Via

Because you weren’t cool. You weren’t in. You weren’t even close to fly or tight or any of those words Jenny Tyler used like a blessing from the pope himself. Gone was the confidence that poolside slushies, first bikinis, and no parents around instilled in you in early June. In high school, you were going to be just as invisible and lame as you were in middle school. And you weren’t even sure if you even wanted to go to college. Graduate school. Get out of your little town. Your parents' dreams were already suffocating you, and you hadn’t even stepped inside the building yet. 

There was a knock at your front door. You sighed, slipping the class list into the crack between well-worn couch cushions, as you got to your feet. 

You opened the door just a crack, prepared to tell whoever it was to go away, when you saw him. Standing there with his hands in his pockets and smirking like he knew some secret. He was even more tan than he was at the beginning of summer. Stark lines where sun-kissed met pale sticking out under the sleeves of his t-shirt. The hair at the top of his head was practically sunbleached white. Summer had been so very kind to him despite grueling work hours in eighty-degree heat. His smile only grew when he spotted you.

“Court!” you shouted, flinging yourself into him, arms looped around his neck tight.

He caught you easily, only staggering back a bit as his arms snaked around your waist. You hadn’t seen him all weekend, a rarity since that day by the pool in July. It was like there was some invisible string attaching you to him. Wherever he went, outside of work hours, you went too. Anytime your parents weren’t around, he showed up, usually with Colt in tow. Neither of you minded. Neither of you would trade it for anything. It was the best summer of your entire life, for completely different reasons than you thought there would be. 

You pulled back just enough, fingers tangled in his sunbleached hair, to get a good look at him. Eyes darting this way and that as you checked him over quickly for fresh bruises or marks.

He didn’t let you look for long. His mouth was on yours in the next instant as he backed you up until your spine was pressed against your front door. Lithe arms caging you in. Holding his face between your hands, you hummed appreciatively as your mouth moved against his with the type of fervor only brought on by teenage hormones. Sloppy and spit messy and perfect. 

Court only pulled away when his lungs started to burn, pressing a kiss to your lips one, two more times before he leaned away completely. You looked so fucking pretty. Even wearing a t-shirt and shorts, no makeup, and hair pulled back, you looked stunning. Especially between his arms, lips kiss swollen, looking up at him with a breathless smile.

You were the best part of his entire summer.

“Where’s Colt?” you asked as you continued to play with his hair, silky and freshly cleaned between your fingers.

“Sleepover.” He kissed you again and revelled in the way you leaned into him. “Wanna get outta here?”

“And go where?” 

He moved a lock of hair behind your ear even though it wasn’t in the way. “I know a place.”

“Yeah?” You nodded, and Court nodded along with you until you were both smiling about it. “Okay. Lemme get my shoes.”

Hand in Hand, fingers interlinked, you walked further into town. Past the park and the city pool, where kids were trying to make summer last longer. Past the old downtown with its dying storefronts and old brick streets. Past the pharmacy, the mechanics, and the restaurant chains that ran those old brick storefronts out of business. To the local grocery store where Main Street turned into highway — where people left your little town and never came back — where the scent in the air turned to manure and pasture. Court tugged you into the parking lot despite your reservations. You knew there wasn’t much to do in town, but you didn’t think he would take you here. To look at fruit, boxed cereal, and poorly homemade t-shirts for your high school football team.

But you didn’t go inside. Instead, he led you around the back of the store. Beyond the backlot with the loading bays and a little table where a cashier stood smoking. To the stretch of trees behind the lot.

“You wanted to take me here?” you questioned as you came to a stop at the tree line. 

Court looked back at you over his shoulder with a small smile. “You trust me?”

“I do.”

Your instant response, the sincerity in your eyes, nearly knocked the wind out of him. Nearly made him just grab you and kiss you instead of doing anything else. But instead, he turned back towards the trees and pulled you along behind him. 

Down a small hill, a creek wound its way through the trees. The water swelled up because of the rain a few days before. In some places, you could step all the way over it without getting your feet wet. But the water was clear and babbled over the rocky bed in a beautiful symphony. Light shown through the forest canopy in beautiful golds and light greens. Here, the grocery store ceased to exist. The highway and pasture and smell of freedom and manure weren’t just a ways away. It was just the trees and the creek and Court Gentry. 

“It’s like a dream,” you commented as you stepped up to the water, Court trailing not far behind you.

He was quiet for a while, watching as you squatted down and dipped your fingers into the creek. You picked up a rock from the bottom, a shining grey thing that would grow dull as it dried. But you smiled at it like it was the most brilliant treasure.

Then he said, “My mom used to bring me here.”

He didn’t know why he said it until you stood up straight and smiled at him like that. He never talked about his mom. Not with anyone. Not even when Colt asked because he couldn’t remember. It was best if he didn’t, anyway. It would just make everything worse. At least, that was how it was for Court. The memory of his mom tainted the life he lived without her. Made him so angry sometimes — at who, he wasn’t entirely sure. 

“I remember your mom,” you said as you sat down on the bank, knees bent. “She brought soup over after my dad fell off the roof and broke his back. She was…She was nice.”

Court sat down beside you. You put your head on his shoulder like it was always meant to be there. He remembered that. He was out in the yard with Colt when your mom screamed bloody murder, and the ambulance showed up. Colt wanted to see, but their mom wouldn’t let them. Gotta do right by people, his mom had said while she boxed up the soup and some fresh bread.  

“Do you miss her?” you asked quietly, like you were afraid to.

He nodded. You felt the movement of it against the top of your head, and you sighed, resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to say anything else on the subject. You were just happy he shared that little bit with you. You were happy when he shared any part of himself with you.

“You nervous about starting high school?” you muttered as you took off your shoes and socks.

“School’s school,” Court sighed back as he watched you dip your toes into the water. “Can’t wait for it to be over already.”

The water was cool, the tadpoles nibbled at your toes like they could actually do something. “So you’re not nervous…At all?”

“Nope.” You didn’t answer for a while and he finally asked, “You nervous?”

“A little.” You shrugged, picked your head up from his shoulder. “S’just the rest of our lives at stake.”

“What d’you wanna do, darlin? When you grow up?” he questioned, nudging you with his elbow and a smirk. 

“Promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“Depends on what you’re gonna say.”

“I’m serious!”

“And I’m serious about not making promises I can’t keep.”

With a roll of your eyes, you shoved him, and he fell down like you had shot him. Dramatic with his hands to his chest and a groan on his lips. He dragged you down with him by hands clamped on your waist, and you laughed as you collided with him. Knees in the mud, you pulled away to get a good look at his grinning face. Eyes crinkled up at the edges, nose scrunched. He looked so good when he smiled. There were already sticks and flecks of mud in his blonde locks. But with the way he smirked and tickled your side until you were shrieking, he didn’t seem to care about getting dirty. And neither did you. 

“I wanna do stuff with plants,” you confessed, quietly, like someone else might hear. “Grow ‘em. Make ‘em look pretty. Sell what I grow…Maybe.”

Court cocked his head at you. “Why’s that?”

“My Nana. She had a garden. Ever since I was little, she would take me out to help her weed and prune and guide the viney stuff up the trellis. She told me about everything. Loved it ever since.”

“Don’t think I can make fun of you for that,” he said, giving your waist a squeeze.

“Shut up,” you scoffed, focusing all your attention on the logo stitched onto his t-shirt.

“You have a garden now?”

Your cheeks burned again. “I do.”

“Can I see it sometime?” 

His instant response, the sincerity in his eyes, nearly knocked the wind out of you. Your plants, your garden, your Nana were all sacred to you. You didn’t share that with any of your friends. No one knew, and you liked it that way. Because gardening was just a hobby, as your parents liked to say. Because your Nana was gone and you didn’t like to think about it. Because when you were in your garden, with your plants and work and life around you, you could be completely yourself. But he wanted to see your garden. He wanted to learn this sacred thing about you. It all made you want to just grab him and kiss him instead of doing anything else.

So you did exactly that. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt before pulling yourself down and kissing him. He grunted in shock at first, but took your kiss in stride. Smiled into it as his hands slid up your back and he angled his head to deepen it. 

You pulled away breathless after a moment. “Yes. I…I would like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Court walked you home when he said it was getting close to dinner time. You didn’t even remember dinner or time or anything else until he said something. Until he pulled you up from the bank and started tugging you away from the water. You could have spent forever at that creek behind the grocery store, just you and him. You could have spent forever in the coolness of the water, the gold of the light through the trees, the dream of your last moments of summer.

The pair of you came onto your street hand in hand, laughing about something. You couldn’t even remember. Something that you saw, something that happened, or something one of you said. All you knew was that you were giggling and you couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

That was until you saw your dad’s truck parked under the car port, and your actual father standing out in the yard. Arms crossed. Watching.

You and Court sobered up quick, hands pulling away from each other like there was an electrical shock. Your house was first on the street. It wasn’t like Court could start jogging ahead without looking like a complete dickhead. So you walked together, side by side, suddenly very aware that your momma told you to stay away from those Gentry boys, and you definitely had not listened.

