Page 13 of The Long Way Home
The one he gave me after that house party my freshman year. The night the temperature dropped, I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. The alcohol, coupled with my glaring insecurities, forced me to step too close that night. I pushed the line he had drawn between us.
I wanted him to cross it so badly it almost hurt. And in one devastating moment of hesitation, I let myself believe his feelings might mirror mine.
But I was wrong.
I’m always wrong.
I sink to the floor with the sweatshirt pooled in my lap. The fabric is softer now, thinned with time. It’s worn in a way that makes my chest ache. My thumb moves over the stretched collar, tracing invisible lines, chasing the ghost of a feeling I can’t seem to find anywhere else.
I’ve tried. I’ve loved other people, let myself fall, let myself be known. I’ve let hands touch me, mouths kiss me, bodies press close. Hell, I’ve moved cities, built a life that doesn’t includehim. I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself that time and distance would dull whatever this is.
But nothing ever fills the space he carved in me, and the insane part is I have never even had him. He has only ever looked at me, and yet nothing lights up my arms with goosebumps or sets my skin buzzing the way his attention does. Tonight, I felt it again, and no matter how hard I reached for something else, it followed me home.
I squeeze the sweatshirt tighter, letting the sadness press down. I want the frustration to burn. And while I try and focus of the anger, quietly, a thin thread of relief slips in. He’ll leave. He’ll go back to his life, far from here, and I won’t have to face him again. I can fold this feeling up, tuck it into the dark and pretend it never existed. I’ve gotten very good at pretending.
I let the sweatshirt fall loosely into my lap and stare into the quiet.
I could lie and say I’m hopeful I’ll find that feeling with someone else, that someday someone will look at me and my skin will light up the way it does with him. But I’m a terrible liar, and hope doesn’t live here anymore.
Chapter Four
RHETT
Twelve years ago
College Junior Year
It is mid-eighties, and the brutal, late-August heat sits heavy over campus. Red and black flood the lot as Georgia lines up against UMass for the home opener. Music bleeds from every direction. Burgers hiss on the grills around us. Someone’s already shirtless and drunk enough to think that’s a good idea.
Game days are the one thing I’ll never get tired of.
I finish setting up our grill, sweat already rolling down my spine, when I spot Josh jogging toward me from across the lot. His grin hits first. It always does.
“She’s here,” he says, breathless. I glance over his shoulder expecting whoever he is talking about to materialize.
“Who’s here?”
“My sister. Rachel.” He grins wider, as if the presence of his sister should mean something to me. “She brought a friend. Be cool.”
I straighten and brush my hands on my shorts, already irritated. “Be cool?”
He doesn’t answer. Just gestures vaguely behind me.
I turn, and that’s when I see her.
Rachel.
I’ve heard plenty about Josh’s family over the years. Two years of living with him, a spring break detour and one disastrous road trip that ended at his parents’ place. I’ve met both his mom and his dad. They are kind people. I’ve also eaten more of their food than I probably deserved.
Just never mether.
She has Josh’s eyes. Same shape. Same color. But where his are loud and reckless, hers are quieter. Watchful. I stare as they take in the crowd. There is a hesitation there I recognize.
She is nothing like her brother.
Josh once jumped off a roof into a kiddie pool for twenty bucks and a warm PBR. She looks like the type who would’ve stood, arms crossed, already knowing how that story would end.
Her hair is pulled into a braid, a few strands clinging to her forehead, hinting at effort even when the sun is trying to undo it. A Georgia baseball jersey hangs loose, a black tank peeking out beneath. Light pulls my attention downward, tracing the careless edge of cut denim and the long, easy lines it leaves bare. Her legs catch the sunlight in ways that make me blink.
