Chapter 11
Silas
I don’t know why I said that except that she seems like the kind of girl that might actually be able to do it. I look at a girl like that, who’s somehow wild and polished at the same time, and I feel like she has to have it all figured out. If anyone does, it’s her.
So, I keep going.
“What if there’s something wrong with me? And what if it’s slowly destroying the only things I care about? How do I fix something like that?”
She stares at me, unblinking, and I wish I could pluck all the thoughts from behind those blue eyes. I lower my gaze first¸ and I notice her hands are clutched tightly around the edge of the table.
“It appears I now know two ways to make you stop asking questions.”
That starts her up again.
“You don’t really think that, do you? That you’re broken?”
“It’s a working theory.”
“Silas, most broken people aren’t self-aware enough to realize that they need help. Just the fact that you’re asking means that you’re fine. Whatever it is . . . you’re dealing with it.”
I laugh, and it probably sounds dark and mocking, but I can’t help it. She’s so damn naive. I’ve known people all my life that were straight-up busted, and they knew it. They knew how f**ked they were, but that didn’t make them any better at getting control of it.
“No, I’m not. I’m not dealing with it at all. I’m f**king disintegrating, but I’m not dealing.”
“I think you’re just frustrated, and maybe it feels right now like—”
The thing I like about her . . . that air of sunshine that radiates off her . . . it’s the same damn thing that I can’t stand. So I skip the pep talk and cut straight to the point.
“I’ve been suspended from the football team.”
She stops, her mouth still open around the word she’d been about to say. Her eyes soften, and her head tilts to the side.
“H-How? What happened?”
“I got in a fight.”
“Another one?”
I drop my head down into my hands and grip my hair just hard enough to hurt.
“Yes, another one. And Coach knew about the first one, too.”
“Is fighting against the rules?”
“It’s kind of an unspoken rule not to deck your own teammate.”
She makes this humming noise behind her pursed lips, and I want to take the words back, reel them back in and lock them away. She somehow still has a decent opinion of me after the other night, even though she walked away, and if I don’t stop I’ll destroy that, too.
“Why?”
“Because he made me angry.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a prick.”
She huffs. “I mean why did you get angry?”
“Because . . .” I press my hands down flat against the table and stand. I can’t sit here and talk about this with her like it’s normal. “Because I just did.”
“Nope. Not going to cut it. What made you mad?”
I push away from the table, walk to the fridge, turn, and walk back.
“He said I was going to end up like Levi.”
“Levi is the first guy you got in a fight with, right?”
I nod, and she props one elbow on the table to rest her cheek in her palm.
“So what about Levi makes you mad?”
I can’t. I couldn’t explain it to Coach, and I won’t explain it to her.
“I’m not talking about this, Dylan.”
“You asked me how to fix it. How am I supposed to help if you won’t let me?”
“I don’t actually expect you to help—”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not your charity case.”
She stands and crosses toward me, and my kitchen feels too damn small with her this close. All I can see are all the surfaces I want to press her against to end this conversation.
She lays a soft hand on my forearm, and her touch burns.
“You’re not a charity case.”
I thought the night that we met that she was one of those “good girls” looking to take a bad boy and pretty him up to take home to Mom. I’ve had my fair share of those that I have gladly kicked to the curb. I’m not about to let someone else change and manipulate me to make me into something that makes them happy. Then I thought she was a nice girl looking to get a little wild, maybe freak her parents out.
But looking into her eyes, I don’t think that’s her anymore. She wants to help me for my sake, not for her own. I am her charity case, no matter what she says. But I’m not so sure I mind that.
“Maybe I want to be your charity case. Would you do that? If I asked?”
Her eyes widen. “Do what exactly?”
I drag my hands through my hair and pace away from her. “I don’t f**king know. Fix me.” She makes a noise almost like laughter, and I cross back to her and grip her shoulders. She swallows, and her eyes are serious on me now. “It sounds stupid, I know. But I’m so close to losing it all, Dylan. This life I have now . . . it’s everything to me. And Coach is ready to cut me if I don’t completely clean up my act. I’ve been doing it my way, and I’m failing. So I think I need to try something different.”
Maybe it’s not enough anymore to pretend that I belong here. I have to change.
“I’m just not sure what you’re asking of me, Silas.”
Goddamn it. Neither am I.
“You help people. That’s what you do. That’s what I’m asking for. I need to be better . . . be good. For the team. For me. I just need to get my shit together.”
“Just the fighting? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“All of it. The fighting. The partying. Booze. Pot.”
“Bad-boy rehab?” She still looks skeptical.
“I’m supposed to be a leader, Dylan. I’m supposed to make this team stronger, but right now I’m its biggest weakness.”
And God, I must look so f**king pitiful, because she bites her lip, her big eyes soft and sorry. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll help.”
I want to f**king kiss her. Pull that bottom lip between my teeth, instead of hers. But I settle for pulling her against me and squeezing tight.