Some Boys

by Patty Blount

  “Curmudgeons?”

  “Yeah, them. Got any of them who love to tell you how hard their lives were when they were our age?”

  Ian’s dark eyes go wide for a second, so I know I’m totally not making sense, but he plays along. “What, you mean like having to walk to school in the dead of winter?”

  Exactly like that. I nod, excited. “In a foot of snow.”

  “Barefoot,” he adds, lips twitching.

  “Uphill.”

  “Both ways.” We say at the same time and share a laugh that doesn’t last long because—well, because we’re sitting in the woods doing our best to not talk about the real reasons we’re sitting in the woods.

  “Yeah, my grandfather’s like that, and by all indications, my dad will be in about five more years.”

  I shake my head. “Your dad’s pretty great.”

  Ian takes back the bottle. “You only met him the one time. Trust me, he gets worse.”

  “No, he’s really great. He came to help me when one of the home owners got out of line with me.”

  Ian whips his head around. “Whoa, hold up. Who got out of line? When was this?”

  “Oh, it was the day Zac sprang you early from slut training camp.” I wiggle my fingers at him like they’re filled with the power of all those slut cooties. “You were supposed to be there but ditched me to hang with your bro.” I steal the bottle back, swallow more rum. “Wish my dad was like yours. He doesn’t stick up for me anymore.”

  “Yes, he does. I was there when he almost kicked Jeremy’s ass.”

  I snort. “That was easy. But he doesn’t back me up when it’s hard. Kristie uninvited me to my brother’s birthday party.” I slap a hand to my mouth. I didn’t mean to say that. And I want my glass piece back right now, but it’s gone like all of my friends.

  “No way.” He grabs the bottle out of my hands.

  “Way.” I grab for the rum, but Ian holds the bottle out of my reach. “Kristie called Sunday night, told me the petting zoo people double-booked, so the party was off and not to come. Then today my dad texts me, says to make sure I don’t forget the party and disappoint my brother. Like I’d do that?” I want more rum, but Ian won’t give me back the bottle.

  “That why you’re sitting in the woods, drinking, and staring at pieces of glass?”

  I shrug, and he changes the subject. “Okay, so tell me what this has to do with relatives who had hard lives?”

  “Oh, right.” I hold a finger to my lips. “That’s me.”

  “You?” Ian gives me an eye-roll. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m ser-ous,” I say and laugh because such an easy word tangles up my tongue. I climb to my feet. Whoa, not so easy in high-heeled boots. I’m not drunk enough—not nearly drunk enough. I pull out the second bottle I stole from the kitchen, open it, gulp some down, and remember my manners. When I offer some to Ian, he only shrugs.

  “Why are you a crazy old curmudgeon?”

  I laugh and fling out my arms, spilling some of the—what is this? Whiskey. “That’s my life. Every day it gets harder and harder.” I swallow another sip, let out a loud belch, and quickly cover my mouth. I blink at him for a minute. “Oh, jeez! Gross.” I crack up laughing, and it’s this strange rasp that isn’t happy at all. And then it’s gone. “The worst thing, the very worst thing that can ever, ever, ever happen to a girl happens to me, but I’m still here. And I think it can’t ever get worse than that, right? It just can’t.” I try to walk, but the trees pitch and look like they’re about to fall. I grab one to hold it up. “Only it does. Every damn day it does. I’m walking barefoot, in the snow, uphill, and let’s see what else we can throw at her, you know? And the worst part is I don’t see half the shit coming at me until I feel it.” My voice cracks, and I slide back down to the ground. Great big tears roll down my face, and Ian’s jaw drops. “I completely and totally suck at life and just don’t want to feel anymore.”

  “Grace, I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”

  “You keep saying that, but then you keep doing crap that needs apol-apol-gies.”

  “Okay, why don’t you give me that bottle? You’re slurring and wobbling on those damn heels.”

  I move the bottle out of his reach. “I’m not drunk.” To prove it, I gulp down more whiskey.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “If I were drunk, you’d be on top of me.”

  Ian jumps to his feet, grabs the bottle out of my hand, and smashes it against a tree. “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.” He shouts at me, but his voice trembles.

