“I don’t recall us talking much about anything,” I retort. It wasn’t meant to be a compliment, but it seems like that’s the way she takes it when she pushes her chest closer to me and peers up at me through her lashes. It does absolutely nothing for me. My pulse doesn’t quicken the way it does when Waylynn looks at me like this, and my fingers don’t ache to grab her. If anything, I just want her to move the hell away from me.
“That’s because we were always busy doing other things.” Her voice is pitched low in an attempt to be alluring.
I take a step back from her, creating space. “And now we’re not doing either.”
“We could be,” she offers while still gazing up at me.
She’s not getting it. I’m going to have to tell her—again. “I need to focus.” She knew what our arrangement was from the beginning. She already admitted that when she said she didn’t know a Gravlin would commit.
“I can help you with that,” she says while sliding her foot forward, coming closer again.
“I’m not interested, Makayla.”
She freezes mid-movement but doesn’t retreat. Her chest rises sharply, but her face remains utterly calm. “I knew I was making a mistake falling for you. I told myself a hundred times what it was and what it wasn’t, but you’re a really good guy, Memphis.” I feel like she’s blaming me for not being a complete dick to her, which is fucking strange. “I always would have wondered if I didn’t try.” She steps back, and her eyes roam over my face as if she’s trying to see something that isn’t there or commit what is to memory. “I might already be gone when you realize what you lost,” she murmurs sadly, then turns to walk away.
The only thing I feel is relief. I glance in the direction of our table, grateful I can’t see it, which means Waylynn didn’t see what just happened.
INTERRUPTIONS
Waylynn
I can feelmy backpack slipping down my shoulders. Between the weight of my laptop and purse, it isn’t sitting comfortably, and add in the tray of food Oswald kept heaping food on, and I feel like I’m going to drop something any second.
I’m really trying to watch where I’m walking, so I don’t see Memphis and the pretty girl sitting right next to him until we round a corner. My heart slips into my stomach before I have the time to remind myself I have no right to be jealous.
I feel dumb standing next to the table that clearly doesn’t have enough room for me, but Oswald takes my tray and places it on the table across from Memphis. I place my bag on the floor near my feet, unable to force myself to look up, even when the girl introduces herself.
Memphis speaks right after her so I wouldn’t have been able to respond if I wanted to. “I’m going to get something to eat.” His voice is tight, but not as harsh as I’ve heard it before. I wonder if he’s mad Oswald invited me to eat with them.
He strolls away with Makayla in tow. Maybe I can make an excuse to leave before they come back. How do I keep allowing myself to get in these uncomfortable situations? I didn’t even want to come when the study group invited me to eat, but I didn’t want to be rude, so here I am.
“I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since lunch.” Oswald stabs a hunk of fish with his fork.
“How’s the team?” Bates asks, and I’m grateful I don’t need to carry on a conversation. There’s too much stuff in my head, like the fact that someone from the study group saidhit it and quit it, referring to Oswald and me. I don’t know if I should feel flattered or insulted. Then there’s how I felt seeing Makayla with Memphis. I never really thought about him having a girlfriend. Their names even sound good together.
“It’s a new team,” Oswald answers between bites. “We’re adjusting.”
“Do you think you’ll get any time on the field this weekend?” Bates’ question pulls me from my own musings and into their conversation.
“I fucking hope so.”
I’m confused. When I asked Oswald if he played for the school, he said someday. “You already made the team?” I assumed he was trying out or something.
Oswald wipes his mouth with a balled up napkin. “Yeah, but I’m a freshman,” he says as if that explains something.
“What do you love about football?” The question spills from my lips before I have time to think about how it will sound. He’s never even told me he loves it, I can just feel that he does when he talks about it, which isn’t all that often.
Oswald’s brows furrow, and his nose wrinkles a little. “When I was younger, I liked that I was good at it and everyone told me I was.” He has a smile on his lips, but it slips when he looks off in the distance. “I like pushing myself. I like that I don’t have to think about anything other than the game when I’m on the field.” He blinks a few times and resumes eating.
I feel like he just gave me a tiny glimpse of himself. Oswald always seems so full of everything—life, energy, and witty replies—but there was more to that answer, and I feel like there was even more left unsaid.
“Bates plays the cello,” Oswald blurts as if he wants to change the subject.
My eyes drop to Bates’ hands. They are stained, much in the same way John the gardener’s are no matter how many times he washes them. His nails are perfect though, short and clean. He has beautiful hands. Bates curls his knuckles in and slides his hand under the table. I feel like I got caught doing something I shouldn’t have.
The urge to apologize is on the tip of my tongue, but the sound of a tray snapping against the table has me sealing my lips and focusing on my own food. Memphis’ tray touches mine as he sits down across from me.
“Damn, I thought she might try to follow you home,” Oswald says, and a wave of irritation has me glancing up. Memphis’ lips are tight for just a moment, and then he relaxes. The seat next to him is empty, and I realize we’re all crowded around my side of the table, but Bates doesn’t move or offer to take the other seat.
