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THEN: Freshman Year, January

Bennett

Three days later and she’s still in my lungs.

Every breath I take is a burst of juniper and sea breeze, like the first scent of the ocean, until I can’t be in my goddamn room anymore. I try staying at my dad’s, but it doesn’t make it any better.

In some ways its worse, the memory of her on my bed, in my room, the words I love you between my teeth. My poetry against her skin. I can’t escape her—until it’s almost suffocating.

“If you want to talk—”

“I said I’m fine.”

We exchange the same angry, pain-fuel words twice more before I leave.

• • •

She’s not here. In the locker room alone, I’m frozen, scratching the back of my scalp, tapping my foot measuredly against the floor.

She’s sick. She’s just out because she’s sick.

She’s not avoiding you. You can talk to her and everything will go back to the way it was.

The repetitive thoughts are so soothing and completely enthralling that I barely notice anything else.

It takes me two hours to get through my post-practice routine.

• • •

One month of pure adrenaline and a pathetic number of attempts to call her. Then a month of panic attacks and seeing my therapist twice a week because my compulsions get bad enough that I have trouble leaving the house.

Then it’s March, the snow sticking heavily to the ground and the barren wasteland of the Northeast finally starts reflecting my soul.

We’re at a bar, the entire team celebrating before regionals begins. Rhys stands with me in a corner of the front room, as close to outside as we can be. The speakers are loud, a cover band playing an old U2 song. It’s too loud, too crowded, and I’m just about to tell Rhys I’m going home when I spot her.

At first, I’m convinced it can’t be her. Bleached, almost white-blond hair in bouncy curls, eyes smoky with shadow, and lips in a cruel twist of a smirk.

“Shit,” I mumble, standing. I’ve had a beer or two; I’m not really drunk by any means, but I’m a lightweight despite my size, unused to the effects of alcohol.

“You okay?” Rhys asks. I nod and step away from him, mumbling something about the bathroom as I watch her walk toward the back bar.

She’s alone, but I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or worse. Her tight jeans and strapless chocolate brown corset draw the eyes of everyone around her—her cleavage pushed up high. She’s so goddamn beautiful, so perfect, and yet no one looks anywhere away from her chest.

I clench my fists.

Some guy approaches her and she leans in to speak with him. I know I should turn around, leave—

He tucks her hair behind her ear. He touched her hair.

My vision swirls with fury and hatred, so heady I feel out of control, on the edge of an attack. I want to step in, to remove his hand—maybe cut it off and cuff her to my side.

Instead, I run to throw up in the dingy bar bathroom. I wash my mouth out in the sink and try desperately to gain back control over my own body.

But when I leave, she’s there.

Her. Only her—forever.

Some sound comes from my throat, a punch of breath but louder. I try to memorize her again, eyes obsessively scanning her over and over. She’s so beautiful my chest aches.