Your dad took the few steps to the edge of the gravel road as the two of you slowed to a stop in front of your house. “Courtland, right?”

Court glanced at you but kept his ground, stood up straight as he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked your dad in the eye. “Yes, sir, that’s me.”

He turned to look at you, eyes sharp but not hard. “You like this boy?”

“Yes, I do.”

You sounded so sure when you said it that it took Court aback. Made his heart flip, and his fists clench in his pockets. His first thought was that he didn’t deserve it, and he didn’t know why.

“Your momma ain’t gonna like it,” your dad sighed, and Court braced, then he added. “But she can get over it. You treat my little girl right, you hear?”

Court swallowed thickly before nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, both of you come on inside for dinner. The missus is making pork chops. They’re gonna be dry as shit, but the gravy is good.”

Court felt unsure about joining your family for dinner. He felt sure that he wanted to treat you right. Sure that he liked you back. Sure that the gravy was going to be delicious. But out of the corner of his eye, he could see his dad’s car in the driveway. Colt was out of the house, and he was glad about that. He wanted to stay with you and go inside a house that might actually feel like a home. But he didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want to get in trouble with his father.

But the way you took his hand with an excited smile, he couldn’t say no.

Even if he might pay for it later.

~~~~

You walked to the high school that morning. Earlier than you ever needed to be because you didn’t want to be late. You wanted to find your locker. Set up all your stuff. Make sure you knew where all your classes were. As embarrassing as the first day of high school was, you didn’t want to be even more embarrassed by getting lost.

You got there right after the school buses did, when kids from out in the boondocks would eat breakfast in the cafeteria, and the line to get into the parking lot was only a few cars long.

Your locker existed. Your stuff was set up. The classrooms you would be going to throughout the day were actually all pretty close together.

And just as you were running out of stuff to do, the bell for classes to begin so far away from ringing, Court Gentry walked through the front door. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Converse beat up and dirty. He was looking around for something until he spotted you, books stapled to your chest like that day he finally talked to you at the city pool, and he grinned. 

He walked right up to you and took your hand, Jenny Tyler gawking with her gaggle of friends, then planted a kiss on your cheek. 

“Come on, darlin’, help me find my locker.”

Maybe you weren’t going to be invisible after all.

1996

Court pulled up outside your house and killed the engine with a strong tug on the keys. That wasn’t good.

“This thing’s a piece of shit,” Colt commented from the backseat. 

Court twisted to look at him. “You wanna keep walking to soccer practice? Keep riding the bus to school?”

“No,” he admitted with a sigh.

“Then don’t complain about your chariot, your highness.” Court pushed open the door and stepped out of the car. 

Colt leaned out his rolled down window after his brother. “All I’m saying is that Buick didn’t have as many problems.”

“Yeah, but it was double the price.”

“I can’t even get this door open without pulling the lock thing!” Colt demonstrated his point by tugging on his door to no avail. “We can still go back to the junkyard, trade this junk in.”

“I’m gonna fix your door and the key getting stuck and the weak brakes and…All that stuff!” Court said, “Now would you let me take you to the movies?”

“Fine,” Colt groaned as he flopped back into his seat.

Court rolled his eyes as he made his way up your driveway. He was willing to admit the car wasn’t nice. It was over twenty years old. Had enough miles on it to stretch across the country. All the aforementioned problems that needed fixing or learning to live with. But it was cheap. It ran. And it was all his. Paid for out of his own pocket. No one could take it away from him. He could go anywhere he wanted.

A kind of freedom he had always longed for.

One knock at the front door told him you weren’t home. At least, not inside. With a quick scan through the windows, nothing but an empty living room and untouched homework on the coffee table, Court decided to go around and check the backyard.

And there you were. Knelt in front of a few raised garden beds that your dad and Court worked on together during spring. The corners were messed up, but you didn’t even care. An uncontrollable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched you. Sun hat on. Fingers caked in dirt. You hadn’t noticed him yet, and he liked it that way. You always looked so content when you were in your garden. Carefree. Yourself. He could watch you all day if you let him.

You definitely weren’t avoiding your homework. That biology worksheet about invertebrates that barricaded the rest of your weekend from being enjoyable. No, that worksheet definitely did not sit untouched in your living room while you worked with your plants. 

That would be irresponsible. 

Besides, you would get to it as soon as you pruned these potato plants. You didn’t want them putting all their effort into making flowers instead of continuing to grow the tubers just beneath the earth’s surface. That seemed more irresponsible to you than untouched biology homework ever would. You pulled the last flower, little purple buds piled in a basket at your side, and you leaned back on your haunches and admired your work. Pretty soon those potatoes would be ready to harvest, and the look on your momma’s face when you handed them over for cooking would be payment enough. 

Then you heard the crunching of feet through dried grass and looked up.

“Hey, baby,” you greeted Court as you got to your feet with a grin. “What’re you doing here? Thought you were still working.”

He came up and swept you off your feet. Massive grin on his face as he looped his arms around your thighs and lifted you off the ground. You squealed in delight, dirty hands finding purchase on his shoulders as he spun you around. He put you down not a moment later and planted a kiss on your lips. 

He was taller than he was the year before. Stronger too. He kept his hair longer, past his ears, and he said it wasn’t because all the guys were wearing their hair like that but because he just liked it. It was still just as blond. He still had that same boyish grin. 

And you still loved him. That, you were sure, would never change. Despite everyone telling you otherwise. 

“Wanna show you somethin’,” he muttered against your lips.

Before pulling back and showing you a car key, loop around his finger. You gasped, quickly wiping your hands off on your jeans.

“You got it?” you asked excitedly. “The one we were lookin’ at?”

“So, turns out that one doesn’t have, like, an engine,” he chuckled as he took your hand, leading you around to the front of the house.

“Well that’s lame,” you said with a slight pout.

He looked back at you with a smile. “You’re gonna like this one too, trust me.”

The pair of you rounded the corner of the house, and you stopped dead in your tracks. It definitely wasn’t the Mustang you saw at the junkyard just a few days ago. With its still semi-shining blue paint and a hood ornament you and Court thought was hilarious. You were pretty sure your dad would say it was a shitbox. Rusted around the bottom edge. Mismatched rims. One of the doors was forest green while the rest of the car was white.

Colt leaned out the back window and said, “Ah, she hates it!”

That snapped you out of it. “What? No! I don’t…Hate it.”

“S’all over your face!”

“Okay, yeah, I’m a little…It’s just not what I expected,” you tried to explain as Court came to stand at your side, hands in his pockets.

“You hate it,” Court said flatly.

“No! No, baby.” You forced one of his hands out and gripped it between two of yours. “I don’t hate it. It’s a good first car.”

He glanced your way. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“You’re not gonna be embarrassed about it?”

“Never,” you said, trying to put all the sincerity in the world behind it, as you squeezed his hand.

It wasn’t the car you thought he would get. It certainly wasn’t as nice as you dreamed your boyfriend’s first car would be. But it was his. You would let him take you anywhere he wanted in that shitbox if it meant you got to be with him. 

“I am!” Colt interjected loudly.

“Oh, who cares what you think!” you answered with a grin before tugging Court towards the car. “Come on. You gonna take me for a drive or what?”

Court still wasn’t fully convinced about your feelings towards the car, watching as you disappeared inside your house to get clean and change, with his eyebrows pinched together. He wanted to take you places. On drives and real dates and school and anywhere you wanted if it meant he got to spend time with you. But in some way he didn’t fully understand, he wanted you to be proud of him. Proud to be with him. Proud to be in his car.

Who would be proud to get a ride in the piece of shit he just bought?

You came back outside with still damp hair and those hip-hugger jeans you had to beg your momma to buy you. With a huff, Court opened the door for you and made sure your seatbelt worked before closing it.

Colt gagged loudly, tongue sticking out and finger pointed at all of his pretend barf. You swiveled in your seat to glare at him as Court struggled to turn the key and start the engine. He got it after a few tries, arm muscles bulging, with a relieved sigh.

“You should be taking notes, Colt. If you treat any girl you date half as good as your brother treats me, she’s sure to love ya,” you said as Court pulled the car away from the curb, blushing crimson.

“Girls are gross,” he huffed back, arms crossed as he slumped in his seat.

You pouted playfully. “Even me?”

“Especially you.”

That just made you laugh as you turned back to face the front. Court was still blushing as he glanced over at you in his passenger seat, like he always dreamed you would be. You looked relaxed in the cracked leather. Feet outstretched, hands loose in your lap, as you watched the landscape of your tiny town pass by. You looked content. Carefree. Yourself.

Maybe the car didn’t matter after all.

After dinner at the local burger joint, Court drove you all to the drive-in. The last showing of the season before it was too cold for it. Thankfully, it was a warmer night in October. Court laid out the quilt from the trunk, and the three of you got comfortable. Court’s head in your lap and your fingers in his hair. It made Colt gag around his ice cream again, but neither of you cared. Mighty Ducks three. You hadn’t seen the previous two, but the boys were more than happy to fill you in on the plot points you missed. 

When you got home, biology homework nothing but a faint memory, it was nearly midnight. And the weekend was good despite it all.

