Chapter 8

Jonah is an idiot. But the funny, goofy kind of idiot who makes for the perfect distraction. I've worked four shifts over the span of a week, and every one of those shifts has been with Jace and Jonah.

Jonah's my age, with a stocky build, short blond hair, and eyes that hide nothing. In other words—he's the complete opposite of Jace. He works in the kitchen while I'm on the floor/parking lot serving food and cleaning up, and Jace…

Jace remains behind the counter, continuing to ignore my presence while simultaneously glaring at me whenever Jonah makes me laugh. Which is often. Jace treats me at work the same way he treats me at school, and it's almost comical—because as stoic as Jace is almost twenty-four-seven, it seems to be the simple sound of my laughter that brings any form of emotion out of him.

Go figure.

Within the walls of the skating rink, Jace is my boss, so he has to talk to me, but only when needed. He hasn't brought up my little proposition since the first time I mentioned it, so I've officially accepted his non-answer to mean a big, fat hell no. Had I known Jonah before offering the deal to Jace, I probably would've asked him instead.

I still might.

The past week at school went by the same as the one before, and if this is how boys around here try to woo girls into screwing them, then it's no wonder Jace gets all the attention. At least he's fun to look at it.

Speaking of Jace, he's glaring at me again, which is dumb because I'm not even laughing. "My grandma made her famous pecan pie, and oh my God," Jonah moans, walking beside me toward the exit. "You're going to die."

It's eight p.m. on a Wednesday, and we've just clocked out. "Like, actually die?"

"Probably," Jonah laughs, giving Jace a curt nod goodbye as we pass him standing behind the counter.

I smile. Wave. He doesn't react.

Typical.

"They're letting Amber stay up late so we can sing ‘Happy Birthday' to her," Jonah says. "It'll be quick. We'll do the song, have some cake, then I'll take you home."

I stop just before the door and turn to him. "Why are you acting as if I don't want to go?"

"Please." He rolls his eyes. "You met my family yesterday, by accident, and they invite you over for my sister's birthday? It's weird, Low."

I stand taller, raise my chin. "Maybe they invited me because they like me."

"They do."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Nothing," he replies, pushing on the door and holding it open for me. "As long as you keep seeing it that way."

An hour later, it's pitch black out, and I'm back in Jonah's truck, my belly filled with birthday cake and pecan pie, and I can't recall the last time I felt this happy.

And sad.

And full.

And completely and utterly void.

Jonah has two little sisters, one in middle school, and Amber, who's fourth birthday we just celebrated. According to Jonah's mom and dad, Connie and Eric, after meeting me out in the parking lot of the rink yesterday, Amber had begged Jonah to ask me over for her birthday because she thought I looked like Anna from Frozen. And instead of being embarrassed by his little sister's request, Jonah promised her he'd ask. So he did. And I accepted.

And I can't tell yet whether I'm hurting or healing, because the moment I stepped foot in their house, I could tell that those kids were so truly and so deeply and so obviously loved, and while a part of me was incredibly jealous of the fact, I was also genuinely happy to know that a love like that existed and that someone else was able to live in that love.

I wait until Jonah pulls into my driveway before stating, "You have a beautiful family, Jonah."

"I know," he says, sighing. "I'm pretty lucky."

I peer over at him and attempt a smile. I'm glad he knows it, because I didn't. Not while I had it. And now it's too late.

After Jonah helps get my bike down from the bed of his truck, we exchange a quick goodbye, and I stand by the front of my house, waving at the back of his truck until his taillights disappear completely.

I already have one foot on the porch steps when I freeze, my breath held tight to listen for the familiar sound—the same sound I'd heard every single night, for hours and hours on end, for years. I'd wake up to it most mornings. Fall asleep the same way. In my heart and in my mind, there's no mistaking the sound of leather bouncing on concrete, over and over, again and again.

With my aching heart thumping hard against my rib cage, I bypass my house and walk around to the back, getting lost in the sounds as they get louder and louder.

After I spoke to Jace about the stupid bet, I spent the first couple of days looking out my bedroom window, expecting him to be here. He never was. Some nights, I swear I'd hear the sounds of him dribbling or the ball hitting the backboard, the hoop. But then I'd check and there was no one there, because it was all in my head—these sounds, these ghosts, all coming to haunt me in my sleep.

After the third day, I'd given up hope that he'd ever show up. But he's here now, and I don't really understand why.

I don't need to.

It's almost like a repeat of the first time I saw him, only this time he's in black shorts and a matching jersey. His van is here too, parked so close to the concrete he may as well be playing against it.

Earbuds in, Jace moves with ease, twisting and turning in ways so fluid it almost seems rehearsed, choreographed, and who knows? Maybe with him, it is.

I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never truly know Jace Rivera. I'll never know why he doesn't slow down when he passes me in the mornings or why he's never offered me a ride, even to work or back. Why he's never asked me how I am, or how my day's been, and come to think of it, he's never even greeted me. Not even a hello. Not once. I'll never understand the side glances or the full-frontal glares or why he seems so adamant on making sure I have zero presence in his life.

The worst part is that I'm drawn to people like Jace. To people like my mother. And I'm fully aware that the same people who ignore my very existence are the same people I want to notice me.

Just once.

It's the very reason I can't stop watching Jace, even if I wanted to. I'm drawn to him… in this stupid, visceral, inexplicable way.

I scan the area for somewhere to sit. It's unfortunate that the basketball hoop is permanently fixed, otherwise we would have gotten rid of it. Since my mom can't stand the sight of it, all our outdoor furniture lives on the front porch. So, I head over to his sketchy van, perch on the bumper, and watch him.

Steadfast and silent, I study him.

And I don't know how long this goes on before I close my eyes, and instead, listen.

It feels like I'm in my old bedroom, just above the garage, and Harley's in the driveway, practicing. Hours upon hours upon hours. I can hear the ball bouncing off the ground, the backboard, the hoop. His shoes scraping along the concrete, dragging, squeaking, landing. And I get lost in those thoughts, in those memories, and it's those memories that create the tears, and they're right there… but, if I release them now, I won't be able to stop. So, I keep my eyes closed, holding tears hostage, and I breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Suddenly, the bouncing stops. The movements too. And it becomes so quiet that I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my eardrums. Slowly, carefully, I open my eyes, only to be greeted with Jace standing in front of me, the ball held to his side, looking down his nose and judging me, just like the stupid posters of him all over town.

I lock my eyes on his, refusing to look away.

Sweat coats every inch of him, dripping from his hairline down his forehead, and he just stands there. Mocking. And it's so pathetic that I expect him to say something, because why would he?

Instead, he lifts the bottom of his jersey to wipe his face, exposing his bare torso, and even in the darkness, I can see the cause of the void in his eyes. Bruises, multiple, mar his flesh, from his rib cage down to his pelvis, and when he lowers the fabric again, he freezes, and for the first time in forever, he holds my gaze. His throat moves with his swallow, and his lips part, then slam shut again.

I want to hold him.

That's my first thought.

I want to tell him I'll protect him. Not physically, but in any other way I can, because I understand secrets.

I understand pain.

I'll protect you, I almost say, the way you have with me. But what comes out instead is: "I won't tell. I promise."

After a beat, Jace sighs, then walks toward the driver's side door, saying over his shoulder, "Come for a ride with me."