Page 22 of The Design of Goodbye
I should’ve stood up for Liam.
I should’ve said something.
I should’ve done something.
Wait...
Maybe I still could.
I checked my phone and groaned. “Shit. It’s my dad,” I lied. Well, it was kind of a lie—therewerea bunch of missed calls from him. “He’s pissed.”
“That sucks,” said Jules, fingers rapidly swiping at the screen on her phone.
I moved out of the way for a girl with a hat crocheted like an apple before asking, “Can you get a ride home with Spencer?”
She waved me off. “No problem.”
I ran. Ihatedrunning. Maybe even more than I hated math. But it was the only way I had a chance of catching up to Liam. I weaved between excited groups of people, little kids running with sticky faces from caramel apples, and even a small dog dressed as an apple pie. And then I finally caught sight of Liam as he crossed a small side street.
“Liam!” I called, afraid I was going to lose him because a car had sped down the street, forcing me to slow down. “Liam!”
He finally heard me and glanced over his shoulder. When he saw it was me, he continued walking.
In desperation, I sprinted. When I was finally near him, I panted, “Wait!” Ireallyneeded to add some cardio to my life because my endurance was embarrassing.
“I’ve done enough of that today,” he said.
“I”—I wheezed, struggling to talk—“need to talk to you.”
“You don’t.”
“Please—” I couldn’t breathe. I was going to cough up a lung any minute now. “Stop.”
I coughed. Then I tripped and grabbed onto the one thing that would prevent me from face-planting onto the sidewalk—Liam. He probably should’ve let me fall, but he held onto me as I attempted to catch my breath.
“You all right?” he asked once I was no longer wheezing.
As soon as I said “Fine,” he pulled his arm out of my grip.
I stumbled. “So I—”
“I gotta go.”
He stepped forward, and I grabbed onto his backpack. “But your shirt,” I said. I pointed to the ketchup stain. His cheeks reddened, and he angled away from me. “It’s going to stain. I can help.”
He let out a dry laugh. “I don’t need your help.”
“Are you sure? Because I can—”
He pulled his backpack out of my grip. “I don’t want your help.”
He walked away. And, this time, I let him.
* * *
My dad was waiting for me when I got home.
I stood nervously in the living room. “Hi, Dad.”