~~~~

It was one of those nights in early winter that felt like the dead of the season. When morning came, the outside world would be covered in frost, and first exhales would be nothing but plumes of smoke. It was a night where, thirty minutes after you went to bed, your momma came in with an extra quilt and a vow for you to stay warm.

You took the quilt and the kiss on the cheek gladly.

Then, a few hours later, when you were dead to the world and enveloped in a warmth only sleep could bring, you heard a tap on your window. You ignored it at first. Probably just a bird or a squirrel trying to crack open a nut or something. But the taps just kept coming and seemed to have no end in sight. You groaned, shoving a pillow over your head to try to block out the noise and just go back to sleep. Finally, one tap was louder than the rest, and you sat up straight in bed, pillow tossed to the ground in your half-asleep rage.

Fine. You weren’t above smacking your window back and telling a bird to fuck off.

Throwing back your several layers of blankets, you got up and marched over to your window with the kind of determination only seen at three in the morning. You raised your hand to hit the glass and hopefully make the bird go away, but then you noticed what was actually on the other side of the window.

More like who.

Backlit by your neighbors' motion sensor lights, you saw the Gentry boys shivering in the cold. Court’s face nothing but a mass of bruises and blood. 

You didn’t need to pause to think. There was no choice for you. Never had been. You flipped the latch on your window as quick as you could and pulled the window open. Good thing your dad kept forgetting to replace the screen. Once it was pulled up enough, Court started helping Colt climb in. You moved out of the way just in time for Colt to tumble inside, landing flat on his back but quickly popping back up. As soon as Court was inside, you slid the window shut and locked it quickly.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed as you fumbled in the dark to turn on the lamp on your dresser.

Once you did, it didn’t make Court’s face look any better. In fact, he looked worse in the dim yellow light. His nose was busted, smashed crooked with broken skin and drying blood on his upper lip. His left eyebrow was cut, crimson still pouring down the side of his face. The eye underneath it was completely swollen shut and red with a forming bruise — the other wasn’t much better. His hairline was dotted with red marks that would eventually become bruises in a harmonious path. His bottom lip was split and angry. There was blood spattered onto his t-shirt. It was the worst you had ever seen him. 

Court leaned back against the wall with a heavy thump, breaths heavy. You couldn’t tell if it was from exertion or if it was just hard for him to breathe. Your eyes filled with tears as you walked up to him slowly, unsure if you could touch him or where you even should. He tried to flash a smile at you, but it didn’t reach the one eye you could see, and it made him wince right after.

“What happened?” you questioned softly.

“I-I messed up,” Colt replied shakily, “I didn’t hear him —”

“Shut up,” Court wheezed.

Colt’s lip quivered as his eyes watered. “No! He wanted another beer and I should’ve heard him! Should’ve just done it!”

“Dude —” Court started, picking himself up off the wall.

“If-if I’d just done what I was told this never would’ve happened! It’s my fault!” Tears were streaming fully down Colt’s face now, his fingers threaded in his hair as he pulled harshly. “Dad w-would be happy! He would still love us!”

Court took a few deep breaths, jaw set, as he stared at his brother. “This isn’t your fault.”  

“Yes it is!” he wailed back, “Just look at you!”

Your bedroom door suddenly burst open, and you all jumped, turning to see who was coming in. Unconsciously, Court moved to stand just in front of Colt. But it was just your parents. Rudely awakened and looking prepared to yell at you to go back to sleep. Your dad was in just his boxers. Your mom at least put on her robe. But their expressions both dropped when they saw those Gentry boys in your room. One beaten and the other shaking with sobs.

“Someone explain what is goin’ on,” your dad demanded, voice thick with sleep but still kind.

You stepped up in front of Court and Colt, struggling to find the words to explain. “Their dad…”

Understanding hardened your dad’s face. “Always knew I didn’t like that son of a bitch.”

“Richard,” your mom hissed, smacking him on the shoulder as she tightened her robe around herself. “I’m gonna call the police.”

“No!” Court took one step forward, surely intent on going after your mom, but she turned back almost instantly, brows furrowed. “Please don’t.”

Your mom, ever the nurse, crossed her arms and frowned. “Young man, you’re gonna need stitches. The police need to be involved.”

“Please. If — If you do that they’re gonna take Colt away. Please…Please don’t,” Court pleaded and Colt started crying anew.

“You don’t know that,” your mom sighed. 

“I don’t…Please.” Court hobbled closer. “Just don’t.”

Your parents stared at those Gentry boys for a good while. Thinking. Processing. Deciding. You waited on bated breath, hands clutched to your chest, silently begging them to understand. The boys couldn’t go back home. They needed somewhere to stay while their dad cooled off. They needed somewhere to rest and to heal, and you wanted so badly to give that to them — but you knew ultimately it wasn’t your decision to make. It was your parents.

Your dad was the first to speak. “Honey, why don’t you go get the first aid kit? You boys hungry?”

“Richard,” your mom warned in a hushed tone.

“Martha,” he replied in a nearly mocking voice with a grin. “Y’all like pancakes? What am I talking about — who doesn’t like pancakes?”

Your dad turned and walked towards the kitchen. You looked back at Court and Colt with a hopeful smile. Court stood there hunched over, clutching his side, looking worn down to the bone. While Colt hugged himself, sniffling with silent tears still streaming down his face. You took one of each of their hands and led them out of your room, past your mom, who looked on with an unreadable expression.

The pancakes were delicious — coated in butter and syrup and crispy around the edges. Colt ate two stacks' worth before he was done. Court took one bite and pushed his plate to the side. Not in a thoughtless way, none of you would ever take it like that, but in a way that said I am so grateful, but it hurts too much. Your dad patted him gently on the shoulder as he put more pancakes on your plate.

When the pancakes were nearly done, your mom came out to the dining room with the first aid kit and some fishing wire in hand. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her nose was red. Silently, she knelt in front of Court’s chair and patched him up. Her hands were more gentle than you had ever seen them. She cleaned off all the blood, stitched up his eyebrow, reset his nose with a sickening crack, and offered him one of your dad’s old shirts. Court took it all with gritted teeth and one good eye staring into the middle distance.

He got up to go change clothes, his steps slow, and your mom continued to kneel there. Staring at the seat he once occupied. Eyes glistening with tears and clutching at the bloodied cloth in her hand too tightly.

You were done with your pancakes after that.

The Gentry boys were set up in the living room for the night, on the pull-out couch that your mom used when your dad’s snoring got too loud. It wasn’t comfortable. It was a pull-out from a bygone era — the mattress springs dug into your spine and creaked with every movement. But Court and Colt looked grateful as they climbed under the covers, and your family left them for the night.

Around five in the morning, there was a light knock at your door. You couldn’t go back to sleep anyway — mind reeling with heartache — so you got out of bed and peeked outside your room. Court stood there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, unshed tears built up in the eye you could see. He looked up at you when you opened the door wider. 

He didn’t have to say anything.

You knew what he wanted.

Taking his hand, you led him inside your room and closed the door. You lay down in bed first, and Court collapsed after you, arms wrapped around your middle and face buried in your chest. Tangling your fingers in his long hair, you kissed gently at his hairline, mindful of the many bruises there.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, voice shaking with tears, into the dark.

Court just held you tighter, buried himself deeper into you. Into your comfort. Into your love.

1997

The Fourth of July always had its ups and downs. It was always too hot. Too loud. People felt the need to get drunk and act stupid with fireworks all weekend. Your mom always complained that during the Fourth of July, she saw at least two dozen burns and at least a few mangled hands in the emergency room. But there was always good food. Fireworks were fun to watch. The town was decorated to the nines. The Fourth always instilled a sense of pride in you that didn’t exist for the rest of the year.

The ups usually outweighed the downs. 

This year was no different.

The city park was jam-packed, and a humidity clung to the air that you could nearly taste. But food vendors lined the parking lot. Someone was passing out free sparklers. Little kids ran around in the cutest red, white, and blue clothes. Neighbors caught up with one another. The mayor was dressed up in a ridiculous top hat and waistcoat despite the heat.

And you were with Court Gentry, sprawled out on the quilt he kept in the trunk of his car — a food haul from the vendors between you. Tornado potatoes. Pulled pork nachos. Quickly melting patriotic ice cream. Colt was off somewhere, hoarding sparklers for when it got dark. You loaded up the perfect tortilla chip and hand-fed it to Court with a smile. Wiped the cheese off of his chin with your thumb and let him lick it off with a blush.

He chased your retreating thumb until his lips were on yours. Until you were leaning back on your hands and he was half on top of you. You smiled into the kiss, going after him when he tried to pull back and nipping at his lower lip. 

“Cheeky,” he muttered against your mouth before going right back to kissing you.

With an intake of breath, the kiss deepened. It happened really before either of you knew what was happening. You were leaning back on your elbows instead of your hands, and his fingers were tangled in your hair. His knee was propped between your spread legs, and you felt dizzy.

“Gentry!” A gruff voice shouted, and Court pulled away from you with a sigh, eyes clamped shut, before he turned to see who it was. “This is a public park, son; no one wants to see that.”

