I recognize the man I see there. None other than the ringleader of my high school bullies.
Chase Brennan.
And so, once more, I flee Scotch & Smoke.
Chapter Fourteen
AJ
I watched her sleep.
Ordinarily, I’d say that was a creepy ass thing to do, but I did it. Listened to the sound of her breathing. Traced the shape of her nose and lips with my eyes. She looked so peaceful.
Ordinarily, if I’m in the same bed as a girl, and we’re not having sex because the deed is already done, I’m looking to be outta there. Fixing up a bike or outside doing pull-ups. Any place but in the bed. But in Roswell, I lay there and I watched her.
Roswell was the only time I ever shared a bed with a woman, and we weren’t getting down to it. Hollie Palmer’s not that kind of girl. Yet, sharing a bed with her has ignited something inside me.
I must have fallen asleep sitting up. At some point I must have moved down, so that I was lying next to her. When I woke up, her body was next to mine, our faces close, but not touching. Rather than roll the other way, I stayed.
‘AJ!’ Chase hollers at me, and I glance up.
I really don’t wanna be losing to him at pool right now.
I don’t wanna be doing anything right now. I’d rather be staring at a wall.
Yet here I am, again. Late on a Thursday afternoon in Scotch & Smoke, Chase Brennan kickin’ my ass at eight-ball. But today, it’s worse, because I can’t concentrate. I can’t even get my aim right to secure a single ball in the goddamn pocket.
She’s everywhere I look.
‘What?’
‘Your turn. Man, what’swithyou?’
Chase cracks his knuckles. He’s a Mr Fix-It, though he works for cash and is too lazy to set up a proper business on his own. He wears the same blue and white lumberjack hooded shirt over a white tee most days, paired with distressed workman’s jeans I’m not sure he’s ever washed. He’s good at certain things; pretends to be good at others. Either way, he spends too much time at Scotch & Smoke, shooting pool, bitchin’ about never having any spare dimes and whinin’ about rich college kids.
I pick up my cue. Take in the position of the balls on the blue felt. ‘Nothing’s with me.’
I lean forward, line it up and miss my shot, sending a high ball rolling along the rail.
‘Sure, something’s with you,’ he says. ‘I’m sick of it, man.’
‘Sick of what?’
‘Of you… I don’t know. Bein’ on another planet the whole time!’
He bends and thwacks the orange low ball, pockets it. I lean on my cue stick and wince. I look down at my grease-stained fingernails, then run my fingers through my hair and keep my eyes to the floor. I’m not good at this shit.
Theemotionalshit.
Chase pockets another and I know I’m toast.
‘Free shot if you straight up confess,’ he says, pointing the end of his stick in my direction.
This jackass has been my friend since we were in second grade. Technically, I should be able to spill my guts to him about anything, but this feels like unfamiliar territory. Usually, we talk about sports. Or cars. Or booze. Or fucking up college kids from Canyon U.
‘How do you know if you like somebody?’ I blurt out when he leans over the table. Within a second, he straightens. Looks my way. The way he’s looking at me, he already knows I’m outta my depth.
‘Like…likelike?’ he questions.