  I blink up at him for a second. Wow. He is seriously pissed off. “Aw, what’s the matter, Russell? Don’t want to catch one of my STDs?”

  “Grace, I mean it. Shut. Up.”

  I climb back to my feet. “When I opened my eyes and saw you, I thought I was safe.” I wipe the tears off my face because they’re pathetic. “You hurt me the most of all.” No, I’m pathetic.

  He lowers his eyes, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. I’m sorry for that. I had reasons—”

  “Excuses. Not reasons.” I shrug like I don’t care, except I do care. I care way too much, and God, it hurts.

  Ian winces like I just cut him with my piece-of-glass friend. Where did it go? It sailed way over there, behind that…that—what is that? I squint at a bush or a tree or a weed—who knows?—and almost fall forward.

  “Grace. Grace? Whoa, easy. I got you.”

  I feel so light. I look down and find Ian’s hands holding my arms, holding me up. I stare into his eyes, at his lips. His hands tighten on my arms, and I think I’m closer to him than I was before, close enough to just reach out and trace the line of his cheekbone. Abruptly he clears his throat.

  “Grace, tell me something. If you had that picture of Zac, the one of his game face, how does that fix any of this?” He waves his hands at my bottle.

  Whoa, abrupt change of subject. I’m dizzy. My shoulders sag. Aw, crap. I really wish I had my piece of glass. “It doesn’t. I already got it. You saw it, ’member? You snagged the camera, scrolled through the card. That was the first time you were mean.” Was it the first time or the second time? There are so many times, and they’re starting to blur together. Just one big ball of tangled-up meanness. “Piece of glass. Want it back.”

  “No. What’s wrong with the picture you took?”

  I swat at his hands, but he doesn’t move. “Police said it’s not enough evidence to convict. It was a waste of time. Feudal.”

  “Futile?”

  That’s what I said. “Zac wins.”

  Ian opens his mouth and then closes it. He opens it again. “I’m sorry.”

  I laugh. He’s funny. He’s so tall and cute. “I thought you were diff’ent.”

  That makes him mad again. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know ’zactly what I’m saying.” I lean closer. I want to mess up his hair.

  His eyes pop. “What the hell are you saying?”

  What would it feel like? My fingers through all that dark hair? His hands on me? His lips on mine? Oh, wait. Almost forgot I already know what that feels like. How could I almost forget that part? It’s my favorite part. “I wanted you to ask me out. For ages I wanted that, but you never noticed me.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Didn’t do anything about it then.”

  “Yeah, well, I notice you now.”

  I snort. That’s only ’cause I’m drunk and falling in love with sharp pieces of glass. I’m tired. I’m so tired. My eyes feel like they’ve been weighted down, so I just put my head on his shoulder and shut them for a moment. Suddenly Ian’s arms wrap around me, and he hugs me…tightly.

  “I should have asked you out.” he says with an extra squeeze. “I definitely should have asked you out.”

  I snort again ’cause seriously? I’m supposed to believe that?

  “Grace?”

  “Mmm.” With my head on his shoulder and his breath warm on my cheeks, I sigh. This is al
l probably just a dream. I zone out, content to be warm and pretend Ian’s really here.

  “Grace?

  Damn it, why am I dreaming so loud?

  “Will you go out with me? See a movie or something?”

  “Sure, dream Ian. I’ll go out with you. Get your shots first. Anti-cooties, slut vaccine.”

  His arms tighten around me. “Shut up, Grace.”

  “Dreams don’t yell at you.”

  “I’m not a dream, Grace.”

  “Should be.”

  He sighs, and his breath tickles me. “Grace, look at me.”

  Lift my head? I don’t know if I can. But I try anyway because I like to have nice dreams and haven’t had one in forever. My head feels about two sizes too big and a hundred pounds too heavy and whoa! There are two of him. He scooches down a bit, so he’s eye level with me, grasps my head between both hands, and I smile. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Are you looking at me, Grace? Do you see me?”

  “Yep, both of you.”

  “Jesus.” He rolls his eyes. “Timing sucks, but you need to hear this. I believe you. Did you hear me, Grace? I believe you.”