You followed Court’s line of sight, only to see your principal standing at the edge of your blanket with his hands on his hips. Your cheeks burned as you pushed at Court’s chest and scrambled to sit up straight. Court coughed as he pushed a hand through his hair and pushed it back away from his face.

“School doesn’t start for another few weeks, Mr. Johnson,” he pointed out, looking up at the principal with a smirk.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to hide your snicker.

Eyes narrowed, Mr. Johnson leaned down closer to the two of you. “I can go get Deputy Stokes right now and get you kicked out for…I don’t know…Public indecency? How does that sound?”

“We understand, sir,” Court replied, all humor cut from his tone as Mr. Johnson nodded and turned to walk away.

But as soon as his back was turned, Court turned to you and planted another kiss on your lips. He pulled back and searched your face.

“He looking?” he asked.

You looked around his head. “Yeah.”

Court twisted around and waved at the principal with a jovial smile, who just rolled his eyes and walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, you fell back onto the blanket in a fit of giggles. Arms holding your sides as you laughed till tears were streaming down your face.

Darkness finally fell when it was nearly ten at night, but the fireworks didn’t wait to start. The first sparkling ball of fire shot up right on time, exploding in brilliant shades of green, blue, and white that looked like falling stars. The rest followed in quick succession, people clapping and awing as the show went on. You leaned into Court’s side as you watched, fingers threaded together in his lap.

“You still plan to leave? After graduation?” you asked, eyes still trained on the fireworks as they exploded above you.

“That’s the plan,” he replied simply.

You squeezed his arm gently as you snuggled closer to him, uncertainty lacing your tone. “Can…Can I come with you?”

He stiffened. “You’d…You’d want that?”

You placed your chin on his shoulder and looked at his side profile with a small smile. His face lit up with reds, blues, and purples as the fireworks went off. His nose now had a permanent bump. When summer started, he cut his hair short, and you mourned for an entire weekend. He wore the shell necklace you got for him from the beach like a good luck charm. As you looked at him, you felt like your heart was going to burst right out of your chest. Into his awaiting hand. Where it had belonged since the day you met him.

“I love you — you know,” you whispered for only him to hear over the din.

He turned his head slightly to look at you and was quiet for a moment. His thumb ran a path over the back of your hand. Court knew, before he met you, that he was infatuated with you since he was eight years old. The idea of you was something that he dreamed about. But then he really met you. You were better than anything he could ever dream of. Caring. Loving. A stubborn hard ass that drove him insane. Someone who helped without thought. You were so fucking terrible at math, it was comical. You loved his brother unconditionally. He had known from the moment he met you two years ago that he loved you.

“I love you, too,” he finally mumbled back, like he was afraid to say it out loud, and it made you smile. Made you press several kisses into his shoulder. Then he said, “Where d’you wanna go? After graduation?”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Nebraska.”

He snorted. “Nebraska?”

“It just sounds nice.” You nudged him with your shoulder and squeezed his hand with a grin. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, “Nebraska it is.”

“We’ll get a little cottage way out in the country. So I can have a huge garden.”

“How many beds would you need?”

“Unsure. A lot?”

Court smiled and kissed the top of your head. “I can do that.”

1998

It was town legend that the old house on Baker Street was haunted. Kids of all ages liked to say that that house was where the urban legend of Bloody Mary was born. That Mary’s father slit her throat with a shard of broken mirror or something along those lines. The story always changed from person to person.

You never believed any of that stuff. Ghosts were for people who wanted more time, and haunted houses were for people who chased a thrill. You were neither of those people, and you liked it that way.

That was until you were standing right in front of that house on Baker Street, hands in your hoodie pockets against the spring chill.

It looked haunted.

Surrounded by tall chain-link fence, deep hedges, and overgrown trees, it was clear that whoever owned the land didn’t want anyone trespassing. The house itself was huge — it towered above you as you looked up at it. An all-white Victorian that was falling apart at the seams. Half of the paint had been worn off with time. The porch was partially caved in on itself. A few windows were broken. You were sure that at some point, it was beautiful. That someone once loved it dearly. But now, it was just rotted wood waiting for someone to take it out of its misery. Waiting for that final breath to be sighed.

And for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why Courtland wanted to go inside. Today of all days.

You waited patiently on the sidewalk while he checked around the perimeter of the house for a patch of fence that didn’t have bushes or trees — a crack that you could break through. The longer he left you waiting, the more antsy you became. The more you didn’t want to go inside. The more you started to believe in ghost stories and urban legends. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other as you craned your neck to get a better look at the highest window. A bit of broken stained glass set into what you assumed was an attack. You could just see a tarp or something blowing in the breeze on the other side.

Court came around the side of the fence, and you jumped when he called your name.

“Geez, scaredy-cat,” he chuckled as he grinned at you. “Come on. Someone cut a hole in the back corner.”

You scurried after him, taking one last look around the empty street, as you too disappeared into the shrubbery. “Why do you wanna go in here again?”

“‘Cause it’s fun…And spooky,” he replied, looking back at you and wiggling his fingers.

“That is not a good enough reason,” you scoffed, “We could get in trouble.”

The two of you made it to the back corner of the fence, where you could see several links in the fence had been cut in a vertical line. Court stopped in front of the hole and turned back to you with a grin. “That’s why we’re not gonna get caught.”

You rolled your eyes, but squeezed through the gap in the fence when Court pulled it open for you. You still didn’t like this. But you didn’t want him to do it without you, either. If you did get caught, there was always asking for forgiveness. Even if it meant you might get grounded. You really hoped the memory made up for it.

As soon as you stepped into the yard, the air felt colder. The light felt dimmer. You shivered as you turned back and watched Court slip through the fence.

“Now, how do we get inside, master burglar?” you questioned.

“Easy.” He walked up to the window right across from the hole in the fence and carefully put his arm through the sizable break in the glass. “Noah told me about this.”

After a bit of fiddling, the window was unlocked. Court pushed it open with ease, then helped you climb through. You landed with a cloud of kicked-up dust in what used to be the living room. The air felt thick inside despite the many places where you could feel the spring air leaking in.

The drywall was cracked, green wallpaper peeling in places. There were once plush couches set in a configuration around a large oak TV cabinet that you were sure was empty. But the couches had holes in the cushions and mildew stains. A floor lamp was on its side on the floor. There was still a newspaper on the coffee table. You wondered if that was where the owner had left it all those years ago — ready to be read. You walked further into the room as Court landed behind you.

“Woah,” he breathed as he took in the space.

“That is an understatement,” you said as you walked up to the fireplace.

A beautiful, ornate thing big enough for you to sit down in. There were candles on the mantel, a clock that no longer worked, and picture frames. You were glad that they were empty. That someone had the decency to take them down and save them somewhere.

The more you looked the less the house felt haunted. And the more sad you became.

What happened that made them up and leave their house like this? Why did it never get cleaned out? 

In the kitchen, there were still dishes in the sink. A broken upper cabinet revealed canned foods waiting to be prepared. And there was a note on the counter: 

Praying for your surgery today.

Court joined you not long after you turned the note face down, and you asked, “Why’d you wanna come here?”

“Truth?”

“I would like it.”

He sighed as he looked around the kitchen, almost like he was searching for the right words. “I’ve always wanted to come here. My…My mom really liked this house.”

“She did?” you asked, urging him to keep talking.

“She wanted to buy it. Fix it up. Make a home out of it,” he went on, “Never…Never understood why. Thought I could find out.”

With a smile, you took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Wanna keep looking around?”

“Yeah.”

The two of you looked in every room. The stairs creaked and groaned under your feet, and for a moment you thought they might collapse under you, but they didn’t. Each one was a time capsule, a singular moment in time that was long gone. The faded pink little girls' room twisted up something inside you. You couldn’t look for long.

Now you understood why he wanted to go inside that house on Baker Street today, of all days. His mom passed away five years ago today. It was always hard for him and Colt. They would spend the morning hours in the cemetery. They never talked about it, and you learned not to ask. Gentry grief was silent, a burden best carried together. But still, since you met up with Court that afternoon, there was a heaviness in the air around him that couldn’t be shaken.

You were just circling back to the living room when the front door clicked open. You both froze, Court slowly tugging you towards the still-open window.

“Who’s in here?” a gruff voice shouted. “You better get the hell out before I call the cops!”

“Shit — run!” Court hissed as he shoved you towards the window.

You scrambled through the opening, landing practically face-first into the grass outside once your legs were through. Your heart thundered in your ears as you shot up from the ground and booked it to the hole in the fence. When you looked back over your shoulder, Court was right at your tail, telling you to hurry. You pushed back the fence just enough to slip through.

“Go! Just get to the car!” Court shouted when you paused to wait for him.

He was struggling to get through the fence, his body so much broader and taller than yours. You weren’t about to just leave him like that. Especially when you could hear the pump of a shotgun from just around the corner of the house. So, you grabbed his hand and pulled with all your might until he was free from the chain link.

Hand in hand, the two of you ran to his car parked just around the corner. You dove into the passenger seat, a disbelieving giggle bubbling up in your throat as Court started the engine and peeled away from the curb. Then he was laughing right along with you — breathless with his hand on your thigh.

