Page 23 of Striking Range

“Hello?” he calls out.

I hear him before I see him, rounding the corner moments later and spotting Skylar on his couch, his legs crossed and in a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

The A/C is on full blast.

“Yo,” I greet him.

His brown curls are damp, which tells me he’s just out of the shower—a cup of tea is in his hands. Skylar loves the cold, and living in Florida makes it damn near impossible to experience it. So, instead, he simulates it by blasting the air and cozying up.

I grab a throw blanket from the wicker basket at the end of the couch and sit next to him, using it to warm myself, considering I dressed appropriately for our state’s climate: basketball shorts and a plain black shirt.

“Just come back from Rockhill?” he asks.

I give him a nod, stealing his mug from his hands and taking a sip. Just as I thought: peppermint tea with far too much sugar.

As I hand the ceramic back to him, our fingers brush. Only, it’s not a brush of skin; it’s a firm press of his warmth against mine, and I’m immediately transported back to yesterday when those fingers slid up my jaw to tangle into my hair.

It takes everything in me not to rip my hands away, to keep from making a scene and making things awkward.

So instead, I say, “My head is fucking killing me.”

Skylar turns his head to stare at me. “Did you take anything?”

“Nah.”

He sighs, placing his mug onto the coffee table and standing with ease. His socked feet carry him to the kitchen, barely making a sound against the floorboards. His body is so limber, his limbs moving gracefully.

I was right before; it really doesn’t matter what he’s doing—Skylar always looks filthy. And as of last night, from that first moment that I laid my hands on him, this fact has become more devastating.

After a moment, Skylar returns with two red pills and a water bottle that looks a bit too foggy to be normal water.

“Emergency,” he says, shoving them both at me.

I take the pills and gulp down the nasty, powdered water.

It’s a comfortable silence as we watch the TV; Skylar sips his tea, and I stay wrapped in the blanket I grabbed. But I know we need to talk about it. I know if we don’t, it’ll hang over us like a sleep paralysis demon for the rest of our lives.

“So,” I start, earning his attention just as Peter brings a horse into his family’s home. “About last night…”

Skylar sighs. “Yeah, man. Don’t sweat it. We were pretty drunk, and we’ve been close for a long time—shit like that was bound to happen at some point.”

I peer back at him, mouth agape. That’s it? No awkward confrontation? No fight? Huh.

I guess the fallout wasn’t nearly as detrimental as I assumed it was going to be. So, in light of this wondrous revelation, why do I feel so defeated? Why does my chest hurt?

“Okay, sure,” I reply. “Cool.”

Skylar directs his gaze back to the TV and takes another long pull of his tea. I watch his throat work, his long, strong fingers wrapped around the mug.

“What happened to your face?” he suddenly asks, and my hand instinctively moves to cover the bruise that is no doubt darkening over my right cheekbone, if it’s not already there in all its glory.

Fuck.

“Oh. I ran into a guy from the baseball team on my way here, and we got into a little argument. No biggie.” The lie falls from my lips easily.

It’s the one I am used to forming, tasting on my tongue, pushing past my teeth and lips and out into the endless world. Even as it digs into my flesh on the way out.

Skylar hums before he says, “About what?”