Staying Grounded [BXB]

Run In

CRAIG:

"TATE!" His name explodes from me before I can check it. My call draws no reaction. But, then, I was dumb to expect it to.

Slamming the car door, I sprint to catch up to the hunched figure determinedly walking away from me along the pavement. His head doesn't lift or turn at the sound of my approach; his pace doesn't falter. Because he doesn't hear it, I snuff out an instinctive flicker of annoyance. He can't. This understanding I now have of him is still too raw. The rain has him drenched, his jacket sleeve ice against my fingers as I grab it.

A sharp tug forces Tate to acknowledge me. Tearing his wrist free, the impact of his challenging eyes slams me back a step. It's been two years since I was an exception to his stonewall glare, and still, I'm unable to brace myself against it. "Fuck, Craig! What are you doing here? What is it you want?"

My throat constricts. Neither of those questions spur an answer readily to my tongue. Only...

Fate.

I was in the right place at the right time last week, outside of YCS, when Gary Tinwell was throwing him around like a ragdoll. Created the distraction that gave him an escape.

I was in the right place at the right time that day a few weeks ago, when he'd fallen down the stone steps on Hutchings Avenue, sliced and bleeding and convulsing in the street, in such a bad state that just five minutes longer could well have been the end of him. Took him to the hospital. Stayed with him. Learned his awful, secret truth.

I was in the right place at the right time two years ago, when he was breaking down behind the science block because of a fallout with his dad. Comforted him through his anger and shared his confusion. Formed the connection that disrupted the course of my life.

Now, this.

Pit stop cut short at Scotty's accusation of me being a killjoy, I've spent the past hour driving. Aimlessly navigating Yoverton's familiar night-time streets, blanking out all beyond the powerful purr of Roxy's engine, the patter of rain on her body, and the rhythmic swish-swash of the windscreen wipers. I can't blame Tate for perhaps thinking I'd planned this encounter, but there's no way I could have anticipated our paths crossing, alone on a random wet night, along a random dark street. I almost missed him at first pass, would have driven straight by him without a second glance, had he not looked up — directly at me — the exact moment the traffic light pulled me up on red. I almost didn't stop, knowing full well I shouldn't.

Of all the people I'm no longer supposed to see, Tate 'Mac' McAllister is top of that pile. Yet, once again, here I am.

Because as absurd as the notion might be, I can't help but feel that, sometimes, a day's sequence of events — every screwup and rash decision — are played out precisely to guide me to a certain point. And today is one of those days.

I make an attempt to wordlessly communicate my offer of a lift.

"I can read your lips just fine, Craig." His accusatory stare doesn't let up, and I can sense rather than see his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"I'll take you home. Or anywhere. Save you from the rain. Nothing more."

He looks so tired, as miserable as I feel. I only want to help him, that's all; move that tiny bit further toward righting my wrongs. I nod my head back toward Roxy, making my meaning expressly plain, and give him a minute to deliberate. There's no outward sign of his resolve cracking, but as I turn away, moving for the car, relief rushes me as he follows a few steps behind.