13. Huckslee

Huckslee

April

C hilled wind penetrates the material of my Carhart, sending shivers through my body.

Though the sun is out and the snow has melted enough, winter still refuses to release its icy grip. Lifting my hands to blow warmth into them, I gaze out over the lake in front of me. The waters are calm and quiet today. So far, there's no crowd here this early, making it perfect for fishing.

"Here, son." Dad hands me a cup of hot chocolate he poured from the thermos before making two more for Logan and his dad, Joel. It's our first fishing trip since the snow melted, and I can tell Dad and Joel are excited. They've been talking about this trip for weeks. Even Logan looks content as he sips his drink, keeping an eye on his fishing pole.

I wish I could enjoy it as they do. I wish I could enjoy anything at all .

"So let's hear the good news," Joel pipes up, his bearded face entering my peripheral as he leans forward in his camping chair to look at me with a grin. His eyes are wrinkled around the corners like he's spent many years genuinely laughing and smiling. Must be nice.

When I don't immediately speak because my brain is soup these days thanks to the new meds, my dad smacks a hand proudly against my shoulder.

"Tell him about the scholarship, Huck." I can see the worry in his eyes, but fuck if I can do anything to take it away other than pull my lips into what I hope is a convincing smile.

"I accepted a scholarship to UofU." There's no emotion in my tone, so I try to force it. "I'll be playing for the Utes in the fall."

Dad's smile falters, but Joel doesn't seem to notice. He nods, laughing and congratulating me before asking if I'll be playing with any of my high school teammates.

"Matthew Albrecht, I think."

Not everyone qualified for a scholarship, and not everyone on the team is attending college. Most of them will graduate and get jobs here in town. Settle down, marry, and have eight kids. Something I'm sure my dad wishes for me.

Hate to disappoint you, pops .

Dad and Joel begin conversing about college football brackets, and I try to stay present, but it's hard. Everything feels fuzzy most days. The doctor had said to give this shit time to work, for my body to acclimate, but I'm tired of feeling like I'm moving through mud.

Logan's eyes scan my face, watching me with that concerned look he's had since I broke down and begged him to drive me out to the city two months ago. I was desperate, hadn't slept in nearly a week, and on the verge of delirium. Since I currently have no car, I had no choice. I had to ask him to take me to my doctor because the anxiety and insomnia felt like they were killing me. And the guilt. So much fucking guilt. Two different failed medications later, and this is the result.

"You okay?" He asks quietly for the hundredth time this morning; all I can do is nod.

I'm not really, but I'm not bad , either. Not only does this stuff tamp down the anxiety, but everything else, too. I haven't decided if I like it. The last medication I tried didn't make me feel this numb, but the nightmares from it were brutal. Dreams of Taylor's body mutilated and twisted from the crash, his rotting corpse holding me under water…

Yeah, it's been a fucked up few months since he left.

"Got one!" Dad grabs his pole and yanks it back, reeling in the line. Logan and Joel are on the edge of their seats, waiting to see what he pulls out of the water. He struggles with it for a moment before a large brown trout breaks the surface, mouth impaled on his hook, and all three of them seem giddy with excitement.

Used to be something I got excited about, too. But now I don't even know anymore.

"You see, son?" Dad holds up the fish with a grin, and I can see behind his glasses that his eyes are searching for something, expecting a reaction from the Huck that would have been buzzing and offering to take a goofy picture for social media. But I feel like that guy drowned in a pool in December, so I nod and smile, flashing him a thumbs-up. If I could feel anything, the disappointment that flashes across his face would have gutted me more than the trout is about to become.

I can't be everything he wants me to be.

Even Royce has started noticing the difference in me. We started officially dating—albeit secretly because even though he finally came out to his family and his school, I never will. I haven't felt up to seeing him lately. Something he said back in February struck a chord with me, made me realize how fucked up everything really is.

Some people have a hard time giving up control. It can be scary, letting someone have all that power over you.

I never have control. Never have a choice. I'm trapped in this pit of expectations Dad holds for me, and it feels like I'll never escape. He's even over there talking like I'll be living at home while going to college, and I can't find it in me to tell him no. He's done so much for me already; all I do is disappoint him. Tack on the way Taylor used me for his own curiosity, made me feel like maybe something was there between us, and then took away my only form of freedom by crashing it into a tree…

I didn't even visit him in the fucking hospital. Because I couldn't bring myself to look at him after what he did.

Dad, Joel, and Logan continue to fish and bullshit for a few more hours. I interject when I can. Finally, Joel decides to call it a day, and we all load everything into both cars.

"Well," Dad says once everything is packed up, "Joel and I want to hit the range and shoot a couple of clay pigeons while the wives are busy doing their own thing. You boys want to come?"

I really don't. The thought of being around a gun in this state of mind makes me nervous, not for everyone else's safety but my own. Logan must sense it, too, because he tells our dads that he'll drop me off at home and meet them there.

"Thank you," I say to him as we're buckling ourselves into his dad's Range Rover, and his honey eyes glance at me sideways.

"I'm worried about you, Huck."

We pull away from the lake just as a line of cars pass to get in, likely for a day of BBQing and swimming if it warms up.

"I know."

"Look, I know that Taylor's accident was hard on you. But I just don't understand why. You haven't even talked to him."

I sigh because this isn't the first time we've had this conversation since he took me to see my doctor. I've shut him down the last two times he's tried talking with me about it.

