The following evening, Tyler doesn’t look at me when he walks in through the door. His duffel bag hangs gingerly on his shoulder, his hoodie is darkened with sweat at the collar, there’s dirt smeared along one of his sleeves, and his hair is flattened unevenly.
He looks exhausted.
“Hey,” I say carefully, the guilt from yesterday still lingering, but he says nothing. “How was practice?”
He doesn’t even glare like he usually would to signify what an inconvenience I am. He simply walks past me like I’m nothing but a piece of furniture. He did the same thing in school too.
During AP English, he sat at the far back of class, not interacting with anyone, not even Alex. Then, he volunteered before Ms. Teagues could even assign groups for the class discussion just so he wouldn’t be paired with
