"There you are! I thought you went off the grid." Mey hurries through the school parking lot, her fingers curling around the hem of her short skirt to keep it from riding up her thighs. Kobe follows after her, a book bag slug over each shoulder.
I shut my car door and wait for them to catch up.
"Did you get my texts yesterday? I've been dying to talk to you," she says, slightly out of breath. When Mey meets my eyes, I look away.
"Sorry. Yesterday was kind of ... busy." Busy waiting for Emma to contact me like she said, only it never happened.
"Well? Did you see her?" Her face is flushed. I'm not sure if it's with excitement or because of her jaunt through the parking lot, but there's a rosy glow to her pale cheeks that's not usually there.
"If you want to call it that." A burst of warm autumn air rushes past. I unzip my jacket, and push the hair from my face. "She stopped by Saturday night but didn't stay for very long."
Kobe slides Mey's backpack around her shoulders, and she gives him a wide smile. Their subtle display of affection leaves an odd ache in my chest. I shift my weight, not wanting to stare, but there's nothing else to focus on. The gesture's not exactly intimate, but it feels like a special moment all the same, and I'm some random weirdo spying on them from behind a tree.
"Did she say what happened?" Kobe asks when he finally turns my way. "Smith said she still hasn't called him."
"She hasn't called me either." Mey scoops her dark hair from behind and lets it fall over her chest. "Last year, I saw a Dateline episode about a lady who escaped from her kidnappers and ended up with some kind of post-traumatic stress amnesia. For all we know, Emma doesn't even remember us."
I don't know why this irritates me, but it does. "She remembers you." Or she remembers Smith anyway. So, that disqualifies Mey's theory on trauma-induced amnesia. "The only thing she said was that she didn't want to talk about it. It's all she's been doing since she came back."
"That makes sense. If I were her, I'd probably want to forget, too. Did she seem okay?" Kobe asks as we start toward the school, stopping every few feet to let a car maneuver past.
All I've been doing since Saturday night is analyze everything Emma said. Over and over as if I'm watching a YouTube video on repeat. I wish I were. That way I could pick apart each facial expression, every inflection of speech. Try to read between the lines of every single thing that was said.
But I can't. The moment's come and gone. Now all I can do is wait for the next and hope it's more telling than the last.
"For the most part, I guess. But she looks a lot different. She lost, like, forty pounds."
Mey gasps. "Are you serious? That's like a third of a person!"
I shrug. "And as far as her personality goes, she seemed almost—normal. It was weird."
Kobe takes the back steps two at a time and opens the door to let us in. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well ..." I debate how to respond. Emma didn't give me much information to go off of, but she never said anything was a secret. "Her feet were bandaged up. And she said something about having to crawl out of the woods."
She said something else too, about not knowing how Smith will feel when he finds out what happened, but I'm keeping that to myself. I couldn't even share it with Smith. The words wouldn't come out, no matter how hard I tried to coax them.
We pause at Mey's locker. She removes a book from her bag and tosses the sack in with a thud, smooshing a pile of crumpled papers stuffed on the bottom shelf. "Poor Emma. I hope she's okay. Did you tell her about you and Smith?"
The quease in my stomach is immediate. "No!" It comes out louder than I expect and both Mey and Kobe stare at me. "I mean, we're going to. We're just holding off to see how she is first."
"Damn," Kobe says as he closes the locker door. "That's a conversation I wouldn't want to have."
Neither do I, I want to say. Instead, I give them a wave and head in the direction of Smith's locker.
As soon as he sees me, a slow grin takes over his face. "There you are."
His arms wrap around me and I sink into the hug. He smells like soap and fabric softener, with more than a hint of vanilla coffee. A cappuccino after his morning workout is one of those funny little habits he has that make him seem so much more grown up than me. Like he's this mature adult living in a teenage boy's body and is waiting for me to catch up.
I wish we could snuggle like this all day. When I'm in Smith's arms, I feel safe. Nothing or no one can touch me. "How are you?" I say into his chest.
He pulls away too soon and a chill crawls under my jacket and across my skin. "I'm good. Did you get to see Emma again?"
"Nope." I fidget next to him and stuff my hands into my pockets. "Don't you think that's weird? She said she was going to come over, but she never even texted me."
"Didn't she also say it was dependent upon her parents?" he reminds me diplomatically. "Maybe they're too worried to let her leave the house? She's all over the news again. Have you seen it?"
"I didn't have a choice. Mom's been pouring over the local stations every chance she gets."
Emma's story even made the national news. Small-town Girl, Back from the Dead, the news reports say. As far as I can tell, the police don't know any more than we do. Either that, or they're intentionally keeping quiet while they search for leads.
I wait for Smith to say more, but he doesn't. So, I extend an invitation. "Do you want to come over after practice today?"
"What if Emma sees my car?"
It's a reasonable question. But the risk will be worth the reward. "We'll be careful. Besides, I never did make those chocolate chip cookies I promised. And I feel like I've barely seen you lately."
"I know, I'm sorry." He rests his forehead against mine. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too."
A sudden need surges through me like a wildfire. It's been a long time since we've been alone together. I mean, really alone. Between my soccer schedule and Smith's extracurricular activities, there haven't been many opportunities. But the desire for privacy continues to intensify. On my end, anyway.
Smith is the first boyfriend I've had, and he's the only one I've ever wanted. How I feel when I'm with him is unlike anything I've ever known. Sometimes it scares me, that deep-seated craving to have him all to myself. It's this peculiar warmth that starts in the pit of my stomach and works its way through my limbs, and before long, it consumes every inch of my body until it's the only thing left.
