Chapter One
EMERSON
Present Day
Sleep didn’t come.
But the memories did.
So while most girls were probably well rested and ready to make the squad, I was stuck with the Ghost of Christmas Past. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror of my crappy car and willed away the dark circles under my eyes.
I had to make the squad.
I had to.
It was my last shot. Professional cheerleaders didn’t get paid much of anything, and with as much time as I spent trying to become one, I was at a crossroads. I just didn’t want to give up, I couldn’t. My mom had been a professional cheerleader before she died, and I still had her picture under my pillow, the edges torn, the colors faded. Growing up without her had been painful. Not because I remembered much about her, I was too young when she was taken from us. No, it had been hard because my dad hadn’t quite got why I was bullied. To him I was perfect. He never saw the flaws everyone else seemed to, and when I grew boobs and hips, and all the other lovely things that girls get when they grow up—he handed me a picture of my mom and said, “You look just like her, and she was perfect.” It kept me going.
Until Miller.
God!
I slammed the steering wheel with my palm until my hand went numb. Why? Why did it always have to come back to Miller?
One more.
That’s what I told myself.
One more memory surfaced.
And this time, as I pulled out of the apartment complex, I let it.
Because as much as it hurt to admit it, I’d rather have him in my thoughts, where he was safe from hurting me, than lose him forever.
(Then)
The locker room door shut behind the last cheer member, blanketing me in silence. Well, except for the noise coming from the other side of the room.
The walls were thin.
Very thin.
The guys were still shouting and banging hands against lockers.
I grinned and walked over to the door that led into the guys’ locker room. A small hallway with two offices divided the space between the girls’ and the guys’ locker rooms. The athletic director’s office was on one side and the football coaches’ office on the other. If you wanted to sneak across, you had to get on your hands and knees and crawl.
So I wasn’t at all surprised when I opened the door and looked down.
And Miller looked up.
“Fancy meeting you here.” I knelt to his level and crossed my arms. “Escaping so soon?”
“You know how I feel about male shower time.” His grin was back, but it was shaky. Yeah, I knew all too well how he felt about it.
Both of us had our issues.
I had my weight.
He had the color of his skin.
Stupid.
So damn stupid that tears threatened. Tears for him, not for me.
The white guys made fun of him for being too dark. And the black guys made fun of him for being too white.
He couldn’t win.
After a long game, I knew he was exhausted and just wanted to shower and go home.
“Come on.” I held out my hand and dragged him into the girls’ locker room. “You can shower in here.”
“With you?”
“You should be so lucky, Casanova.”
“Break my heart, why don’t you,” he grumbled, placing a hand across his chest, and then grabbed his bag from the floor. He knew I’d let him in. He knew I’d say yes.
We were best friends.
Not that I’d ever admit it out loud since he’d probably want to test me on it—but I’d go to prison for the guy. Cheerfully.
I’d already suffered numerous school detentions in the name of friendship after joining in on several of his harmless pranks.
The principal called us Satan’s duo.
I took it as a compliment.
I think Miller did too.
“So . . .” He plopped his bag down on one of the benches and dropped his shorts.
I quickly turned away and stretched my arms over my head.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“Food. Drive. Maybe stop by the dance?”
“No! Just say no to dances, Em.” A rustling sounded, and then the shower turned on. “Besides, last time Coen grabbed your ass.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he snapped.
Which wasn’t at all like Miller.
“He’s cheating again.” I figured if I said it like that, like a statement, it wouldn’t hurt as bad, but pain still sliced through my gut before nausea made me want to toss up everything I’d eaten that day into the toilet.
Suddenly, huge arms wrapped around me, and I was getting pulled backward.
“No!” I shouted. “MILLLERRRR!”
“Oops, you’re wet,” he said after I was already underneath the showerhead with him, water pouring over my soon-to-be-mascara-streaked face.
“Why are we best friends again?”
He was quiet and then whispered, “Because I don’t make you cry.”
“Promise?” I swallowed the thickness in my throat. “Promise you’ll never make me cry.”
“Promise.” He pushed me away a bit. “Now stop hogging the hot water.”
Little did I know that his promise would be impossible to keep.
Or that we had precious little time left.