“You mean people like me?”
JD places those large, warm hands over mine again. “Not what I meant, but I guess, in a way, yeah. I have two parents. Live in a big house. Get everything I want.”
“Not everything,” I reply, referring to his father. JD wants his father to see him, to love him for who he is, not for the football he plays.
“My turn,” he says, and switches the positions of our hands. Of course, he gets a slap on the first try.
“I think this game is rigged in your favor,” I complain, and he winks at me. Instead of my stomach dropping, every abdominal muscle clenches.
“What were you and that guy, Trevor, talking about when I showed up?”
My lips compress into a thin line. Sneaky bastard. But a deal is a deal, and I never back out on a promise.
“Trevor may be my brother.”
“Maybeyour brother? You don’t know?”
“Nope.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
The end-of-lunch bell rings out through the quad.
“Literally saved by the bell,” he tells me, and helps me up from my sitting position.
I brush the pine needles from my backside and bend down to put all my stuff back in my bag. JD beats me to it, then slings my bag over his shoulder.
“Come on. I’ll walk you to class. And don’t tell me that I don’t have to because I am.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
He looks at me. “Right.”
I roll my eyes.
“Yo, JD!”
We turn to see Dustin and Prescott making a beeline our way. Dustin, Prescott, and JD have been best friends for as long as I can remember. Prescott is the more playful of the three with his joking manner, deep brown eyes, and curly light-blond hair. Dustin is the more serious one with his calm, pensive hazel eyes and dark-brown hair shorn short all around. JD is the more responsible one with a sweet and caring disposition. All three of them are tall, over six feet, and imposing next to my five-foot six-inch frame.
“Where the hell were you at lunch?” Dustin asks him. “Hey, Rory.”
“Hey, Dustin.”
“What? Am I invisible?” Prescott quips, slinging his arm around my shoulders.
The contact makes me stumble sideways into JD, who takes my hand again, threading his fingers through mine. I don’t notice at first, however, because Prescott is talking a mile a minute and I’m having trouble keeping up with the conversation. Something about Fallen Brook High and Friday’s football game.
“You’re coming, right?” Prescott asks me.
“Coming where?”
“Our first home game.”
“She’s coming,” JD answers for me.
It is then I realize that we’re holding hands again, and I swiftly remove mine. How does he keep doing that?
