Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

THE BOARDERS: 29

Lo

I run for a number of reasons. 1) Because I always have. 2) Because it allows me to sort through all the madness in my head. 3) Because it brings me peace. 4) Because I love it. None of these reasons have ever been more important than they are now that I'm back in Salisbury. And, in a stroke of luck, that importance has paid off; I'm running faster than I ever have, shaving seconds off my mile time every time I hit the trails.

Today's practice is no exception. I can feel the miles disappearing under my feet as I hurtle through the woods just off campus, my brain whirring in time with my pace.

By the end of our conversation Sunday morning, I'd been the one that needed to firmly place myself on my side of the room so I didn't throw myself at him. Turns out the jerk has a way with words when he wants to. It had only taken twelve hours for me to realize that's all they were—words. Because I'd been leaving Jill's house around eleven that night when I'd received the first text: a photo of Sam kissing a girl, one hand buried in her hair, the other sitting low on her back, holding her body to his. The second image had come immediately after, this one clearly showing the girl's face. Annie O'Hara, being led up a set of stairs by a laughing Sam, his eyes drunk and hat askew.

It had been at this point that Jill had seen the panic on my face, stolen my phone, and both blocked the number and deleted the messages, cursing Sam throughout.

I've ignored Sam with the dedication of a monk since then—three days ago now—spending my nights at Jill's and only ducking into the dorms to grab clothes or school books when I know he'll be out. There'd been moments during which I wanted to break (when he slid into his seat beside me in Calc on Monday and nudged my shoulder, asking what the hell happened to me Sunday night, I'd almost slapped him across the face), but I hadn't. And while he seemed a little confused by my fervent silence on Monday, he hasn't tried to make amends. I can only assume that's because he's perfectly happy with Annie. Which is just fine and freaking dandy.

I kick my speed up a notch. Jill, Spencer, and I had talked about Sam to the point of fatigue last night (Spencer actually fell asleep mid-discussion and didn't wake until Jill started slathering his lashes with Sex Bomb mascara), and I'd promised myself—and them—that I was going to turn over a new leaf, to stop feeling so damn sorry for myself all the time.

The problem is, I do feel sorry for myself. Maybe it's not entirely merited; I accepted the spot in MacMillan knowing the way Sam made me feel (the good and the bad), and I still haven't requested a transfer out. But another part of me—an uglier one—feels angry, wronged. My dad's recent death, my mom's culpability (and, let's face it, her silence, which hurts a hell of a lot more than it should), Brandon's sneering anger...all those things have a real weight, and I'm starting to feel crushed by it.

That crushed feeling moves from where it's sat in my chest all week to my throat, bubbling up in a sudden, gasping cry. I double over, my hands on my knees, as I sob. I've been on the brink of this breakdown before, but I've never let the dam fall. Now it's crumbled, and it's all I can do to stay on my feet as I gasp for air. Which is probably why I don't hear Jared until he's right behind me, calling my name and turning me to face him, his own face twisted in concern and fear.

"Are you okay? What happened?" His voice sounds like it's coming from the bottom of a well. Or maybe I'm the one at the bottom of the well. He glances around the woods as if he's going to see someone hiding behind a tree. I wonder for a fleeting minute if he's looking for Brandon, but then he's guiding me off the trail, his eyes searching mine.

"Did something just happen? Is it Ott?"

I can't catch my breath, and as I heave and shudder, trying to find the words, Jared looks me over, checking for injuries before leaning in, taking me by the shoulders and pulling me against his chest. I'm surprised to find that I welcome his hug, though it only makes me cry harder.

"You're okay, Lo," he mutters into my hair. "I promise it's going to be okay."

Finally (finally) I'm able to settle down enough to speak, and I step back from Jared, swiping tears and snot and spit from my face. I notice I've left a mess on his shoulder, but I don't bother apologizing and I can't bring myself to feel embarrassed about it. I'm depleted.

"You want to talk about it?" Jared asks, his brow furrowed.

I shake my head and he cocks an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing that look means we can't just pretend this never happened?" I'm trying for humor.

He laughs. "Uh, no, definitely not. It's going to take a while to get the image of you doubled over in the middle of the trail out of my head. I thought you were dying for a minute there."

"Yeah, me too." I flash him a self-conscious grin. "Thanks for..." I gesture uselessly. "You know."

He looks at me seriously. "I know you don't think much of me, Lo, and I didn't totally give you a reason to at the beginning, but I swear I'm not here to be a dick to you."

"Good to know." I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm starting to learn that the boys around this school can say whatever they want. It's the doing that matters. And none of them do anything to prove the things they say are true.

Jared seems to sense my hesitation. "I really mean it. After I heard about your dad, and the more I listened to Ott spew his..." Jared looks a bit sheepish as he trails off. "Anyway, I realized I was being terrible without even giving you a chance. I'm sorry."

When I don't respond, he continues. "That's what I was trying to say in that note."

I look at him, clueless.

"You know, the one-pager I tried to pass you that first day in Calc?"

"Oh," I nod as the memory surfaces. "Right. The note." Sam had been positively livid about Jared writing me a note. Had I been smarter, I would have taken it just to rile him. (I remind myself I'm not supposed to be thinking about what I should have done with Sam anymore.)

Jared's talking again, and I stop reprimanding myself just in time to catch the tail end: "...the things that Ott says about you, I'd chop his dick off and choke him with it."

I make a face. Clearly my brain returned to earth at the wrong moment.

Jared laughs. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

It's my turn to laugh. "Choking Brandon with his dick? Once or twice, maybe."

"Or three, or four..." Jared grins before turning serious again. "Look, I get that you don't want to talk about what just happened now, and that's fine. But if you ever change your mind, I'm here, Lo. I mean it."

"Thanks, Jared." I mean it, too, and I find that when he moves in to hug me, I welcome it. His arms around me feel good, comforting.

"So, now that we're friends..." He lifts his eyebrows and my heart drops.

"What?" I hedge, bracing for the teardown.

"Should we bail on practice for an ice cream?"

This is the last thing I expected him to say. My shock clearly registers with Jared.

"You know the only thing that truly solidifies friendship is an ice cream cone, right?"

I gape, my voice coming out sharp in my relief. "What are you, eight?"

He shrugs. "Take it or leave it, Lo. But I think we've both had enough trail time today, and we owe ourselves an indulgence."

I give him a look. "You're not asking me on a date right now, right?"

Jared laughs, not unkindly. "I swear I'm not. This—" he gestures between us "—is friendship only."

I think about going to ice cream with Jared, having to make conversation after I've just cried myself hoarse. Then I think about the alternative: running back to the fieldhouse and stretching my calves while Brandon holds court. And the decision becomes easy.

"Last one there's buying," I announce and I'm already running, my chest filling, for the first time in a long time, with hope.