  It takes my brain a second or two to catch up to my ears, and when it does, I finally shatter like one of those beer bottles and fall into a million jagged pieces. Only he doesn’t let go. He never lets go.

  We stand like this forever until I can breathe without sobbing, blink without crying.

  “You are so fucking strong, dealing with all that crap, and I don’t know why it took me so long to see—Well, I do know why, but that doesn’t matter because now I see. Now I know. You’re a goddamn warrior.” Ian kisses me right on my forehead, and damn it, it’s so right, so perfect. I don’t ever want to move, not even to tell him I’m not any of those things. I’m just a girl who got mad.

  Really fucking mad.

  “Grace?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Glad you didn’t do it. The glass, I mean.”

  “Would have been easy. Not right.”

  With his arms still wrapped around me, Ian jerks like I electrocuted him. And then I’m falling, and while I’m falling, I’m thinking, I knew this was only a dream.

  • • •

  “Grace.”

  Something keeps hitting my face, and I bat it away. Somebody laughs.

  “Grace, come on. Open those bright eyes.”

  Ian? Oh, God. I blink, and he’s smiling down at me, one hand holding mine and the other cradling my face. What—I glance around, discover I’m in his car. The woods. The booze. The piece of glass. I gasp, sit up, and shut my eyes. Shit, shit, crap!

  “Grace, look at me.” The hand on my face shakes me a little, taps my cheek again. My eyes fly open because the tone of his voice tells me he’s pissed off.

  “Nothing happened. Okay? I promise you. Nothing happened.”

  How did he—I just nod.

  “Gimme your key.”

  Key? I pat my pockets down. I think I stuffed it into my back pocket. I shift, struggle with uncooperative limbs, and finally fish it out. Ian takes it, leaves the car. I curse and bury my face in my hands. What the hell was he doing in the woods? The passenger door opens, and I almost spill out of the car all over his shoes. He sighs and scoops me up at the knees like I’m a sick child.

  “I got you.”

  Oh, God, you have no idea. I shut my eyes and sink into the sensation because it’ll probably never happen again until I’m in college where nobody knows Grace the slut. I jolt when I feel softness against my back.

  I’m on the sofa in our living room. Ian tosses my key on the coffee table, flicks on a lamp, grabs my feet, and unzips first one boot, then the other. Even with the booze numbing my neurons, I feel a tingle. He pulls me upright, peels off my leather jacket, tosses it on a chair, puts my boots in the corner. There’s a blanket on the back of the sofa. I pull it down, but he’s right there, smoothing it over me, tucking it around me. God, that feels so amazingly good. I force my eyes open—I don’t even remember closing them—but Ian’s gone. Damn. I close them again, try to remember all the shitty things he did so I won’t miss him so much, and…and then I remember the amazing thing he just told me. It wasn’t a dream?

  “Grace.”

  “I’m not sleeping.” I wrestle my eyelids open.

  “Okay.” Ian’s back, and he’s laughing. There’s a tall glass of water in his hands. He pulls me upright again, holds out his hand with a smirk.

  Pain relievers.

  I smile at the irony, pop the pills, swallow some water, and settle back down. “Don’t go,” I whisper.

  He looks at the door, brow wrinkled, lips tight. My heart cracks another centimeter, but I don’t say anything. I figure I already gave him enough chances. He kneels next to me, reaches out with his thumb to make tiny circles along my cheek, and if I weren’t already down, I’d have melted into a puddle. My eyelids are so heavy, but if I close them, I might miss something. I imagined this moment for ages, how it would play out, what circumstances would lead up to it. He shakes brown hair out of his dark eyes, licks his lips, and I swear I can smell chocolate.

  He lowers his eyes, and I almost protest until he says my name. “Grace? I really want to kiss you.”

  My lips tingle, and I can’t tell if it’s anticipation or something else. “You can.” His eyes snap back to mine, a little wider. He looks, just looks at me for so long, the tick of the clock on the wall ticking louder, louder, louder, and just when I’m sure he’s going to laugh and tell me he was only kidding, he shifts to sit on the sofa beside me. He cradles my face in both hands, and my heart kicks into a higher gear. He leans down, angles his head, and I forget to remember why I hate him.

