hair is still black, but instead of standing up, it’s stuck to his forehead with sweat; every bit of silver is missing from his ears. All his little quirks are stripped away, but he’s got those proud shoulders and that crooked smile, and his whole face is lit up from the fight. Even without the bells and whistles, it is still undeniably Wesley Ayers. And now that I see him, I don’t know how I didn’t see him earlier.
Maybe because Wesley Ayers— my Wesley—is supposed to be on some beach, bonding with his family.
My Wesley wouldn’t be here at this stuck-up school, wouldn’t lie to me about going here, and certainly wouldn’t look like he belongs here.
“Who’s next?” he asks, eyes glittering.
“I am,” I shout back.
The spectators—all boys—turn collectively, but my gaze is leveled firmly on Wes. The corner of his mouth tilts up. Of course he’s not surprised to see me . He’s known for weeks where I was enrolled. He never said anything. No “Oh great, we can stick together.” No “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone.” Not even a “Well, what a coincidence.” Why? Why didn’t he tell me?
“Now, young lady, I don’t think—” starts the burly gym teacher as I approach the platform and begin strapping on pads.
“I signed the waivers,” I cut in, tugging on forearm guards, wondering if there even are waivers for this class. It seems like that kind of school.
“It’s not about that,” says the teacher. “This is hand-to-hand combat, and it’s important to match the students in terms of—”
“How do you know we’re not well matched?” I shoot back, cinching down a shin guard. “Unless you’re assuming that because I’m a girl.” I look the teacher in the eyes. “Are you assuming that, sir?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I step up onto the platform, and he doesn’t stop me, which is good enough.
“Give the guy hell!” shouts Cash as I pull the helmet on.
Oh, I think, I will.
“Hey, you,” says Wesley as I meet him in the center of the platform.
“Hey, you,” I mimic bitterly.
“I can explain—” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the whistle.
I kick forward hard and fast, catching Wesley high in the chest before the shrill metallic cry has even stopped. The crowd gives a gasp as he falls, hitting the floor for only a moment before rolling over and pulling himself to his feet. I attack with another kick, which he blocks. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we’re gaining a crowd. He throws a punch, which I dodge, followed by an uppercut, which I don’t. The wind rushes out of my lungs, but I don’t let it stop me from grabbing his fist and his wrist—pain thrumming up my own—and turning fast, flipping him over my shoulder.
He should hit the mat flat on his back, but somehow he twists midair and lands in a crouch, elegant as a cat. In a blink he’s up again and closing the gap between us. I arch back just in time to avoid a hit and recover fast enough to see an opening—left side, stomach—but I don’t take it. It’s been three weeks since Owen stabbed Wesley. Even though it doesn’t show in his stance, I know it still hurts him. I’ve seen the laughs cut short by a wince, the ginger way he stands and sits.
My hesitation earns me a swift kick to the chest, and I’ve got just enough time to hook my foot behind his knee and wrap my hand around his chest plate before I go down, taking him with me. I hit the mat hard and brace myself for Wesley’s weight to land on top of me; but his palms hit the floor before his body hits me, and he manages to catch himself.
He hovers inches over me, breathing hard. Then his mouth quirks into a crooked smile, a familiar smile, and he knocks his helmet playfully against mine.
“Miss me?”
The garden is silent except for the sound of my pulse.
Wesley leans across the stone bench and brings his lips featherlight against my temple. Then against my cheekbone. Against my jaw. A trail of
Maybe because Wesley Ayers— my Wesley—is supposed to be on some beach, bonding with his family.
My Wesley wouldn’t be here at this stuck-up school, wouldn’t lie to me about going here, and certainly wouldn’t look like he belongs here.
“Who’s next?” he asks, eyes glittering.
“I am,” I shout back.
The spectators—all boys—turn collectively, but my gaze is leveled firmly on Wes. The corner of his mouth tilts up. Of course he’s not surprised to see me . He’s known for weeks where I was enrolled. He never said anything. No “Oh great, we can stick together.” No “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone.” Not even a “Well, what a coincidence.” Why? Why didn’t he tell me?
“Now, young lady, I don’t think—” starts the burly gym teacher as I approach the platform and begin strapping on pads.
“I signed the waivers,” I cut in, tugging on forearm guards, wondering if there even are waivers for this class. It seems like that kind of school.
“It’s not about that,” says the teacher. “This is hand-to-hand combat, and it’s important to match the students in terms of—”
“How do you know we’re not well matched?” I shoot back, cinching down a shin guard. “Unless you’re assuming that because I’m a girl.” I look the teacher in the eyes. “Are you assuming that, sir?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I step up onto the platform, and he doesn’t stop me, which is good enough.
“Give the guy hell!” shouts Cash as I pull the helmet on.
Oh, I think, I will.
“Hey, you,” says Wesley as I meet him in the center of the platform.
“Hey, you,” I mimic bitterly.
“I can explain—” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the whistle.
I kick forward hard and fast, catching Wesley high in the chest before the shrill metallic cry has even stopped. The crowd gives a gasp as he falls, hitting the floor for only a moment before rolling over and pulling himself to his feet. I attack with another kick, which he blocks. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we’re gaining a crowd. He throws a punch, which I dodge, followed by an uppercut, which I don’t. The wind rushes out of my lungs, but I don’t let it stop me from grabbing his fist and his wrist—pain thrumming up my own—and turning fast, flipping him over my shoulder.
He should hit the mat flat on his back, but somehow he twists midair and lands in a crouch, elegant as a cat. In a blink he’s up again and closing the gap between us. I arch back just in time to avoid a hit and recover fast enough to see an opening—left side, stomach—but I don’t take it. It’s been three weeks since Owen stabbed Wesley. Even though it doesn’t show in his stance, I know it still hurts him. I’ve seen the laughs cut short by a wince, the ginger way he stands and sits.
My hesitation earns me a swift kick to the chest, and I’ve got just enough time to hook my foot behind his knee and wrap my hand around his chest plate before I go down, taking him with me. I hit the mat hard and brace myself for Wesley’s weight to land on top of me; but his palms hit the floor before his body hits me, and he manages to catch himself.
He hovers inches over me, breathing hard. Then his mouth quirks into a crooked smile, a familiar smile, and he knocks his helmet playfully against mine.
“Miss me?”
The garden is silent except for the sound of my pulse.
Wesley leans across the stone bench and brings his lips featherlight against my temple. Then against my cheekbone. Against my jaw. A trail of
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