Dark Places

52.2 | no, i hated you

"Okay, so hypothetically..." Drake drags the word out, feigning an innocent curiosity for the scenario I so eloquently painted for him. "...am I the zombies? Because as much as I adore your wittiness, I don't think I'd ever eat your brains," he argues, and I draw a long, deep breath, reining in a ragged bemusement. Only him. "Frankly, Melo, I'm offended by the idea that you think I'd ever be on an opposing team. I'm not into it."

I frown.

Suddenly, I'm sixteen again, in PE, always being picked first when the shortstop for the Varsity Portland Bulldogs was Team Captain. Drake Medina, jerking his chin at me subtly. "Melo, you're with me."

Even if I could barely hit a volleyball or shoot a basketball or kill a zombie.

"I'd be, like, a third party, like, you know, that white guy with the eyepatch in Escape From New York," he continues to ramble cluelessly, as if I'm not drowning, in front of him, neck deep in nasty, unforgiving nostalgia. I'd been so over my head with him. "I'd drop in to get you, because Jesus, Luz, what did you do to end up in that situation? How do you survive without me?"

I want him to shut up about my hypothetical scenario. I want to bang my head against the table. I want the ache in my chest to stop, stop, stop hurting. But mostly, I want to kiss him.

"You'd go Kurt Russell for me?" I hear myself sniffle, and I hate it. "Really?"

"Mmm, ya tú sabes, always got your back, jeva."

My stupid, stupid, stupid heart.

I thought it was gone, but it was just busy being attacked, and ahora mismo, against the flood of memories, it bows and breaks.

"Do you remember when you let me into that locker room to trash Tyler's shit?"

Drake jams the straw into his drink sharply. "Mhm. Oh, yeah. Cost me two games. I got benched for that."

"Aw, you got benched for me," I tease, acutely aware of that sticky sweet, candied coating, caramelizing in my chest, threatening to spill out in a gooey, sugary clump. Ugh. Why? Stiffening, I shrink back into the seat to tuck my hair behind my ear. "No, I- uh, you had my back, you know, and I am sorry about that. It was stupid."

It wasn't too long after that Drake Medina quit playing baseball.

"It wasn't stupid."

His Timberland, smashing into my shin.

Fuck. I wince as I kick him back, indulging in instinct, and Drake concedes, folding his forearms onto the table. "I know you never told me, but you must've known I saw them."

"I know, I just didn't want to drag you into my shit." I muster up a weary smile. I figured Drake knew, and albeit unlike him, had politely ignored my lie about why I wanted to, well, go on a rampage to wreck Tyler's life. "I have heard that you don't enjoy cleaning up my messes."

My head is pounding. I feel sick.

"Luz, I—"

"I know. It was my fault. I was being so fucking stupid. I know, Drake."

"Oh, no, don't do that," he scoffs, shaking his head in annoyance. "You sent me nudes, and I never showed that shit to anyone. Own it, Luz." His brows lift. "It wasn't your fault. It was him, being a dick, trying to impress a bunch of other dicks. I was there. I remember."

Maybe it's supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn't. It just brings back another surge of stupid, stupid, stupid memories. "Jesus." I burrow into my hands to hide my flaming cheeks. "I'd send you 'lucky' photos the night before a game. Oh, fuck, no."