  “Not until you’re sober.”

  I close my eyes so he won’t see the disappointment, but my mind plays back the day we kissed in front of the lockers. He tasted like chocolate, and I want more. Because who can eat only one chocolate kiss? My fingers dig into his wide shoulders—funny, I don’t remember wrapping my arms around him—and tug him back hard enough to make him grunt. There are hard muscles under soft skin, warm hands and hot breath, galloping heart rates and heavy limbs. An hour ago I didn’t want to feel anything again. Now I feel everything, and it’s still not enough.

  “You’re not making this easy, Grace.”

  “You really believe me?”

  Ian nods, his eyes pinned to mine. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why? Why now?”

  He abruptly stands up, runs a hand through his hair, and I pout. I wanted to do that, but I forgot. “Grace, there’s something I need to do, and then I’ll be back, okay?”

  I turn away, blood going cold. He won’t be back. And tomorrow he’ll twist the knife a little deeper. Maybe it will punch through to the other side, and all this will finally be over.

  He makes an odd choking sound, and before I can figure out why, he falls to the sofa next to me and hauls me against his chest. “No. Damn it, Grace. No. Don’t do that.” His arms are like steel walls around me.

  “Do what?” I murmur flatly into his chest.

  “Think what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  He grips my shoulders, holds me away, and looks me straight in the eye. “Things like ‘Oh, guess he just wants to find out if I’m as easy as Zac says.’ Or worse like ‘Wonder how Ian’s gonna stick it to me tomorrow.’” I lower my eyes, and he hugs me tight again. “Grace, I know you already gave me a lot of chances. Give me one more. Please? Just one more. I have to take care of something. But tomorrow I’ll tell the whole school you’re my—”

  He breaks off abruptly, and I look at him to figure out why. He looks so confused that I almost laugh. “What?”

  “I don’t know what to call this. You. Us.”

  “Us?” My jaw drops. We’re an us now?

  “Yeah. I mean, you were so pissed off about the way guys own girls, remember? I don’t want to piss you off by calling you my girlfriend.”

/>   Holy mother of God in heaven and baby Jesus too. “You…you’re saying you want us to be together?”

  He smiles, relieved. “Yeah. Together.” And then he quickly asks, “I mean, if you still want that too. A lot changed, and I get that. But not this.”

  I want. Oh, God, I want. “What about your friends, your teammates? What about lunchtime when they won’t let me sit at their table? What about the next time one of them thinks he can take a ride on Grace? Will you ever be able to look at me and not see Zac all over me?”

  His jaw twitches, and when he talks, his voice is tight. “One step at a time, Grace. Just tell me you’ll still be here.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be here, Ian.”

  He smiles, shifts me off his lap, adjusts my blanket, and walks to the door. At the front door he looks over his shoulder. “Grace. Remember what I said. I believe you.”

  Oh, yeah, I remember. Those words feel even better than a kiss on the forehead, and that really curled my toes. After all that’s happened to me, after all the times and creative ways I’ve been hurt, how can one boy get me to believe in fairy tales?

  Chapter 28

  Ian

  No! Zac, stop. I don’t want to.

  Inside my dad’s Camry, with my hands choking the steering wheel, I try to cool down, but my temper’s about to boil over. The way Grace stared at the chunk of glass—it still makes me shiver, and that pisses me off. It’s the way she should look at me. She did look at me that way once. But I couldn’t deal, so I ripped the heart out of her chest and squished it in front of the whole team, in front of half the damn school. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and shake my head. Can’t even say I saved her life. No, she did that herself before she even knew I was there. She fought her demon and won.

  Oh, God, I’m sick. Help me, Zac. I feel so sick.

  Zac’s video is on replay in my head, and I just sit here shaking like the useless bobble head on the dashboard. I slash out a hand and send the stupid thing flying.

  I know what I have to do, knew it before I went to the woods this afternoon. Doesn’t make it easy. The team will suffer for this. Probably have to skip the All Long Island Tournament. Seniors could lose scholarships. My concussed brain could still heal. There’s a chance I could be fine. But if I do this, none of us will play. I’ll lose everything—my friends, my team, my shot at an athletic scholarship.