One Small Thing

Where is he?

Impatience has me tapping my foot and playing with the straps of my backpack. I search the hall for him, scanning every boy that comes near. I dismiss the ones with dark hair, the gangly ginger-haired one, the one with the dreadlocks and his buddy with the shaved head. I wait in the hall, even after the bell rings, even after the classroom door closes.

And finally, my patience pays off.

Charlie Donnelly appears at the end of the hall. He’s wearing black cargo pants and a black T-shirt, and a harried look on his face. He rakes a hand through his dirty-blond hair as he rushes down the tiled floor. He’s clearly pissed at himself for being late.

When he sees me, he stumbles to a dead stop.

“Fuck,” he murmurs.

“Chase,” I say awkwardly.

I take a step forward, and he takes a very fast one to the side.

His hand shoots out for the doorknob. “We’re late for class,” he says, and his tone is so cold, so aloof, that I frown deeply. He won’t even look at me.

“I don’t care if we’re late. I need to talk to you.”

“Got nothing to say,” he mutters.

“Please,” I beg.

I grab his hand before he can turn the knob. He flinches as if I’ve burned him with a hot iron. Hurt trembles in my belly. A few days ago, he was begging me to touch him. Now it’s like he can’t stand the sight of me, the feel of me, the—

And why the hell do I care? A wave of anger and self-reproach washes over me. This guy hit my sister with his car and went to jail for it. I shouldn’t give a flying fuck if he isn’t into me.

“Well, I have something to say,” I grind out. “And it doesn’t matter if we’re one minute late or five minutes late—late is late. So you might as well give me a few seconds of your precious time.”

His hands drop to his sides. He’s still making a very obvious effort to not look at me. Those blue eyes focus on a spot a few feet above my head. I feel stupid talking to his chin, but I do it anyway.

“You’re going to school here now,” I start.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” His gaze swings briefly to mine before sliding away.

“I’m stating a fact. You go here now. I go here. We have classes together.” I awkwardly jerk my hand at the door behind me. “So...yeah. Given that this is the situation we’re in, I think we should...clear the air, I guess.”

His dumbfounded gaze collides with mine. “Clear the air.” He makes a choked noise. “I...” He wrenches his gaze away again. “You’re Rachel Jones’s sister.”

My heart clenches. “Yes.”

“So there’s no air to clear, Elizabeth.”

“It’s Beth.”

He ignores me. “Move away from the door.”

“No.” I stubbornly plant my feet on the ground and cross my arms. “You can’t pretend I don’t exist. You can’t pretend that we didn’t have se—”

“Shut up,” he growls.

My eyes widen.

Almost instantly, his features twist with distress. “I’m sorry for snapping,” he says roughly. “And I’m sorry for the other night...” He trails off, and I realize that the dark emotion swimming in his eyes isn’t quite remorse.

It’s shame. He’s ashamed of what we did, too.

“You regret it,” I mumble.

This time, he looks right at me, and his stare doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

I can’t explain the wave of hurt that crashes into me. “Because I’m her sister?” I have to ask. My voice shakes wildly with every word.

“Yes,” Chase says again.

That gives me pause. “But if I wasn’t her sister...” I draw a quavery breath. “Would you regret it?”

He eyes me for a long moment, those blue eyes sweeping over my face, then shifting lower. “No,” he finally admits.

It’s my turn to feel ashamed. That one tiny syllable—no—brings a flash of relief, a flicker of happiness. Nausea burns my throat and I want to throw up at my response to this guy.

While I stand there immobile, Chase gently moves me aside and opens the classroom door. He disappears inside without another word.

I turn and watch his broad back as he makes his way to his desk. He folds his tall frame into a chair and stares straight ahead.

At the front of the room, Mrs. Russell is talking about Mathematical Practices for AP Calculus, or MPACS, that will dictate our course of study this semester. She notices me in the doorway and a slight frown creases her lips. She glances at Chase, then at me, then says, “Beth, why don’t you take a seat? There’s an empty one in the back.” AKA as far away from Chase as possible.

I trudge into the classroom, making a pointed effort not to look at him. Our conversation was too short. I have more to say to him. I’m not entirely sure what, but I do know one thing. Chase and I have unfinished business.

I check my watch. Our next class together is Music History. That gives me two hours to plot. Even a stone can be worn away by a constant drip of water. Well, watch out, Chase. Here comes a flood.

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