“No, but he’s like…always in my fucking business. He’s always asking me about school, and basketball, and shit like that. It’s not like he really cares.”
It’s hard to know exactly what to say. My instinct is to defend James—hedoescare, and he’s just trying to figure shit out—but I also don’t want to jump in too hard because Nash needs someone too, and if he’s talking to me, it means he feels comfortable with me. It’s the last thing I would have expected a few months ago—to have a fifteen-year-old kid trust me and for that to mean so much—but here we are.
“I’m sure it feels that way to you. And I can understand why it does. But as someone who is James’s friend, I promise you he cares.”
Nash doesn’t answer, just keeps walking and dribbling.
“You’re used to being on your own. It makes sense that it’s an adjustment having someone interfering in your life. If my mom had ever remarried after my dad left, I’m sure I would have felt the same. I was the oldest. To me, I was the man of the house—and I hate using that saying.”
“Super fucking misogynistic,” he says.
“Right? But you know what I mean. I felt like I took care of my mom and Dakota—that’s my younger brother—and I’m not sure how I would have taken to someone else trying todo that. Is that how it feels with James?”
“I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.”
“It’s okay to, though, to need someone or, hell, even if you don’t need them, it’s okay to want someone there.” Nash and James don’t realize how alike they are. James doesn’t want to need or want anyone either. They’re both so damn afraid of letting anyone in that they’re spending so much time hurting themselves.
“Your dad left?” he asks.
“He did. There one day, gone the next. I took some responsibility at first. I look back now, and I know that’s not true, but again, I was the oldest. I’m a caretaker by nature, and I felt like I did something wrong, or I should have been able to make him stay. That was just my brain playing tricks on me. Maybe yours is doing something similar with James. Not the responsibility part, but maybe telling yourself some things that aren’t true.”
He shrugs. He disagrees but doesn’t argue, so I’m taking that as a win. Not wanting to push, when I see the court down the block, I take a page from his book the last time we played and say, “Race you there.”
He turns my way and smiles, scoops up the ball, and says, “Go!” then takes off.
I laugh and run after him, enjoying the friendly competition. Nash is fast, and there’s zero chance I’ll beat him, but I don’t give up, skidding to a stop behind him, out of breath. “You’re not even breathing heavily, you little shit,” I tease, and he laughs.
“Sorry, old man.”
“Hey, who are you calling old? I’m only twenty-eight.”
“Oh. I thought you were closer to James’s age,” he replies, and I cringe. Not because I have a problem with the age gap or think James is old, but talking about our ages makes mefeel one step closer to being his student, even if that’s not the case.
“He’s not old either,” I defend.
“He acts it.”
“That’s because he had to be responsible his whole life…maybe like you…”
Nash ignores that, saying, “Catch,” and throwing the ball to me.
I catch it, dribbling and jogging toward the basket, making a layup. “How do you want to do this?”
“Maybe we can go through some drills and stuff? I looked some up online. I can defend like a motherfucker, but I need to work on my shot.”
It always catches me off guard when he curses in front of me, but I have to remember he lived a different life than I did. “Okay. That’s what we’ll work on, then.”
“Bet.” He smiles.
And somehow that makes me feel invincible, like what I’m doing really matters, and I don’t want to fuck it up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
James
It’s been aweek.
Nash and Colton played basketball together every single day. Nash always meets him outside, the two of them heading off together, then Nash coming back to the apartment alone.
