The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER SEVEN; part one

     The pool has emptied considerably, and the last straggling families skirt past us. I watch their figures pass, willing them to stay and socialize longer. I can feel Dres's eyes on me, wonder what he's thinking, why he offered to drive me.

     It shouldn't matter. I should have the upper hand. Like how Dres is when we're in the kitchen together, how he moves languidly across the floor and talks like we do it all the time. That's how I should be. Cause this my place. This is my kitchen. I'm safe here.

     I should be fine.

     But no, yeah, it's not working like that.

     Dres turns to me, and says, rather bluntly, "You lied."

     I stare, questioningly. "Want to be more specific?"

     "You said you weren't being bullied."

     "I'm not," I say defensively.

     "I recognize the kid on your team. He's the same one that came into the shop that day."

     "And?" I ask, testily. "He's on the swim team, big deal."

     "I saw him shove into you."

     "That was an accident."

     "No, it wasn't." He points at me accusingly. "And your mom knows something's up, doesn't she? She doesn't trust them not to do anything. It's why she didn't want to leave you here alone."

     I swipe his finger away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

     Without his hand between us, Dres has the room to step closer so I have to step back. "Sure you do."

     "Nope. I think you're reaching." I step back again and Dres follows me like a magnet trailing metal.

     "I was there in the shop, Calvin. I heard what they said. I saw how they acted tonight. It all makes sense. They pushed you right out here but you lied and said you tripped."

     "You don't know what you're talking about."

     "Why do they do it?" he asks and he's close, too close for me to be able to think, to argue, to be anything but complacent for Dres. "Are they jealous of you?" His finger drags along the medals hanging around my neck. It brushes my bare chest, giving me goose bumps.

     I mumble something that he doesn't hear and he goes 'hmm?' but his finger keeps slipping off the metal, scorching my flesh, and he's so close I can feel his breath on my bottom lip.

     All of the adrenaline from the race has worn off and I'm putty in his hands. The only thing keeping me on my feet is the wall I'm pressed against.

     "I can talk to them," he says and he places one hand on the wall beside my face. Slowly he lifts the other one and places it on the other side of my face, locking me in place. Everything about this moment has me on edge. "I would do that for you."

     I'm not even listening to him, anymore. I am fighting every urge to reach out, run my hands along his shoulders, around his neck. I want to touch him bad. I want to breathe the air that's still in his mouth, that's warm and wet and his.

     He gives me a look and right, fuck, he asked me a question, right.

     "That's, uh, that's okay," I say and what am I even saying.

     He goes softly, "So they are doing it?" I don't say anything. "I want to help, Cas. It's okay to let me."

     "I don't need help." And I definitely don't need your help.