Marching season is out, but the competition is only heating up.
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Section leader applications for the next marching band season at Halston University are officially open, and percussionist Bay Rodriguez wants the role.
Bay's only competition is Ca...
noun. an intermission marking the completion of half of a game (as in football).
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WHAT RENATA PREDICTED HAS COME to pass.
I slept with Callum until he became a part of my system. Now (predicated on neurotransmitters, hormones and physiological conditioning) I have feelings for him: he smiles, I want to smile. He laughs, I want to laugh. He's sad, and I want to comfort him instead making fun of him or tucking his weaknesses away for future ammunition. I suppose the dangerous thing about falling in love is Darcian; you're in the middle of it before you even know you've begun.
But I'm not worried. Just like I told Renata, I've started making a plan.
Callum and I wake up tangled in each other's arms.
(We actually woke up earlier this morning, when his alarm went off for classes. "When's your first class?" he mumbled, drowsy.
"Eleven."
"Snooze," he said, and hit the snooze button.
And we lost track of time, because now it's lunchtime, I've missed the lecture, and sleep still has half a claim on me. This why you don't stay up till dawn fucking, kids.)
I have an arm around his bare waist. Callum's chin rests on the top of my head, and his arm encircles my shoulders, a comforting, protective presence. I speak into his neck, asking a question that would have never left my mouth if we were more awake, and if last night hadn't gone the way it did, with him opening up to me about his brother, with something I don't want to call love-making. "Callum?"
"Yeah?" His voice seems oddly distant for how close it is.
"Do you still hate me?"
I don't even know what I want him to say.
Even when we hurt each other and I was insanely jealous of him. Even when we have bad blood and were at one point gunning for one office. We competed, we imploded, and what we're doing now feels too easy for how quickly things have changed around. Although, maybe Callum doesn't agree that this is easy—maybe it's hard work to be around me, to entertain my dark interests and rebuff my odd humor. Maybe unfurling every sunflower he comes across is a chore to the one tasked with the job, and I'm only worth it so long as there's still nectar.
Callum shifts his face on the pillow. And I don't realize why, through my layers of thick hair, until it is already over. A kiss on the top of my head. My heart pangs. I tighten my hold on him.
"I don't hate you," Callum says, so faintly that I go more by the rumble of his throat against my forehead than the sound of his words, "A different me did, but now I can't remember what it feels like to be him."
