Chapter Thirteen
1349 Words
We are standing by the lockers after last period, surrounded by the usual end of day chaos. Bags slung over shoulders. People shouting names across corridors. Someone laughing too loudly for no reason. The air smells like deodorant, dust, and that faint underlying scent of stress that never really leaves schools.
He clears his throat.
“Can I ask you something?”
The words feel too big. Like they shouldn’t be allowed in a place this public. Questions are dangerous things. Questions expect answers, and I am notoriously bad at providing those.
“Um. No,” I say.
It comes out sharper than I intend. Defensive. Like I’ve just slammed a door I didn’t even know was open.
He blinks once, surprised, but recovers quickly. His mouth tilts into a small, polite smile that makes my chest ache for reasons I refuse to investigate.
“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Never mind.”
Never mind.
He says it like he means it. Like the question has already been folded up and put away somewhere unreachable. He turns and walks off down the corridor without looking back.
That should be the end of it.
It is not.
The moment sticks to me for the rest of the day. It sits heavy in my chest during the walk home. It follows me into my room. It watches me kick off my shoes and collapse onto my bed like I’ve been carrying something too heavy.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, replaying his voice. Can I ask you something. Never mind.
I tell myself I did the right thing. I tell myself that shutting things down early is better than letting them turn into something complicated. I tell myself that I don’t owe anyone openness.
My phone buzzes.
Ethan.
I stare at the screen like it might explode.
are you home
I consider ignoring it. I consider pretending I didn’t see it. I consider throwing my phone across the room and becoming a person who does not exist online.
Instead, I type.
yeah
The reply comes almost immediately.
can you come out for a bit
the court near the park
do you have practice or something
er no ive got sort of a competition today
a competition
yeah
what competition
There’s a pause.
it’s er it’s kind of the national youth basketball semifinals
My stomach gives up entirely.
look ive gotta go i promise ill call you when it’s finished yeah and then ill see you tonight
……yeah
okay talk later
The call ends. I remove the phone from my ear and stare at it.
National Youth Basketball Semifinals.
That’s important. That’s what he was going to tell me today. And I said no. Then I avoided him anyway.
Without any further hesitation, I leap out of bed.
I park my dad’s bike outside the court. It’s 4:32 PM and already dark. I’ve probably missed it. I don’t know why I even tried. How long is basketball played anyway.
I run. Actually run. Through the empty foyer and the double doors into the stadium. A scattering of supporters fills the seating around the court.
I feel immediately out of place.
I buy a drink from the corner shop because I need something to do with my hands. Something to justify my presence. I stand at the edge of the crowd, sipping slowly, pretending I am here on purpose.
Then I see Ethan.
He is playing.
This feels wrong in a way I can’t quite articulate. Ethan does not play basketball. Ethan reads. Ethan listens. Ethan exists quietly. He is someone you notice only after you’ve been paying attention for a while.
Except here, he is impossible to miss.
I don’t know if he sees me. I don’t cheer. I just stand there, sipping.
He moves with focus and intensity. He runs like he knows exactly where he’s going. His hoodie is gone. His hair is a mess, curls stuck to his forehead, completely unbothered by gravity. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt.
I watch without meaning to.
The game ends quickly. Someone cheers. Someone groans. Someone slaps someone else on the back.
Ethan’s team comes second.
I back away from the court and shelter myself slightly behind the stands as the players make their way toward the gate. Older men in tracksuits greet the boys. One of them pats Ethan on the back.
Something about Ethan is wrong.
His face twists into a tight, scrunched snarl. His fists curl so hard his knuckles drain of colour. He storms past the man and heads for the benches. He reaches a row of lockers and stares at them with something close to malice. Then he punches one. Hard. A strangled, broken sound escapes him. He grabs his hair like he’s trying to pull himself apart.
I freeze.
I have never seen Ethan like this. I know I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t even known him for three weeks. But when my perception of people changes, it’s never this drastic.
It’s strange how someone smiles all the time and you assume they are happy all the time. It’s strange how someone is kind to you and you assume they are entirely good and uncomplicated.
I didn’t think Ethan could care this much. I didn’t think he could be this angry.
It feels like watching your dad cry.
What scars me the most is that absolutely no one else seems to notice.
His shoulders are tight. His breathing uneven. For a horrifying second, it looks like he might cry.
I don’t think.
I move.
I push through the edge of the crowd before my brain can stop me.
“Ethan,” I say.
He turns, startled. His eyes flick over me like he’s trying to work out how I got here.
“Ashley,” he says, but I barely hear it.
“I didn’t know you played basketball,” I say, because apparently my mouth has chosen the worst possible moment to speak.
He shrugs, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. “I don’t really.”
I hug him.
It is the most impulsive thing I have done in months.
My arms wrap around him before I can reconsider. Before I can remember that I don’t do this. That physical affection makes me uncomfortable. That this is absolutely crossing some invisible line.
He freezes.
Completely.
For a moment, I’m sure I’ve made a mistake. My stomach drops. I almost pull away.
Then he exhales.
Slowly, cautiously, his arms come up. He hugs me back. Careful at first. Then tighter, like he’s checking whether this is allowed.
We stand there for a moment too long.
I can feel his heartbeat. Fast and uneven. I am painfully aware of how close we are. How warm he is. How the world has narrowed down to this exact mistake.
This is a bad idea.
I pull away first.
“Sorry,” I say immediately, because apologizing is easier than explaining.
He smiles. Small. Soft. Like something fragile.
“It’s okay,” he says.
We do not talk about what just happened.
“I saw you earlier,” he says after a while.
“When.”
“During the game. You were just standing there.”
“I wasn’t watching,” I lie.
He smiles like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push it.
The sky darkens slowly. Streetlights flicker on. The crowd thins until it’s mostly just us.
We walk home together.
The silence is comfortable and unbearable at the same time.
At my gate, we stop.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
I nod. Talking feels dangerous.
Inside, Lila looks up from the stairs.
“You look weird,” she says.
“I am weird,” I reply.
Later, his voice replays in my head.
Do you get angry a lot, I’d asked.
I’m always angry, he’d said.
Usually other things override it. But I’m always angry.
And standing alone in my room, all I can think is that Ethan is as good at lying as I am.
- Writer
