Page 13 of Back to You
I remember how he tensed up at the mention of his father earlier today. “When was the last time you saw them?”
“All of us, together, in the same room, for an extended period of time? Maybe half a year ago? My dad travels a lot for work.”
“God, that’s ...” I trail off.
“He’s making money for us,” he says, like this is a familiar line of argument, either made by him or against him. “I can’t really complain.”
“Still. It’s natural to miss him. I think you’re allowed to complain about that; in fact, I’ve never heard you complaining about anything before, even in high school. I don’t know how you do it. I feel like I’m always complaining about something.”
He brings the phone closer to his face, like he’s trying to be closer to me. “So you’ve been paying attention to me for a while now, huh?”
I flush. “I—I mean—”
“Why didn’t you ever come up to me before?” he asks. “When we were in high school.”
“I’m not sure. I guess ... I was scared it’d be awkward.”
He frowns faintly. “Because of me?”
“Because of me,” I clarify. “I just—I tend to make things awkward.” Because even though he didn’t know who I was, I told myself I was fine with that. I could admire him from a distance like he was a character in a movie. The connection felt pure. More beautiful, less real. I didn’t have to worry about ruining things by saying something stupid.
“That’s not true.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “You’re being nice again.”
“Is that your favorite conspiracy theory? That I go around being nice to people for no reason?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“Well,” he says after a pause, “I kind of wish you had. Come up to me, I mean. And I’m not just being nice when I say that.”
I breathe out. “I wish I had too. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time.”
Before I died, I had been stuck waiting. From the moment I woke up, I was waiting anxiously for the first meeting of the day, and then at the office I was waiting for the lunch break, and then at lunch I was waiting to get back home, to eat and shower and crawl back under the covers. But when the time finally came, nothing happened, and so the waiting felt meaningless. I didn’t have anything worthwhile to wait for, maybe that was the problem.
Time just dragged on.
“Well, there’s always now,” I say softly. “Isn’t there?”
“Yeah,” he says, then hesitates. “There’s something I should probably tell you, though ...”
He looks so serious, almost guilty, that I feel my stomach contract as if bracing for a blow. Is he about to reject me? Tell me that he already likes someone else? That he isn’t looking to start anything?
“I lost my last race,” he says, his voice quiet, like he’s confessing a grave sin.
I stare at the screen, confused. “What?”
“My last race,” he says. “I ... I came in fourth. Didn’t even place. I don’t know if it was the pressure or I was too tired that day or what—I lost my footing and I fell. So my friends, what they were saying earlier, that stupid chant:Luke Blythe always wins.It just—I wish it was, but it isn’t true.”
“Oh my god. Luke—are you okay?”
“Well, my next race is on Saturday, so it’s soon, but if I train hard, I should be fine for that—”
“No. I don’t mean your—yourtrack record. I meanyou. Are you hurt? I feel like you should rest.”
He frowns, as if the idea has never even occurred to him. “You care about that?”
“What do you mean?”
