Blake's green and tawny eyes are wide with surprise. Then a crooked grin stretches his mouth, catching adorably on his one snaggy tooth.
I know I just basically told him to fuck off until further notice, but I feel like that notice is already in the mail.
The thing is, until I sort my feelings out, it's not fair to either of us for this to go any further.
He waits while I shave and dress, and then we leave my apartment together and walk down the street to the little diner at the corner. I notice that he's still favoring his leg, and keep my pace deliberately slow.
The diner's always busy on the weekends, but we're lucky and get a small table near the back. I look over the menu, keeping my eyes off Blake with an effort. The memory of his lips on mine, and the promises in the hard strength and solid heat of his body, are making me warm, and it's too early for that kind of discomfort. I need something to distract me.
When the waitress comes by, I order the huevos rancheros, extra hot.
"You like hot stuff, huh?" Blake asks. He ordered waffles.
"When I'm in the mood," I shrug. "You don't?"
Inexplicably, he blushes. "No. I can't really endure it."
I can't figure out why he looks so embarrassed, and then I remember the 'hot truffle' I gave him.
Then I make myself another mental note to rethink that name.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I always ask people about the nuts, but I didn't even think about that. I'm sorry."
He lifts one shoulder. "It hurt, but I liked it."
A lady at the next booth turns to look at us. I replay our exchange in my mind, and my coffee goes down the wrong pipe.
When I'm done choking, I look up to find Blake watching me with that crooked grin. I can't help but return it.
Then I feel the smile slip slowly from my face, like paint washed away in the rain, and I look away.
I realize that what he did was out of fear, and what I did was out of thoughtlessness; his pain lasted minutes, and mine—if I'm honest—is still with me. But I also realize that both hurts were equally unintentional.
When I look back up at him, I see that his smile is gone, too.
"I'm sorry," I say again, quietly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It's okay," he replies, and I can see in his eyes he's right with me. "I know you didn't."
People hurt each other without meaning to all the time, and then they have to live with it. Holding it against them only keeps the wound open longer.
Not that people shouldn't be held accountable.
"The guy who hit you—the drunk driver—did you forgive him?" I ask.
He looks up at something about four feet above my head. "Yeah. Eventually," he says.
"What happened to him?"
His eyes drop back down to mine.
"He's in jail."
"Good," I say, and offer him a shadow of my earlier grin.
Then I tell him what he wants to know.
~
The day after I gave Blake and his team the fudge—Valentine's Day—I walk to school along my normal route. It takes me down an old track through the woods that comes out on the back of campus.
Running is too much for me, but walking is fine, and I enjoy it. The mile and a half each way gives me a chance to wind myself up for school in the morning, and wind down from it in the afternoon.
As I walk along the slightly raised track beneath the bare branches of trees on the cusp of a spring bloom, I let myself get lost in my own thoughts.
I'd woken up with black and purple bruises marking my face and torso, and my heart still broken; but like my bruises, I feel hopeful that, eventually, it will heal.
About halfway to school, that hope is torn from me like the wings of a butterfly ripped off by the cruel and curious fingers of children.
Chad, Brad, and Owen (as I now knew, thanks to Blake) step out from behind the thick trunks of hoary old trees, grins lighting their faces in expectation of some fun.
I freeze for a second, and then my instincts kicked in. 'Fight' is out of the question, so I flee back the way I've come.
Who am I kidding?
Asthmatic kid vs. track team. Place your bets.
They catch me right in the middle of the old bridge that spanned the disused railroad tracks running along the bottom of a narrow ravine.
Chad grabs the back of my pack and drags me to the ground like a dog on a fox.
"Hey! Let me go! Let me go!"
My voice breaks with fear as Chad throws me to Brad, who wrestles the pack from my shoulders and tosses it to Owen.
"Give me my pack!" I yell. My most prized possession is in there. Actually, it isn't even mine, and I can't let anything happen to it.
No matter what.
Brad pushes me to Owen who throws my pack to Chad, and then pins my arms behind my back and forces me to my knees. I throw my head back and almost manage to crush his balls, but he skips backward, releasing me briefly before catching me again.
"Hey—hold him," Chad scolds Owen, who grunts.
Owen reminded me of Jaws from those old James Bond movies. He's tall and weird-looking, doesn't say much, and grins like a creep.
Brad snatches the beanie from my head, ruffles my over-long hair, and cups my bruised jaw in his hand. "Hey, he's got a pretty face. I could almost imagine he's a girl," he says.
"Yeah, close your eyes and it's all the same," Chad laughs.
He opens my pack and dumps the contents out on the ground.
"Stop!" I struggle against Owen's grip like a fish on the end of a line. "Don't touch my stuff!"
"Oh? What is it? Your secret love letters in here or something?"
He rifles through my textbooks, my five-star notebook, and my binder. Then he finds my grandma's recipe book.
"Oh-ho-ho? What's this? 'Favorite fudge?', 'Best brownies,'?" He dissolves in a fit of giggles. "This is so fuckin' gay!"
"DON'T TOUCH MY STUFF!!!" I scream.
Chad turns to me, and nods to Owen. "Hey . . . let him go."
Owen releases me, and I drop to my hands and knees, gasping for air. I need my inhaler, but I need my grandma's notebook more.
"Tell you what," Chad smirks. "You suck us off, and we'll let you go."
"Gross!" Brad objects, grimacing. "He's got braces. Plus he's a dude. What're you on, bro?"
"Like I said, close your eyes and it's all the same." The sneer never leaves his lips, but Chad's eyes go shifty. It seems like Brad's reaction tells him he's strayed onto dangerous ground.
I'm shaking so bad I can hardly speak, and my breath is barely making it past the back of my throat.
"Fuck . . . you," I spit, wheezing through my teeth.
Chad scowls. "No. You know what? Fuck you, fag. You want your precious book? Go get it."
He tosses it over the edge of the bridge.
I don't even think. I just react.
I scramble to my feet and leap. I catch it, and for a moment, I feel like my dad would be proud. I feel like the quarterback who just made the winning touchdown. Chad's eyes go wide in surprise.
Then I fall.
It's only a twenty-five foot drop, but it's far enough. Something crunches when I land, and it's not the gravel. I have a sensation of tingling, like a thousand bees crawling over my skin, and then they sting, and I scream. And then I faint.
It turns out that, despite everything, Chad, Brad, and Owen have at least a shred of decency between them. Someone calls 911. But they report it as attempted suicide.
Some kid jumped off a bridge.
Fucking shit. If I was going to jump off a bridge, I'd choose one that was at least high enough to kill me.