Logan continues as we pull onto the main road. "I mean, he was always an asshole, right? He made school terrible for you. Stealing your car and wrecking it was honestly the most Taylor thing he could have done."

Of course, he knew about the car theft thing. I may have told Dad and the cops I gave permission, but Logan is my best friend.

"Just...help me understand, Huck. You can talk to me, man. I'm here for you."

But for how long?

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I don't. It would just lead him to more questions I don't think he's ready for me to answer .

"I know, Loge. I know you are. I just..." Shaking my head, I try to sort through my muddled thoughts. "It got too much, you know? The wedding, living with him." Kissing him . "On top of the swim team and entrance exams and scholarship deadlines, preparing for graduation, it's all just a lot right now."

He looks at me like he doesn't believe me for a second but lets it go, much to my relief. We make the rest of the drive back to my house in silence, catchy pop music occupying my mind from the radio. When he pulls into the driveway and I see who's walking out of the garage…my heart starts to pound almost painfully in my chest.

Taylor slows to a stop at the same time we do, his bike by his side, the duffle bag he showed up with last year hanging from his arm. There's a frown on his face as he stares at us from where he stands, just as we stare back, and the way he shifts on his feet has my stomach doing flips, and holy shit, am I nervous right now? Am I actually feeling something?

"Do you want me to stay?" Logan murmurs, his brows furrowed, but I quickly shake my head.

"No. No, no. It's fine. Have fun at the range."

There's more emotion in my voice than I've heard in weeks, and Logan also realizes by the wide-eyed look he gives me. I wave him off, exiting the vehicle before heading up the driveway.

Taylor says nothing as he watches me approach, expression blank. I don't mean to get as close to him as I do, but when I'm within touching distance, it feels like I'm a satellite that's finally returned to orbit.

I was knocked out of his gravitational pull, but now I'm back in place .

He's wearing a Metal Mulisha beanie and a denim jacket with band patches sewn into it, dark hair longer than the last time I saw him. He looks gaunt, and his blue-green eyes are dull–

Holy shit.

My stomach bottoms out when I notice the fucking scar.

I can see the stitch marks running from the corner of his brow to just under his cheek. It's jagged and thick, giving his pretty features a more rugged look.

But Jesus. How bad had the injury been to create a scar like that?

"Hey," he says slowly, taking me in silently with cautious eyes as I internally freak out.

I've decided. I liked it better when I felt nothing.

"Hey," is all I respond because what else am I supposed to say to someone I've ignored for four months?

It's awkward momentarily, both of us studying the other before he looks away.

"I didn't think anyone would be home." He swallows, and I watch the strong column of his throat flex with the movement. "Needed to come by and grab the shit I left. I still remembered the garage code, so..."

My lungs squeeze as I try to calm my breathing, not realizing until now that I'd been holding onto the hope he'd come back if his stuff was still here.

Fucking hell, when did I go from dreading living with him to hating when he left? One handjob in a pool was enough to shift my entire focus?

Because it wasn't just the handjob .

It was the fact that it came from Taylor fucking Tottman .

I wrack my brain to respond, but it still feels like I'm running on Internet Explorer. My mouth opens, and I pray that something at least half intelligible comes out when the bag at his hip jerks. A loud cry comes from the duffle, and my eyes widen as Taylor rolls his lips.

"Are you–" I cough. "Are you kidnapping the cat?"

A brief flash of his sheepish smile appears before it's gone, taking my heart with it when a scowl takes its place.

Not gonna lie; this hurts. I've grown attached to Lasagna over the last few months. On the nights when things get bad inside my head, having her curled up at the end of my bed or in my closet brings comfort. Feeding her, caring for her, even cleaning her litter box gives me something to focus on. A presence to look forward to. Dad had never allowed a pet before until last year.

Jesus, it feels like we're getting divorced, and he's taking the baby.

Taylor searches my face before dropping his gaze. Scuffing the ground with a toe of his Docs, he looks up from beneath his lashes. "I mean, I guess we could...share custody or something. Switch off every weekend."

Hope has me perking up, but I tamp it down immediately.

The offer feels like an olive branch, but that would mean seeing him at least once a week, and I don't think I can handle that. Instead of spending the last four months trying to process the shit that's happened between us, I've been busy burying it. And having him here now in front of me, looking like some sexy punk-rock motocross god, is blurring the lines that we already crossed in December. The lines I redrew the moment he stole my car. Because he used me, and it's clear that he's not ready to handle what's been happening between us, either.

Nothing can change history.

"No, it's fine," I find myself saying, even though my tongue feels raw forming the words. "She's been crying at your door for months, anyway. You're her person."

He nods, licking his bottom lip. "You gonna be racing next week?"

Feeling lightheaded, I hum a confirmation as I soak up the sight of him, searching for anything else that might be new while he seems to do the same. The urge to step into him and reacquaint myself with his mouth comes on strong, forcing my fists to clench, and I have to fold my arms to hide how badly they're shaking.

Eventually, Lasagna screams from his bag, breaking whatever daze we'd found ourselves in.

"Good luck, Huck," he whispers before wheeling his bike away. His shoulder brushes mine, sending an involuntary shiver through me, and before I know what I'm doing, my hand is gripped around his arm, pulling him toward me. I don't care that we're in the middle of the driveway in broad daylight—I need to kiss him. At least just once, even if it's the last time.

Even if it's to say goodbye to whatever this is between us. Just one kiss, and then we can go back to the fucked up way we were before.

But right before our mouths collide, he's snarling in my face.

"Why the fuck did you tell the cops that I borrowed your car?"