I should walk away. That’s what I do when I find myself in an unpredictable situation with immense potential for pain.
Most of the issues in my relationship with Levi had stemmed from the fact that I was always willing to be the one who walked away. We’d get in these awful fights (not unlike Dad and me), and they only ever ended in one of two ways—Levi backed down or we broke up.
Not normal, I know. But we always got back together. It had always felt like a given, until suddenly it stopped feeling that way. He set a state record for our conference; he and my dad started talking about playing college ball, and suddenly it felt like I wasn’t the only one willing to walk away if I didn’t get what I wanted.
So rather than walking away after our last fight, I gave him what he wanted. In the back of his pickup truck, parked in the lot at the football field of all places.
He walked away anyway.
I will never be in that position again. I will never be the person who cares more, because that person is always the one who hurts more.
And yet here I am, knocking on Carson’s door, telling myself that my heart is only in my throat because I’m out of practice at making new friends.
Yeah right.
“Just a second!”
I almost run. But then I imagine how ridiculous it will look when he opens his door and I’m sprinting down the stairs and across the parking lot like the crazies on Black Friday.
He opens the door, and if I hadn’t already sucked in a breath, I would have had to do it again. He’s wearing university sweatpants, hung low on his hips, with a thin white cotton T-shirt. His hair is wet like he’s fresh from a shower, and in a few places his shirt is damp and see-through, stuck to his skin.
I can smell him. Over the sticky September air, over the chlorine from the pool that his apartment overlooks, over everything.
“Hey. Come on in.”
This is such a bad idea.
But when I peek inside, his coffee table is covered in papers and books, and the pencil in his hand tells me he was working when I knocked on the door.
He really does just want to study. I can do this. I can. And if at any point it gets to be too much, I always have my trusty backup plan.
Walk away.
I step just far enough inside for him to close the door, but when he heads to the couch, I stay where I am. He has the overhead light on tonight, so the room is brighter, less intimidating. He looks up and in the well-lit room his blue eyes look almost electric.
“If we’re really going to be friends, I need some ground rules first,” I say.
When I was just stopping by for a few minutes to help him with homework, it wasn’t a problem. But hanging out two nights in a row is definitely a big deal. And big deals require rules.
His head tilts to the side, but he puts down his pencil and leans back on the couch.
“Okay. Whatcha got?”
“We don’t tell anyone we’re hanging out. Not yet.” Not until I know for sure this is something I can do without getting in over my head.
After a moment, he nods. “Okay. I won’t mention it to a soul until you’re ready to come out of the closet as my friend.”
I wince. “It’s not like that. I just . . . I can’t trust it won’t get back to my dad. You know what gossip is like here. And when he finds out, it should come from me.”
“Fair enough.” I swallow, acutely aware that it sounds like I’m negotiating the terms of a relationship that’s much more scandalous than a friendship.
“No questions about my dad. This should go without saying, but no using me to spend time with him. If you want to get on his good side, do it on the field, not through me.”
His eyes soften, and I swear my heart constricts like those imaginary strings around it have been pulled tight.
“I want to get to know you, Daredevil. Not your dad.”
I nod, glad to hear it, even though I’ve heard similar over the years from guys who turned out to be lying.
“If it gets to be too much, if it goes too far . . . either one of us just has to say the word, and it’s done. We walk away, and that’s that.”
His eyebrows knit together in an almost-scowl.
“You have this kind of contract with all your friends?”
“No,” I answer simply.
He waits, and I’m sure he’s expecting an explanation, but I don’t give it.
“Fine. Then I have a few stipulations of my own.”
I nod for him to go ahead. It’s only fair.
“Stay away from the other football players. Abrams, Moore, anyone who comes up to you in class or a party or whatever. If we’re keeping our worlds separate, then they need to stay that way. Completely.”
His voice is firm, an almost growl, as he says it. I don’t let myself think about the possessive edge in his tone. That’s a rabbit hole I can’t fall into.
“That’s an easy yes.”
He nods, but the troubled expression on his face doesn’t go away with my acceptance.
“We’re honest with each other, no matter how hard or awkward it is to say whatever needs to be said. We”—he uses a hand to gesture between us—“are a safe space. You can say anything to me, and I promise I’ll hear you out. I’ll listen. No matter what it is.”
I swallow, wondering just how honest he plans on getting, but I don’t refuse.
“Okay. Is that it?”
“You don’t walk away without an explanation. An honest one.”
“If that’s what you want.” It’s likely to be a brutal truth; it always is, but if he can take it, I can say it.