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for being stupid. Of course I
know what I like, and it’s stupid to pretend otherwise. If Matt is going to
bail on me or hit me or whatever, it might as well be over with sooner rather
than later.
    Opting for the diplomatic to
soften the blow, I simply say, “I like spending time with you.”
    “I like being around you
too,” he says innocently.
    He better be acting obtuse
on purpose, because I’m being really clear. “You don’t leave for a few days,” I
point out.
    He smiles. “That’s true.”
     
    *     *     *    
*
     
    I pause, my fingers on the
handle of the refrigerator. I’m not really that hungry. Thankfully my phone
saves me from my indecision, choosing that moment to vibrate in my pocket. It’s
a text from Matt. After he left yesterday, I hadn’t gotten a single message
that night or all day today. I was worried that it would be another three days
before I heard from him, at which point he’d already have flown back East for
college. Curiosity winning out, I drag my thumb across the screen to open the
message.
    Free tonight? Thought we could
watch a movie or something.
    My focus shifts to the time
on the microwave. It’s only five thirty-two. Still several hours left in the
day.
    A movie is fine, but another
part of me is dying to know what the “or something” could be. I still don’t
even know if he’s into that, but I would love to find out. At the same time, it
kind of scares the crap out of me, but that’s not enough to stop me from seeing
him again.
    Releasing my grip on the
refrigerator door, I text him back. Your place ?
    Sure, come over whenever.
    So long as I get home before
dark, Dad doesn’t usually care what I do. Thankfully it’s just a bit past the
height of summer and “dark” still means hours from now. Walking out to the
garage, I hop on my bike – it’s an old dirt bike that is technically
street legal, if only barely. After turning the key, I jam my foot down on the
kick-start and the engine coughs to life, sounding a lot healthier since Dad
help me clean all the gunk out of the carburetor last week. I slip on my
three-quarters helmet and safety glasses, feeling preemptively self-conscious.
It looks dorky, but I don’t have a real helmet. I would buy one but they’re
stupid expensive. At least it beats not having any transportation at all.
Backing out, I gun the bike down the driveway.
    Matt lives in town in an old
two-story house that I’ve seen before in passing. It’s a cool house from the
outside, but from the peeling blue paint and the curling shingles, it could use
a bit of work. Hopefully his parents can afford to pay someone else to do the
roof whenever they decide to have it done.
    Dropping the kickstand, I
back the bike up to the curb at an angle and jump off. The street is quiet, but
I shoot a look up and down the block before pulling off the helmet and locking
it to the bike.
    I’m here. I
wait to see if he’ll respond to my text. There aren’t any cars in the driveway,
but that doesn’t necessarily mean his parents aren’t lurking inside. I’m glad
he doesn’t make me wait long.
    Yeah I see you, be right
down.
    Hands stuffed into the front
pockets of my shorts, I cross the small yard. There’s no space in any of the
lots in town. It’s like the city made a game of how close they could pack the
houses. I can’t stand it.
    “Hey, Jackson,” he says,
holding the screen door open for me and showcasing the flowing muscles in his
arms. “You brought your bike.”
    I shrug off the impressed
tone in his voice. “Yeah.”
    “That helmet was pretty
stylish too.” His grin reaches almost up to his ears.
    My face turns red as I step
over the threshold, but I ignore his comment. “Are your parents home?” I risk a
glance at his eyes, then to his dark hair, styled with some kind of
matte-finish product. I don’t remember him ever having anything in it before.
    “Nah, we have the place to
ourselves.” Was that a loaded response? I