Page 9 of Dove
Maybe if I actually show him pictures like that, he'll start to understand how much he's worth.
But also, maybe not. The boy is beyond stubborn, and it wouldn't surprise me if he refused to admit it just to annoy me.
Except he's never stubborn enough to tell me no when I want to do something.
Suddenly a new plan slides into my mind of its own accord, without any conscious effort, and then I'm running, my feet flying over the dirt driveway of Rivers' property, the truck in my sight. Because the only business we had for today was dropping off that installation.
And now it's done.
Which means we get to play.
"What the fuck?" I hear Cameron grunt, and within moments his footsteps are racing after mine and I'm actually laughing.
Because of course he's following me. He always fucking does. Even when I haven't told him where I'm going.
In fact, it's my favorite game in the world, and the one we've been playing since we were seven years old. Hell, this is the reason we became friends in the first place. We didn't like each other much when he first moved in–no two kids had ever been more different, and we'd been forced into the same house without any choice in the matter–but the first time I took off in the middle of a conversation and ran for the road, he somehow knew exactly what to do. He sprinted after me, shouting thatI was going to get in trouble–of course–and tackled me right before I ran into the road and oncoming traffic.
And as I lay there giggling uncontrollably, caught up in the euphoria and adrenaline of the moment, he looked down at me, wide-eyed and shocked, and told me that I was completely nuts.
We became best friends that day, and he's never stopped chasing me.
I shoot past the truck and turn, counting on it to get in the way long enough to slow him down, and now I run even faster, my steps flying through the high grasses of the meadow next to Old Man Rivers' house. I'd thought about this when I woke up this morning and put it to the side, but now that we're here and I'm racing through the greenery, it's all I can think about.
Rivers lives close to the top of this part of the mountain, and right next to the ravine that runs with water all year long, courtesy of the nearly year-round snow on the taller mountains. The river below–for all I know, the reason that guy is named Rivers–gets low in the middle of summer, when the weather is dry, but right now, when the spring rains just stopped, it's rushing down the mountain, white and frothy and laughing.
And over it?
The bridge that leads to the top of the mountain.
A bridge that's perfect for jumping.
Cameron must have the thought at the same moment as me, because he suddenly shouts in alarm. "Sammy, we don't have time!"
He's lying.
We definitely have time.
There's nothing else on the schedule for the entire day.
"Liar!" I throw back over my shoulder.
I hit the treeline and duck and dodge through the trees, racing around them like some sort of barrel racer and knowing that I have the advantage now. Cam can beat me on flat groundbecause he's so much taller than me, but at 5 foot nothing I'm quicker than him in anything that includes quick turns, and here in the forest, he'll never catch me.
I know. I've tested this theory before.
Unfortunately, I forget that this forest isn't as densely wooded as the one I've used for this trick before, and therefore doesn't give me the advantage I want. I'm about ten steps in when something suddenly hits my back and takes me rolling to the ground, another body cushioning my fall and sheltering me as we go tossing and turning over the leaves of the forest floor. I grunt and turn into the body, letting Cameron take me skidding across the leaves and pine needles until we come to a lurching stop against a tree trunk.
"Christ, we're getting too old for this," he moans, his voice twisted in annoyance. "You need to stop trying to throw your life away, girl. One of these days, I'm not going to be able to catch you."
I squirm a bit, trying to get out of his grip. "Maybe I'd let you catch me more often if it didn't always include you tackling me."
He breathes out a laugh, and then rears back to stare down at me, his eyes dancing in the sunlight and his lips finally caught in a grin. The wind tousles his soft curls, pushing them down over his eyes, and when he flips his head to move them back, the mottled light of the forest slides over his features, giving him shadows under his cheekbones and in the hollow of his chin.
And God, is he beautiful. A figure cut out of marble, all sharp edges and shadow, clean skin and darkness. He could be a movie star from the 50s with that face, and he'd outshine anyone on the screen. Gone is the chubby-faced, hollow-eyed boy I once knew, who I always had to save from bullies at school.
Gone is the boy who always told me he didn't want to talk to anyone but me.
The thought is so sudden, so out of bounds, that I freeze on it, momentarily shocked by the vivid realization that my best friend has become...