“I can’t believe we got away with that,” you sighed, another chuckle at the back of your throat, then you looked over at Court. “Oh, my God, you’re bleeding.”

“What?” Brow furrowed, he glanced down at himself quickly before looking back at the road. “Where?”

The left cuff of his sweatshirt was stained a deep red; you could see the start of a deep gash on his palm. “Your wrist. Jesus, babe, pull over. Lemme take a look.”

He did as you said immediately, lifting up his arm so he could get a better look at the damage. His eyebrows jumped up at the sight of all that blood. It didn’t even hurt. He remembered, as you were pulling him free from the fence, that he was caught on something. He thought it was his clothes, not his skin. Once he was parked and the hazards were on, you reached across and took his hand in yours. You pushed up his bloodied sleeve to reveal a three-inch cut on the inside of his wrist that bled freely. It looked deep. When you pulled gently at one side of his skin, a flash of white greeted you both.

“That’s not good,” he said, a dizziness filling his head that he tried to shake.

“Oh, my God, you’re so pale,” you pointed out, panic evident in your tone, “Okay, okay, uh…We need the hospital. But you can’t drive. Clearly.”

“I can drive,” he protested.

“Shut up, babe. We need to wrap this up —” You looked down between your legs at the floorboard, and you scooped up a used work shirt he had left there the day before.  “This’ll do.”

“I can drive,” he repeated, louder, even though there were dark spots dancing in his vision.

“No, you can’t.” You folded the shirt into a strip and wrapped it tightly around his wrist. It was crude, but it would do for the five-minute drive to the hospital. “That’s a lot of blood not in your body. I almost failed biology, but I’m pretty sure that’s all supposed to be in there.”

“I’m…fine,” he huffed.

Getting out of the car, you ran to the driver's side and opened the door. “Move over, please.”

“Nope. I’m driving.”

“Babe, move over.”

“Not doin’ it.”

“Courtland Gentry, I need to drive you to the hospital!” You gave him a hard shove on the shoulder. “Now move!”

“Uh-uh.”

He smirked up at you, clearly out of it from the blood loss, and it just made you even more agitated. You knew what he was doing. At this point, he was pissing you off on purpose because he liked seeing you all flustered. Even when he was light-headed and slurring his words. 

You had an idea. If he didn’t like it, there was always asking for forgiveness. Even if he might yell at you the entire drive. You really hoped the memory made up for it. So, instead of arguing about it some more, you crawled into his lap and started the engine.

“Woah, darlin’, what’re you doin’?” he asked as you kicked his feet out of the way and pulled away from the curb clumsily.

