Your Picture On My Phone (The Scar Series - Book One)

7 - Dry

I was never particularly adept at describing my feelings. And every time I was present enough to sense at least they were there, I didn't know how to handle them. My standard response has been to freak out and let it out on everyone around me. Guess that makes me very lovable.

I rubbed Conor's moist towel over my wet body. It did something, but I wouldn't say that my skin got dry.

Ugh, good enough.

I walked over to the lockers and found Conor searching through his bag. Thank goodness he put on his boxer shorts, at least. Everything less would have killed me.

"Thanks again," I said, placing the towel neatly on an oak-wooden bench that waited between the lockers and the changing booths. I fumbled to get the bracelet with the key for the locker attached to it off my wrist, but it was scrambled.

"Need help?"

Without fighting it, I held my arm under Conor's nose, giving in to not functioning on my own anymore. Within a second, the bracelet flew off, and a sweet smile was flashed in my direction before Conor headed back to dig through his bag.

He is cute.

Quickly focusing my eyes on my locker, I opened it and hid behind the door.

Did I just think Conor was cute?

I searched for my underpants that were buried underneath my jacket.

It's a blessing that he can't read my thoughts. At least, I hope he can't.

I cautiously leaned back to check if he was looking at me.

If he could read my mind, he would smirk at me right now.

But he wasn't. His whole focus was on his clothes.

And why do I imagine how he would react if he knew what I was thinking?

Do I... want him to read my mind?

I energetically shook my head as if that would shake off those thoughts, grabbed my stuff, and fled into one of the small booths.

What am I planning to do now? Still about eleven hours to go. How am I going to survive this? I wanted to scream but couldn't do that with Conor behind the thin wall. Should I tell him? But what would I even say? And more importantly, what if it's not mutual? What if he laughs at me, I get mad again and destroy our relationship - or however one would describe the thing between us - even more? What if he tells our friends, just like I did, to get back at me?

I sat down and stared at the oak light fixture illuminating the booth in an orange glow.

—

I was about thirteen the first time I noticed that I liked a girl. Sarah and I both attended the same middle school, although not in the same class. Every lunch break, I saw her in the cafeteria sitting with her girlfriends as I sat with my boys. She wasn't the most beautiful girl, but something about her presence sparked my interest. Maybe it was her wit that everyone admired. I spotted her photo at the beginning of the school year, and her differently colored eyes (left green, right brown) drew me in. It was displayed next to a trophy from the regional spelling bee in the entrance hall, right next to the principal's office. The chances of a girl like her being into a jock like me were low, so I did nothing about it for almost all of the school year. But when Conor asked me if I had a crush on someone one night as we lay in my bed during one of our usual sleepovers, I told him about her.

On that particular day close to our summer break, I was with Milo Nowak, Leo Milton, Will Cooper, and, of course, Conor. All of us wore our green football jackets, except for Milo, as he wasn't part of the team. We always joked about chatting up the girls, but none of us ever had the guts to do so, at least not back then. When I came to the table carrying my small cafeteria burger, Conor had already shared what I had told him two days before.