So, I clutch my phone and think of the memories inside the messages.
21
SARAH JANE
“How didthe talk with Andy go?” Conner asks. I sense the cautious tone in his voice and the way his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he clutches it tightly, preparing for anything.
“Good,” I reply. “Andy apologised, and I accepted his apology.”
Conner’s hands relax, and his shoulders ease.
“So, are you going to hang out at the back of the building for recess and lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Would I be able to join?”
“Why?”
“I want to hang out with you, but I know my other friends make you uneasy.”
“No.” My arms wrap around my chest. “I wouldn’t want you to stop hanging out with your friends for me.”
“But what if I wanted to?” He leans toward me and smiles. “Besides, I’d rather hang out with you.”
“What about Aaron and your other friends?” I murmur, my face burning.
“We are going to spend time with them this Friday. They also know I do whatever I want and wouldn’t care if I hang with you.”
“Oh…”
“You don’t want me to hang out with you?”
I shake my head. “No, Conner. That’s not it. I like you—hanging with you, I mean,” I blurt. “But I don’t want you to choose.”
He stops at the red light and leans back with his arms resting on my headrest. “You aren’t used to people choosing you.”
“Sorry?”
“You are acting like you’re undeserving of someone choosing to hang with you. It makes me wonder…”
My hands tighten against my black denim jeans, my voice small when I say, “What?”
“What happened for you to feel that way?” He says, staring ahead. “Because you’re worth every moment of my time, and I’d give up hanging with my family for you.”
“Don’t do that!” I squeak and lean toward him.
“I’m kidding, Noya,” he laughs. “I’d bring you with me.” My eyes widen. “Would you like to meet them this weekend?”
“Um…” I bite my lower lip, struggling to find a suitable lie to explain why I don’t go anywhere on weekends. Dad is usually home on weekends because he has those days off. I rarely go anywhere out of fear that he will search the entire town for me and drag me back home by my hair.
“Your parents won’t let you?” he asks. I nod, remembering telling him my parents were strict. “What if I get my mum to talk to your dad?”
“No,” I say, my voice straining and my mind racing, imagining every horrible scenario.
“How about on a weekday? Your parents don’t seem to mind when you come home later than usual.”
“That’s because Dad isn’t home,” I say, the words coming out unfiltered and in a rush.