Does he feel it, too?
I think he does. We've never gone all the way, but there are times when I think he wants to—that I know he wants to. It just hasn't happened yet.
And now, I wonder if it ever will.
The five-minute warning bell sounds overhead and a rush of students migrate down the hall toward their classes.
Smith plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. "Don't forget I have an All Hands on Deck meeting during lunch. It's the only time the speaker could squeeze us in."
My shoulders sink, and I can't keep the disappointment from my voice. "I won't see you today at all, will I?"
"You'll see me after practice." He gives me a lopsided grin. "I'll meet you at your house, okay?"
I nod, and once again, that familiar sense of longing sparks in my chest. Now all I have to do is figure out how to get through the rest of the day.
I can't breathe.
I hunch over, sucking in mouthfuls of autumn air, as the sun beats down on the back of my head. Sweaty wisps of blonde hair escape my messy bun and cling to my forehead, but I'm too exhausted to care. I pushed myself today, and it left my legs like jelly.
"That's a wrap, ladies. Good practice! Now get outta here," Coach yells from the sidelines. She toe boxes the soccer ball before catching it with her hands. "Arbor, can you hang back for a minute? I want to talk to you."
As everyone heads towards the locker room, I lag behind, still trying to catch my breath.
"You kicked butt today, girl. Making up for missing Saturday's game?" Coach says, handing over my Hydro Flask.
I take a long swig, relishing the cool liquid as it slides down my parched throat. After I've drained the entire bottle, I swipe my forearm across my mouth, and look away. "Sorry about that. I had cramps."
"Yeah, that's what you said." Her brows raise and she gives me a knowing look. "Are you sure it didn't have something to do with Emma being home?"
I try not to wince, but can feel the admission on my face. Instead of telling Coach a lie I know I'll regret, I give her a thin-lipped smile and shrug.
Her expression softens. "How is she?"
It's the same question I've been asked all day. During class, in the hallways, all through lunch in the cafeteria. And not just by students, even the teachers wanted details. Emma's return was the only subject on everyone's mind.
"I don't know. She seemed okay, considering. But she never said what happened."
She readjusts the cap on her head, her salt and pepper ponytail poking out the slit in the back. "I'm sure she's been through hell. It may take a long time before she's ready to open up. But she'll get there. Emma's one of the toughest girls I've had the pleasure of coaching."
My gaze drops to the grass. Emma is tough, and filling her shoes on the soccer field hasn't been easy. Not only is she a disciplined leader, but she's an excellent communicator too, with more than enough confidence in herself and the team. She's earned the admiration and respect of every single player, and has a rapport with each one of them in ways I'll never manage.
"Do you know who else impresses me?" Our eyes reconnect. "You. I know you were surprised when I named you captain, but you have never once disappointed me. You're stronger than you think, and your instincts are spot on. You need to trust them more." Coach pauses, like she has more to say but doesn't know how. And then finally, "Chapel Hill called today. They liked your highlight video."
My stomach drops out from underneath me. When I attempt to respond, all that comes out is a breathy whoosh of air.
Coach rocks back on her heels and laughs. "I take it you haven't heard from them yet?"
I shake my head, still unable to speak.
"Dreams do come true. You just keep doing what you're doin' out there, and everything will fall into place." She nods toward the school building and gives me an affectionate pat on the back. "Why don't you take off? I'm sure you have better things to do than hang out here all day."
Before she turns away, I clear my throat and somehow find my voice. "Couch? I appreciate all you've done for me. Forcing me out of my comfort zone, and convincing me to give this a shot—being captain, I mean. Thank you doesn't seem like enough."
"Keep making me proud," she says with a motherly smile. "That's all the thanks I need."
The sun hides behind a cloud as I cross the field and I spread my arms wide, allowing the valley breeze to infiltrate my sweat-soaked T-shirt. By the time I make it to the locker room, it's empty. I grab the bag from my locker, stuff my water bottle inside, and fish around for my car keys, my mind still reeling over the news about North Carolina.
For as long as I can remember, that's where I've wanted to go to college, ever since I discovered Mia Hamm on YouTube. Her soccer-playing prime took place before I was even born, when she helped the university win four consecutive championship titles and led the national team at three Olympic Games.
Yet her accomplishments are still held in high regard today. She's one of the most talented female soccer players that have ever lived, and to represent the very same team she played for when she was starting out would be a dream come true. I can't wait to tell my parents that all our hard work has paid off, but when I shut my locker door, something makes me jump.
I'm not alone.
Jordan Pacey is watching me, her jaw working back and forth like she's preparing for a confrontation.
I don't know her well. We've never spoken outside of soccer, but now we're inches apart, her short auburn waves framing a heart-shaped face, her green gaze clamped onto mine like a vise.
I try to laugh it off, but the attempt is feeble. "You scared me."
At first, she doesn't say anything. Her hands are curled around the straps of her gym bag, the bottom resting on the floor between her cleats. "How's Emma?"
I let out a slow breath. She just wants to know the same thing as everyone else. I force a smile to ease the tension. "I only saw her for a few minutes, but she seemed —" my brain searches for an appropriate word, "— resilient."
Jordan's shoulders relax, but her expression remains fixed. It's obvious she's working hard to hold it in place. "Was she with someone she knew?"
It takes a beat before the question sinks in. "Why would she have been with someone she —"
"Forget it. I have to go." Jordan swings the gym bag over her shoulder and pushes a hand through her damp hair. It's then that I notice her fingers are shaking.
But before I can ask more, she stalks out the door, leaving me with another unanswered question.