“Driving to the hospital.”

~~~~

You leaned back against Court’s chest, basking on the creek bank in one of the last warm days of fall. There was a comfortable silence between you now as you watched the shallow water trickle by just past your feet. Your fingers wrapped around his left wrist, and you traced the raised scar there absentmindedly. A comfort to yourself after a long day.

“D’you ever figure out why your mom wanted to live in that place? On Baker Street?” you asked

“Not really. She liked old stuff. Things with…Memory.”

“Would you wanna find a house like that in Nebraska?”

He paused, then said, “Does that sound good to you?”

“It does. It’s like we get to…Add to the memory.”

Gripping his wrist tighter, you twisted in his arms to look at him. He was already looking at you, a small smile on his face and all the love in the world in his eyes. People around town liked to say that Court Gentry was all hard exteriors and even harder expressions. A tough nut to crack, your dad would say. A whole lot of bad news, others said behind his back. But not with you. Never with you.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

1999

Your date with Court tonight felt different as soon as you opened your front door. You could barely even get out a greeting before he was on you like a predator with prey. Snatching you out of the door frame to press you against the wall. His lips were on you in the next instant, spit slick and heavy, large frame coating yours like a second skin as he pressed nearly all of himself to all of you. Your fingers threaded through his hair and tugged just to ground yourself as his tongue swept across your lips.

That only made him groan. Hands wandering and exploring your waist, your hips, your ribs, your chest. Long fingers hitched up the hem of your floral sundress by an inch. His palms found purchase on your tits and squeezed, making you gasp against his parted lips.

Every kiss, every touch, between you had been like that recently. Intense. Heated. Dizzying. Spreading a warmth in your belly that you fully understood but felt so nervous to explore. You had known Court for a long time. Had been in love with him since you were sixteen. You trusted him explicitly. Wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

But taking that next step with him felt huge. Momentous. And you both understood that it was coming soon. Just one more kiss, and you were never going to stop. You were sure that by the time you were halfway through taking that next step with him, you wouldn’t even know it had started. 

What if you weren’t any good at it?

Court pulled back for air, panting against your cheek as he gave your tits one more good squeeze that made your toes curl. Then he kissed you once, two more times before really moving back to smile down at you.

“Missed you,” he breathed quietly. 

“You saw me yesterday,” you chuckled, smoothing his hair back out from where you had messed it.

“S’too long to be without ya, darlin’.” He smirked, knowing he was being a cheeky bastard.

But you loved it. “Couldn’t agree more, sugar.”

He smiled and kissed you one more time. “We better get going. I uh…I packed a picnic.”

“Really?” you questioned as he took your hand and led you off the porch.

“Don’t get too excited. Got most of it from the grocery store.”

“Still. How romantic,” you said, waggling your eyebrows as you opened the passenger door to his car.

Court slid into the car. “What can I say? I treat my girl right.”

In the backseat, you spotted an Igloo cooler and a folded-up quilt. Not the usual one from his trunk that had seen far too many patches of dirt, grass, and a few surprise rain showers. But a new one, a clean one. Not new. The patches of cloth were worn in places, and there were a few loose threads; the blanket was clearly loved. But you had never seen it before.

There were so many things you didn’t know about Court’s mom. You wondered if she had made it herself.

As Court drove, hand on your thigh with a new pop-punk CD in the player, you didn’t know where he was going for a while. Out of town, that was for sure. Far out into the country. But then you passed Fullerton, and you knew where you were. You were headed to the lake. It was really more like an overglorified pond. But there were fish in the water and a dock off the shore, so it was a lake.

You picked up the CD case that Court had set down in the middle console and gave it a once-over. Allister. You had never heard of them before. So far, you weren’t very impressed. 

“Are all these songs gonna be about girls?” you asked as you looked over the tracklist.

“What’d you expect an album called Dead Ends and Girlfriends to be about?” Court chuckled back.

“I don’t know. I thought it was just one of those random word titles, you know?” You put the case back in the console and relaxed back into your seat. “I don’t know. I didn’t buy it. Amanda got it from some live show in Chicago.”

“Well Amanda’s choice in music is…Interesting.”

“Yeah. Sure is.”

When you got to the lake, there was no one else around. The sun was almost set, the sky that perfect shade of baby blue that faded into bright orange closer to the horizon. Court carried the quilt and cooler in one arm, your hand in the other, as you headed towards the gazebo across the lake from the dock. Far enough away from the car to feel lost, but not actually be, that old shitbox was still in sight when Court laid out the quilt, and the two of you sat down.

Despite most of it being from the grocery store, the picnic was delicious. Deli meat sandwiches, fresh fruit, devilled eggs, cans of soda that made Court burp so loud he scared a nearby heron. By the time you were picking at the last of the fruit, the sun was well into the horizon, turning the clouds into cotton candy pinks and purples.

As you watched the light disappear and the colors of the night grow darker, you felt lips press against the bare skin of your shoulder. You turned your head only slightly in order to catch Court out of the corner of your eye, hunched over to reach you, his mouth on your flesh as he looked up at you from under his lashes. His blue eyes looked like the clearest water you had ever seen. The ocean from a dream. The sky before a storm.

God, how could you be scared when he looked at you like that? How could you be scared when he was the only one you were never scared to tell you hurt? How could you hold back when being in his arms felt more like home than the house you grew up in did?

You surged forward and captured him in a searing, desperate kiss. One that was sloppy and unpracticed despite it all, and confident in what it tried to pull from him. In what it tried to tell him. I trust you. I’m ready. Court reacted in kind. Teeth clashed as he nipped at your bottom lip, arms wrapping around you tight as he pulled you into his lap. The multicolored floral material of your dress bunching at the tops of your thighs. Your tongue dove into his mouth once he gave you the opportunity. He gladly let you take the lead. Your tongue tracing over every tooth and crevasse you could find as your hands threaded into his hair.

And when you broke free for air, your wide, nervous smile was as contagious as the plague.

“I love you,” he muttered as he pressed his lips into the crook of your jaw. “You know that?” 

“Y-Yes,” you replied shakily, tilting your head back unknowingly to give him more room.

You gasped when Court sucked sharply at your pulse point, leaving a harsh red mark in his wake that would turn to a bruise in a matter of minutes. He soothed the stinging pain with his tongue and a gentle peck on his lips. You had done this so many times before. Sat in his lap. Him kissing your neck. Feeling the heat and the weight of you against him. But he wanted tonight to be different. He wanted tonight to be it for you. Special. Magical. Everything he had been dreaming of for months — since that one kiss went too far and he went home with a sizable tent in his boxers. He wanted it to be good for you. He wanted you to want it. 

“Can I show you?” he asked in almost a whisper as he searched your face for any uncertainty you wouldn’t voice. “How much I love you?”

“O-Okay,” you answered, fingers twitching at his shoulders. 

“You tell me to stop and we stop, you hear me? No questions. No guilt.”

“Okay. Yes.” You squeezed his shoulders as a newfound determination took over your features. “Please.”

Your hips dropped fully into his lap and shifted forward, a purposeful grind that had only happened on accident during makeouts before. Your lips parted when you realized he was hard already. The stiff length of him catching against your clothed pussy through his jeans. A little noise escaped you as a want filled your core at the feeling.

With a grunt, Court laid you down on the quilt. A patchwork design around your head as a crown when he leaned over you. Lips kiss swollen. Eyes hazy. You looked beautiful. So beautiful, you dared to kill him with every passing day that he fell more in love with you. Killed him with every walk in the school hallways, with every late-night phone call; revived him with the sound of your voice and your hand-crafted expressions of devotion. He kissed you again. Soft and sweet and yearning for this moment to never end.

With a satisfied smile, he trailed kisses down your neck and the exposed area of your chest. You sighed contentedly beneath him. Hands anxiously fiddling with the strands of his hair. He didn’t want you to be anxious. He didn’t want you to think about it too much. He wanted you to only think about him and how good it felt. But when he pulled up the material of your dress to expose your lace panties and the expanse of your stomach, your fingers tightened in his hair.

“What’re you doing?” you asked, voice tight, as he kissed and licked down your stomach, the muscles there clenching when he dared to go lower, to the untouched flesh of your hips and thighs.

Your core practically burned with the desire to be touched. You knew he could probably see, in the dying light, the wet patch you had made in your lace. But still, nerves clawed at your heart and weighed down your mind. So many what-ifs. So many terrible scenarios. What if one of them came true?

“Truth? I don’t know,” he chuckled as his face hovered above your dripping core. “Just…Let me make you feel good.”

Then he kissed you. He kissed you there. In that forbidden spot that only you had ever dared to touch. Your choked gasp made Court smile as he continued to mouth at you through your panties. He adjusted your legs how he wanted them, knees bent and spread apart so he could have better access to you. Court really didn’t know what he was doing. But he had heard about this. And he wanted to make you feel so good you couldn’t think about anything else. With slightly shaky fingers, he moved your panties aside and kissed your lower lips again. You moaned through the harsh bite you had on your lower lip, fingers gripping at the quilt beneath you tight. Even though there was no one around for miles, you were still scared to make too much noise. But…

But you felt like you were on fire.

He parted those pink lips and sucked your clit into his mouth. You cried out as your back arched, hips rolling into his face, at the intense pleasure that coursed through you. You could already tell it wasn’t going to take much for you to come.

“Court — baby — Court,” you continued to whine as he worked that sweet spot he found.

Teeth nipped at the swollen bud, and your entire body jerked at the intensity of your euphoria. Your hands abandoned the quilt and went into his hair, pulling just as harshly and drawing a groan from his throat. He pressed his tongue flat against you and licked a stripe up your core, your thighs tightened around his head, and then with one final harsh suck of your clit — you came. A choked, barely audible cry escaped past your lips as your body went rigid beneath him.

He worked you through your orgasm, a few more light sucks and gentle licks. When he pulled away from your core, it was like he was being pulled out of a stupor. So many things hit him at once. His scalp kind of hurt from all your pulling. He was humping the floor of the gazebo like a desperate dog in heat. And he was close — the entire front of his pants wet with pre-cum. He needed release. But this wasn’t part of his plan. He thought he would be able to last longer. But his body was practically screaming at him to come.

He crawled up your body, taking slow, deep breaths to try to calm himself down. Your knees just barely brushed against his hip, and his cock twitched.

Fuck. 

“That okay?” he asked, breathless, as he checked you over for any sign of discomfort. 

You were staring up at the ceiling, eyes blurry, arms limp at your sides. Then this dopey, wide grin overtook your face.”More than okay.”

Court expected her to kiss him again. Maybe bring him down just to snuggle for a minute after that. But instead, your half-lidded gaze met his, unsure and timid again. Yet trusting and candid as you reached down between you and palmed him through his jeans. He grunted as his eyes widened at your actions. He still needed a few more minutes to calm down, to think about dead puppies or something to make himself less hard, but no. You were determined to actually kill him.

