.Is. He’s the starting quarterback for one of the top football programs in the country. ESPN commentators know his name. He’s got a good shot at getting drafted, and not at the bottom of the heap. Weston made Arlington’s starting quarterback—Cam Wilson—look like a PeeWee reject when we played Lincoln this past fall. Drive can take you far—but talent can’t be replicated. I could only work on one of those.
Bright sunshine streams in through the window as I sit up in bed and scroll through the first few texts on my phone. There’s one from my dad, reminding me about the training I’m supposed to be doing. Another from my mom, sent last night, checking to see if I arrived safely. I respond, letting her know I did.
The rest are notifications from my group chat with the guys, which I ignore. I toss my phone back on the nightstand and rub at my face before standing and pulling on the mesh shorts I dropped next to the bed last night. They’re a reminder—of something I’m trying not to think about.
I open my bedroom door, revealing the empty hallway. For a few seconds, I stare at the closed door directly across from mine.
This weekend was supposed to be my escape. From football. From lifeguarding. From dealing with my dad. From Maeve’s disappointed looks and Weston’s presence.
Natalie’s presence here complicates that, and not just for the reasons I expected.
I head downstairs and outside without encountering anyone. The air smells fresh and pure, a cleansed product of the storm last night. I stretch on the front porch, then start an easy jog down the quiet street. My breaths inhale and exhale in an even rhythm as my feet hit the pavement.
At the end of the street, I take a left, heading toward the sound of surf. The road dead-ends at a small parking area that leads to a path between dunes and beach grass. I follow it, my sneakers sinking and dragging through the sand.
A haze lingers above the water and veils the sun. The air is thick with saltiness and humidity that coats my skin and saturates my hair with stickiness. Bursts of a cool breeze blow about as I continue running, passing modest cottages and glass-fronted mansions. I’ve heard my mom talk about work enough to know that even the smallest homes I’m passing are worth a lot.Location, location, location, and all that.
As I run, I finally allow myself to think about the encounter last night. I went downstairs for a glass of water and walked back up with the taste of a girl I should hate on my lips. Natalie Jacobs tasted like cinnamon and forbidden desires. After snooping through our shared bathroom this morning, I learned she uses cinnamon toothpaste.
The forbidden is self-explanatory.
She grew up in Alleghany. She’s friends with guys who taunted me mercilessly. With Weston Cole—and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn they’ve hooked up. Based on my understanding of Alleghany’s social dynamic, she was the queen to Weston’s king.
All of those are indirect slights. Natalie celebrated—cheered—every loss I fought so hard to turn into a win. That feels direct—feels personal.
She should hate me by default. But I’m the one with a vendetta. Not to mention, it’s much easier to move on from something when you’re the one who came out on top.
I shouldn’t have walked out onto that deck. I was…curious, mostly. There are certain people you encounter who you can tell are hiding a lot below the surface. Or maybe I’m just more attuned to it since I’m one of them.
I thought Natalie Jacobs was more than a perky cheerleader. More than the party girl or the popular girl with a rich family and a perfect life she portrays herself as.
And I was right.
Confirmation—an explanation for why she was at the Fayetteville police station that night—might have been enough to shift the way I see her. But I was partially prepared for an answer to the question I asked. Especially after Tessa’s comment about Natalie’s home life.
I was not at all prepared for her to kiss me. I’m not sure if there’s anything else that could have shocked me more.
And that’s exactly what it felt like—a shock. Like I’d been in a daze that she snapped me out of. It felt like a fever dream where everything is elevated and intangible at once.
I’d never kissed a girl in the middle of the night during a summer storm before. Maybe that’s why it felt so different. I certainly wasn’t worried Natalie was kissing me because I play football, which is often the case at Arlington.
I haveno ideawhy she kissed me.
First.
Back.
At all.
My plan to ignore her all weekend just got a lot more complicated. Alleghany cheerleader or not, Natalie Jacobs is a total knockout, plain and simple. She caught my attention the second I saw her in that waiting room, and she would have, even if there had been a couple dozen other people packed inside.
Which is also confusing. There’s never been a girl I paid much attention to, outside of when I’m actually around her. I was known at Glenmont High as being the serious, reliable guy. The one who never let loose and was always responsible. So was Maeve. We each had small, tight-knit friend groups with some slight overlap. We were—are—both athletes. Did well in school. Neither of us dated anyone seriously—until Maeve met Weston.