He crumpled on top of you as you felt the size of him through his pants, face buried in your neck as his next breath shuddered out of him. Your fingers accidentally traced the tip, and his hips bucked into your palm, searching for more.

“C-Court, you’re…” you tried to find the right word. 

Hard was obvious. Wet didn’t seem appropriate, but it was accurate. His crotch was soaked. You didn’t think guys could do that.

“Sh-shit, I know,” he stuttered into your collarbone, trying to find some control over himself even as you continued to touch him. “I’m gonna — mm I’m gonna come if you keep doin’ that.”

Your hand stopped moving completely, and he whined slightly at the loss. But you didn’t pull away. Court’s hips still worked against your hand as he effectively ground against your palm. Even though, in the back of his mind, he knew he should stop. Knew he should wait so he could keep making you feel good. But it was like an itch he couldn’t stop scratching. If he stopped now, it was going to kill him, he was sure. His hips moved faster and faster as he felt his balls tighten with that familiar ache.

He panted against your chest. “I can’t stop. F-Fuck, m’sorry — m’so close.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered as you scratched at his stinging scalp soothingly. “Just let go.”

You gripped him then, your hand no longer just a surface to grind against but an active player in his demise. And that was all it took for Court to come.

When he was spent, and no longer chastising himself, he rolled so that you were lying on top of him now. Your head on his chest. Legs tangled together. You curled against him like you were always going to be there.

It was completely dark now. The only light was from the moon and the stars so far up above. Crickets chirped. Frogs chorused in a harmony no human could ever understand. Your hand came to rest on Court’s chest, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, still trying to slow down. You were sure that wasn’t what he thought was going to happen. But you didn’t mind one bit. It was so the two of you. It was perfect. 

“Nebraska is only six months away,” he said as his arm curled tighter around your shoulder. “Told your parents yet?”

“I did. They already plan to visit next fall.”

“They weren’t mad?”

“Honestly? They said they were shocked we hadn’t done it sooner.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.” You snuggled closer into his side. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Me too.”

2000

It was April. Graduation was only a few weeks away. Half of your things were packed away in boxes. Court had a good lead on an old house in the countryside of Nebraska from the paper he started getting mailed to your house. You basically slept with your calculus textbook those days as you prepared for the final. And that was exactly how you were that night. You had fallen asleep with your bedside lamp still on, your textbook open, and a pencil in your hand.

You were woken up at about two in the morning by a loud bang. Your brain was so addled by sleep and complex equations that you brushed it off as fireworks or something, at least remembering to put the pencil down before falling back asleep.

But you weren’t back asleep for long. You awoke again with a jolt at the sound of violent, panicked, insistent banging on your front door. When you came out of your room, your dad was already at the end of the hall, baseball bat in hand.

Not wanting to get yelled at, you peeked around the corner as your dad stomped up to the front door and yanked it open. Ready to fight for his family and call the police if he had to. But you stepped out of the hall, practically fell, when you saw the Gentry boys on the other side.

Colt was bruised and bleeding all over. Court was spattered with blood. They were both visibly shaking as your dad let them step inside and closed the door behind them. You had never seen Court so scared. Eyes wide, lip trembling. It made a fear grip your heart in return. Your mom passed you with a concerned touch to your shoulder as she joined you all in the living room.

“What’s goin’ on, boys?” your dad asked as he leaned the bat against the wall.

Court swallowed hard, eyes frantically looking back and forth between your parents. “You gotta look after Colt, okay? You gotta take care of him. Please. I don’t want him…You have to!”

“Court. Courtland.” Your dad gripped him by the shoulder and looked him in the eye. “What is goin’ on?”

“I…He was gonna kill Colt.”

“Your father?” your mom questioned.

“Y-Yeah. I just wanted to scare him, that’s all. I didn’t think he would…I don’t know what happened…”

You stepped up and took his shaking hand gently, brushed your finger against the raised scar on his wrist. “Court…What happened?”

“He’s dead. I shot him.”

Police sirens wailed in the distance.

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The earth is damp beneath your feet. Every step, the sole of your shoe sinks into the muck. You didn't have to look down to know that the cuffs of your jeans were darkening from the damp dirt, speckles of mud clinging to the fabric.

Rain had been pelting the grasslands of your small town, grey clouds hanging overhead. The temperature had dropped significantly. Even lower than the regular lows of the autumn months. Your sweater didn't feel like enough. It still doesn't. Even if the clouds had parted about fifteen minutes ago.

Now, there was a layer of fog blanketing the earth. It rolled in thick and showed no sign of stopping.

You tug your sweater closer around yourself. Cool air nipped at your cheeks, trying to slide its fingers down the collar of your shirt. It wanted to wrap its hands around your warmth to syphon it for itself.

Wading slowly through the foggy sea, your eyes work on high alert. Every now and then thorny vines snag at your shins. Your foot stumbles on an elevation in the earth, your arm rushing out for your palm to plant against a tree trunk. Holding you upright. A huff leaves your lips. You pause to steady your breathing, falling back into the normal rythym of your pulse.

Splintered bark felt like tiny needles in your fingertips. You launch yourself back upright, gaze falling to the ground for better vantage. The road to the cemetery had always been this intricate.

But there would be a clearing that unfolded into the grounds. A canopy of half dead branches and half alive branches would act as an arch. You would note that it looks like the gateway to the end.

There's an angel statue you liked to sit at over yonder.

That's where you were going.

Notebook tucked beneath your arm, you continue on. Most people would find your behavior odd. It wasn't every day that someone encountered a person who willingly stepped into hallowed ground. Not many would find solace in the silence.

Not when there were hundreds of stopped-short stories beneath the land. All the death made 'normal' people's skin crawl. The discomfort worked its way between their ribs, gently tugging at them and whispering to them to leave. That's why people never stayed at a cemetery for too long.

But... that was exactly why you stayed. The dead don't get many visitors. If they do, it's never to just sit around. It's weeping family members or workers wandering around picking up trash. You liked to perch at the angel statue and imagine what their lives were like beforehand.

As you step past the threshold of the path into the clearing, you recognize the flooring change. There weren't any surprising rocks or twigs. Just soft, damp grass and earth.

A crow sits on a branch. Its head twitches when it notices you, watching you with an analytical gaze.

"Hello." You say softly, craning your neck to look up at the bird.

The bird caws at you. It adjusts its position on the branch, like it was settling in to watch a show. Crows are smart animals—much smarter than anyone could give them credit for. Surely, this bird was watching you.

"I'll be at the angel statue." The corner of your mouth tugs upward as the bird regards you. Maybe it was interested in your presence. not so much you. But you were still going to speak to the bird like it knew exactly what you were saying.

The bird seems to nod. Just a twitch of its head. But it was enough.

The statue was in the middle of the cemetery. Past the Hamilton's and just to the right of the Moore's. Its marbel was cracked at the bottom, years of erosion starting to show the funny tricks time plays on material things.

As the angel comes into view, a part of you feels calmer. Fog rolls against the earth like northern tumbleweeds. You walk towards the statue and sit at its base. Thankfully, it was perched on a patch of concrete. The surface wasn't wet.

You wouldn't stand to find a humorous patch of damp jeans.

The notebook tucked beneath your arm gets placed on your knees. You pull them up towards your chest, feet planting on the grass. Pages of pretty scrawled writing gets passed before you find a clean one. You detail the date at the top of the page.

You're using a fountain pen tucked against the cover of the notebook. It's been your favorite for the last year— each line you drew never came out streaky or wrong looking. It was perfect.

"They say cemeteries aren't the best place to write."

A melancholic voice snaps you from the serene scene. Your head whirls over your shoulder to catch a glimpse to who it was.

It's a man.

No, a boy. Barely past twenty-one.

Tall and lanky. He's pale—skin the color of snow. Like he hasn't stepped out into the sun for weeks. Dark brown locks of hair cover some of his face with a side part. His hair has no volume like he hadn't washed it in a few days.

He's standing about a foot away. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his pants. There's an eerie air about him that tells you he's not here to whisper to graves or dry tears from the corners of his eyes. Something in your chest turns. It's almost like he belongs here.

Maybe it was just the dark clothing. He looked like he'd just stepped away from a funeral. Long black pants, baggy black button up, and even black sneakers. His gaze is settled on you.

But there's no spark in his eyes. Not the same flickering life you see when looking into your peers or family's eyes. They're like pools of deep ocean water. Half lidded and unamused.

"They say it's rude to sneak up on someone." You retort, eyes narrowing at him.

You didn't feel a familiar tug in your gut to warn you if he was dangerous or not. Nor did you feel the warmth in your chest that tells you he's trustworthy.

He's just there.

"They do?" He questions, looking down at you unblinkingly.

Your lips purse. Eyebrows furrowing as you peer at him. "They do."

He seems to break from his spell. He walks closer, taking a seat next to you.

You don't move away. Just shift your position a little to give him room. Now with him closer, you can regard his better. Gaunt features, thin skin taut over sharp angles, and an angular nose. Your gaze drops to his hands. He's brought them close to his neck to pop his collar. His throat works around a swallow.

"And you are?"

"Henry." He says quietly.

He's looking down at the ground. Hands going back to his lap, fingers lacing together.

Henry.

Obviously, he doesn't find any of this odd. Maybe he just made a habit of coming up behind people in the cemetery and sitting with them. Who were you to judge?

You sat amongst skeletons and rotting corpses for inspiration.

"What's your name?" His voice is melodic. Gentle in a way that makes you feel safe—like the sound of a violin.

Henry turns his head to look at you. Deep blue eyes piercing your soul. Stealing the breath from your lungs.

Your name slips from your lips, soft and paper-thin.

Henry repeats your name to himself. He mulls it over, letting the taste marinate on his tongue. "It's pretty."

Something about the way he speaks makes you feel like he's telling the truth. There's no affliction to make you think otherwise. Just cool, monotone words that sound obvious coming from him.

Warmth floods your system. Sure, you've had compliments on your name before. But his land in a place past your flesh, seeping into the bone and marrow of your very being.

"Thanks." You murmur, a hand coming up to tuck hair behind your ear.

Silence settles over the two of you.

It's a comfortable silence. One that could only blanket like-minded people.

"What are you doing out here?" Henry poses the question, his voice dipping away from his normal tone.

You gaze out at the tombstones. Fog still blankets the earth, making the scene in front of you look like something from a halloween movie. There's a bouquet of old, dying flowers resting against one of the headstones.

"It's quiet out here." You breathe.

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod.

"I like the quiet." He explains, letting his own gaze follow yours. "They don't ask many questions."

They?

The dead.

The realization strikes a cord in your chest. He wasn't wrong. People bombard others with questions while the dead...just let them be. Allowing them to exist without scrutiny.

The corner of your mouth curls upward.

"Quite bad company." He exhales, his voice lilting.

A chuckle bubbles up in your throat. "Some would argue the opposite."

"Would you?"

You glance over at him. He's already looking at you.

"That depends."

Henry nods, eyes flickering about your face. He looks like he's studying you. Learning the lines of your face as he categorizes the kind of person you are.

"On what? Whether or not you want to talk?"

"Exactly."

Henry tears his gaze from you. "The dead don't talk. Not to the living."

His words come out with conviction. Like he wholeheartedly believed that; like it was a universally known truth. How did he know that? Why did he know that?

"What are you doing out here?"

Henry seems to shake himself from whatever thought was holding him captive. He blinks, glancing down at the silver rings he wore on his hand.

He doesn't speak for a while.

"I can't go home." His words come out close to a whisper, your ears straining to hear him.

Something in your chest halts. Stutters. Vibrates back to life, continuing to chug along the track.

You close the notebook. Set it down next to your sneakers. Your attention closes in on the fair skinned boy next to you.

"Why not?"

"The same reason why they can't." He gestures out to the sea of headstones, ivory fingers gliding through the thinning fog.

Confusion rises like bile in your throat. They're dead. They can't go home because they're dead— their stories stopped short, candles snubbed out.

You blink.

There wasn't anything to say to that. There wasn't anything you could think of to make sense of his words.

He wasn't dead— he couldn't be. Because he was sitting right next to you. If you were to reach out and touch his wrist, you'd feel the blood pumping through his veins. You can see his chest rise and fall softly.

Breathing.

Alive.

"You feel stuck?" You ask, grasping for information to put the puzzle together.

"I am." He chuckles, showing you emotion for the first time. "Stuck. Dead. It's all the same thing."

Your turn to look at him— to ask for some kind of clarification.

But he's gone.

Like a whisper in the mist; a ghost that could slip between worlds. It's like he wasn't there at all. The grass he had his feet in wasn't disturbed. Had he even been there at all?

You jolt upright. Scramble to your feet.

"Henry?" You call out, head turning to survey the land.

Nothing.

Zero sign of him.

Your palm presses against your forehead. Suddenly, you felt dizzy. You knew you hadn't imagined that. He was there— real.

"This isn't funny!" Your hands cup around your mouth to make a speaker. "Henry?"

Silence.

Just rolling fog stretching and contorting your view. All's that left is a small silhouette perched at the angel's shoulder. You squint, willing it to become clearer.

It's the crow.

Looking down at you analytically.

The same way those blue eyes had peered at you.

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Of course not. Because when have the staff at Grover Cleveland ever made an intelligent decision?

The turf of the soccer field is squishy and waterlogged beneath your feet, much like the sweater you decided upon this morning.

The wool sweater, just to make matters worse.

Your students are lined up in front of you, happy as could be. Apparently all their parents experienced a joint, weather related premonition this morning, as every single one sent their child to school with a raincoat in tow. While you’ve been busy moping, they’ve taken to jumping in puddles, though the chorus of ensuing giggles does little to lift your mood.

“You’re all wet!” shouts one little voice from the back of the line.

You force a smile, “No way!”

“Yeah!”

He’s rubbing it in your face, but he’s also wearing a ducky jacket with boots to match, so you can’t be too mad.

“I hadn’t noticed!” 

“Hadn’t noticed what?” The question comes from somewhere behind you, and you quickly turn your head to look over your shoulder towards the source of it.

Ryland.

He has a way of turning up lately, and you can’t say you mind. Your lips peel back into a smile, and you blink against the rain.

“Ry!” You have to shout a bit to be heard over the chorus of wind and children’s voices, so he steps a little closer. One bead of water drips off the bridge of his nose, plopping down to the small space separating you.

“You’re soaked!”

What is it about getting caught in the rain that makes everyone feel the need to point it out?

“Thanks, Sherlock!”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry, sorry! Do you not have a rain jacket?”

You deadpan, crossing your arms. “Take a wild guess.”

A sheepish, almost apologetic smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he makes quick work of removing the bright yellow raincoat he’s currently wearing. “Here-”

You grab the vinyl material, pushing it back towards him. 

“No, no, I’m fine!”

He thrusts it forward once again.

“It’s pouring!”

He’s not wrong, but you shove the jacket back against his chest all the same.

“Look at me. It’s not like it can get much worse. Just keep the jacket.”

He shakes his head vehemently, “Doesn’t matter. You’ll dry faster if you put it on.”

“Ry.”

“Nope!”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

He rolls his eyes, though there’s an irrepressible grin on his face as he steps forward, wrapping the coat around your shoulders and pulling it taut at the front.

“There. See? Much better.” He pulls his hands away a little awkwardly, clearing his throat and stepping back. As for you, you can’t help the way you smile, a distinctly girlish thrill running through your chilled body as you slip your arms into the sleeves. They extend far past your fingertips, and while you’re sure you look absolutely ridiculous, the thought does nothing to quell another:

I’m wearing Ryland Grace’s clothes.

The circumstances aren’t quite as romantic as you might’ve imagined–an audience of twenty kindergarteners tends to kill the mood–but a girl can only ask for so much.

“Thank you.” You’d meant to sound begrudging, but there’s a giggly tremor to your voice that’s impossible to ignore. Ryland’s cheeks, already pink from the cold, turn just a shade darker in response.

“Of course. Yeah.” He pushes his glasses up, glancing to the left. You follow his gaze, eventually landing on the line of unsupervised sixth graders a few feet away. You shake your head, letting out a teasing tsk tsk.

“Bold move.”

“I know, but…I mean, you were shivering, so…” He trails off awkwardly, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

“Ry.”

His eyes dart back to your own, something almost hopeful in them as he swallows thickly, “Yeah?”

“Go stand with your kids.”

You’re not sure what exactly he was expecting, but he deflates nonetheless, that look in his eyes quickly turning to embarrassment. If Dickinson is to be believed and hope really is the thing with feathers, you’re fairly certain you just clipped his wings. Guilt nags at the back of your head, and you offer up a smile as reconciliation.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

He nods, his lips curving up and his shoulders straightening just a touch. It’s a strange power to wield, seeing how much your words–hell, your tone–affect him. He takes a step back, feet sinking into the now mushy turf ever so slightly. Before he can get even a few feet away, the child closest to you pipes up.

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“I-” You gaze flicks back to Ryland. He’s fully paused, his head angled over his shoulder towards you. His lips are parted ever so slightly, sandy blonde brows furrowed up in surprise. You can’t bear to look at him, instead turning your attention back to your student.

“That’s…”

He’s not. Under no uncertain terms, Ryland Grace is not your boyfriend.

“That’s not appropriate.”

You could’ve said no. It would’ve been easy. Better yet, it would’ve been true. Frankly, you’re not sure what provoked you not to.

All you do know is that when you look back, you catch a glimpse of a smile on Ryland’s face.

–

You’d meant to give Ryland his jacket during lunch. You really had. 

But, conveniently, it’s sat on the back of your chair up until now. Certainly not because some small part of you hopes the smell of your perfume has permeated the inner lining, and maybe, just maybe, the next time he wears it, he’ll be reminded of you.

No. Certainly not. It simply, conveniently, slipped your mind.

It’s 3:50, and the last of the school buses have cleared out of the parking lot. You grab the raincoat off your chair, holding it up to your nose briefly–creep–and inhaling.

Vanilla.

Your vanilla.

A satisfied smile tugs at your lips, and you slip your phone out of your back pocket.

Friday, 3:51 P.M.

Y/N: I may or may not have forgotten to return your jacket.

You click your phone off, only for it to buzz to life again not even a second later. His name lights your screen, 

Ry: No problem, I can grab it from you on Monday!

You’d felt a little ridiculous changing his contact yesterday, but texting Ryland just didn’t feel right anymore. Not after the way he reacted to the nickname, like you’d bestowed some kind of gift upon him rather than the simple absence of four letters.

You re-read his message, brows furrowing in confusion.

Y/N: I’m still here if you just want to swing by.

Ry: I already left :(

Ry: It’s not a big deal, really. I don’t think it’s supposed to rain this weekend anyway.

That’s a lie if there ever was one, and you quirk an unimpressed brow at your screen. 

Y/N: It’s literally going to be pouring tomorrow.

Ry: Well, lucky me, I don’t have plans. I’ll probably be inside all day.

Y/N: Emphasis on probably.

Ry: Emphasis on all day.

You roll your eyes, a girlish smile tugging at your lips that you might be embarrassed of if there were anyone around to witness it. 

Y/N: Whatever. You’re not staying cooped up all weekend over a jacket.

Ry: Exactly. If I need to go out, I’ll just go out. I have an umbrella.

Y/N: Not my point.

You take a deep breath, fingers hovering over the send button nervously. It’s a little bold, yes, but you’ve been looking for opportunities to go out with him again since Halloween. 

Not go out as in date, of course. Go out as in…well…

Nevermind.

Y/N: I could always just bring it to you.

His typing bubble pops up and disappears more than a few times, and you can feel the spiral right as it begins. Too much, too fast, that’s you. It always has been, ever since you scared off your first boyfriend by dropping the L-Word a week in. 

In all fairness, he had every right to dump you, especially considering how happy he and his husband appear to be today. Their wedding was beautiful, from what you’d seen on Instagram.

Ry: You’re sweet,-

You might throw up.

but you really don’t need to do that.

If it were anyone else, you’d think you were being turned down. But Ryland is Ryland, and Ryland is…well…specific. Literal. There’s a diagnosis there, you’re sure, but not one you’re particularly concerned with.

You’re wracking your brain for ways to make it clear that you want to see him when, mercifully, another text goes through.

Ry: Unless you want to.

Ry: Meet somewhere.

Ry: I mean.

Ry: Not just to bring me my jacket.

Ry: That’s absurd.

Sweet, sweet, slow man. It’s kind of astounding how the smartest person you’ve ever met also somehow manages to be the most clueless. You reply to his first message,

Y/N: That’s kind of what I was getting at.

Ry: Oh. 

Ry: That makes a lot more sense. 

You let out a soft, warm laugh into the silence surrounding you. 

Y/N: Any ideas? I’m free all day. 

You wince the moment you hit send, suddenly hit by the implication at hand. You’re offering up the whole day. You want to spend it with him, and now he knows it. The thought makes your stomach curl in on itself, anxiety unfurling somewhere deep inside your chest. A little voice nags at the back of your mind. 

Too much, too fast it whispers. 

Shut the fuck up you reply. 

It does not, in fact, shut the fuck up. It never does. 

Ry: Well, if you’re interested, and it’s fine if you’re not, there’s a planetarium nearby. I’ve been a few times, but I don’t mind going again.

Yes, yes, a million times yes. He could’ve offered a trip to a local porta potty and you wouldn’t have cared, so long as it was with him. But a planetarium? It’s perfect. It’s the kind of place couples go to hold hands and walk around and make you sick. And sure, you won’t be one of them, not yet—too much, too fast—but they won’t put the pit in your gut that they usually do. Not with Ryland there. Not when you won’t be alone.

Besides, you certainly don’t mind the idea of him explaining all the little details to you, which you’re sure he’ll do quite readily. 

Y/N: Does that make you my tour guide?

Ry: I’d be honored. 

Y/N: Why thank you. 

Y/N: When do you wanna meet?

Ry: The exhibit opens at 11. I usually like to get there before the rest of the crowds. 

You smile, affection burrowing deep inside your chest. 

Y/N: 11 it is. I’ll see you then.

Y/N: And Ry?

Ry: Yeah?

Y/N: Thanks again. For the jacket. 

Ry: Of course. 

Ry: It looked nice on you. 

Ry: You looked nice. 

Ry: You always do. 

You stare at your phone for a good minute, your brain rendered useless by the words in front of you. Ryland’s compliments always have a way of catching you off guard, and the thing with feathers begins to beat its wings anew, stirring up a flurry inside you. 

Y/N: Thank you, Ry. 

His words follow you on the walk to your car, and the whole drive home, too. 

You always do.

In the shower. As you eat. As you breathe. 

You always do.

And when you close your eyes in bed, they’re your last thought before you fall asleep.