Sebastian is in an epically sweet mood the next morning, despite aching like a tackle dummy after a college football practice. Last night, he raided the Hot Box for a spare ball, sandbags, and a few cones to spend hours running drills until his legs gave out on him. He needed the distraction, and now his body is paying for it.
“You’re dead to me,” he mumbles to his cell as the alarm chirps. It’s mocking him, so he stuffs it under his pillow, hoping it suffocates. He considers sleeping in. The vicious orange sun is bursting through the window, and Sebastian just can’t do it.
“Stupid sun and routines and life,” he says, hopping out of bed. He shivers—the floor is subzero this early—and dances around the room to find socks. He finds them on Willie’s side of the cabin.
Then it hits him: No one is snoring or making out with a pillow or sleep-talking.
Willie’s untouched bed indicates he crashed at Hunter’s. And then, another epiphany smacks Sebastian: Hunter is crushing on Willie. That would explain his I-will-destroy-you death stare when Mason implied liking Willie in a sexual way, as well as why he’s so clingy.
Mason and Willie would make a horrible couple.
Hunter hasn’t shown any interest in anyone. He’s always been single, and never talked about a girl or a guy he might have a thing for. Sebastian figured it was because Hunter’s parents were hardcore religious and constantly on him about his studies. But maybe it’s because he’s not quite comfortable in his sexuality?
Sebastian taps his chin. He shouldn’t be so worried about his friends’ love lives when his own is screwed up. “Whatever,” he says with a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. Hunter’s a cool guy and Willie’s earned “little brother” status in Sebastian’s book. He can only hope for the best.
But for right now, Sebastian has an entire cabin to himself.
What to do?
He’s a teenager, so his options are always sleep, food, or sex. Sebastian’s leaning toward the last option, but he has one mission on his mind: Emir Shah.
The moment doesn’t totally go to waste, though. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, socks pulled up to his shins, and a pair of Willie’s cheap sunglasses. Sebastian skids across the hardwood floor to “Old Time Rock and Roll” blaring off his cell, à la Risky Business, like a big kid.
Later, after he finds his sneakers under his bed and a pair of running shorts, he stands in the doorway of his cabin. The leaves are bright green; streams of sunshine break through the gaps. Morning breeze shakes the tree limbs. Sebastian has a clear view of Emir’s cabin at the end of a row. He’s stalling. Sebastian wants yesterday to be a blur, a bad dream, but it’s not. It’s vivid, in color, and it haunts him like a bad trip.
I kissed Emir.
He can’t forget the little things about Emir: his wide, clouded eyes, his stunned breathing, his tongue brushing his lips. Sebastian’s head is filled with happy Taylor Swift pop love songs instead of kickass rock anthems, songs that do not evoke magically falling in love.
It’s not a big deal. He rubs his temples. Emir’s just a guy.
He is so not just a guy. He’s Emir Shah, one-time best friend of Sebastian Hughes. Angry, gray-eyed, wickedly handsome when he scowls—
Sebastian groans. “Oh, what the…” He’s doomed.
Marching to Emir’s cabin with his hands stuffed in his pockets, Sebastian decides that if he doesn’t bring up the kiss, then it never happened. What he can’t decide is if he wants to forget it ever happened. But before he can work out how he’ll get over that part, he spots a Post-It stuck to Emir’s window: “Sleeping! Don’t wake me! —Em.”
Sebastian glares. He rips it off, crumples it, and tosses it to the ground. Fine, whatever. He doesn’t have a single cell in his body that gives a shit if Emir improves or not. Emir’s frustrating. And he’s making Sebastian miserable.
“Asshole.” Sebastian jogs toward the hiking trails. He doesn’t need Emir to have a good run. He’ll just slow Sebastian down, anyway.
Sebastian stops a few feet from the trail. In a cloud of blue smoke, Emir paces a lazy circle. He’s wearing shorts, his BHS sweatshirt, and a beanie pulled close to his eyes. His long, thin fingers idly hold a cigarette with a mound of ash at the end as if he’s forgotten about it.
A knot of confusion spreads from Sebastian’s chest to his limbs, like an infection. He clears his throat. Emir stops cold when Sebastian says, “What are you…?” but the rest of the question never makes it out of his mouth.
“Morning,” Emir says, voice rough with fatigue and smoke.
Sebastian crosses his arms over his chest. He’s trying hard not to lose his mind over how soft and pink Emir’s mouth is when it curls around the end of his cigarette.
Jesus, I need professional help.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Emir drops his cigarette and grinds it out. “I blame you for that.”
“Happy to help.”
“I’ve been waiting on you.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Emir says.
“That’s not an answer, Emi,” Sebastian says, faltering, because, shit, he didn’t want that silly, childhood nickname to slip out. He flinches when Emir’s eyes widen, only momentarily.
“After I did my Fajr prayer—”
“I’m sorry, what?”
A wrinkle appears between Emir’s eyebrows. He says, exasperated, “The Fajr, the dawn prayer we say as Muslims. You don’t remember?” He waits.
Sebastian nods slowly because he does, vaguely. He’s only seen Emir’s parents praying on those mornings when he sneaked over to wake Emir. But they were so young, and Sebastian was clueless about the religious terms used by the Shahs.
“I’m used to having to explain my religion to everyone,” Emir continues. “People talk about my skin color, my accent, my faith.” His cold and fragile tone shakes.
Sebastian steps forward. He knocks their shoulders and raises his eyebrows. It’s a weak attempt to communicate that he remembers. He still likes Emir for who he is, every part.
Emir sags. “Faith is a big thing for Abbu, so I try not to disappoint him.”
“That’s cool,” Sebastian says, because he hasn’t thought of something better.
His slight height advantage means Emir raises his chin to smile at him. It cracks open Sebastian’s brain; old memories flood out: playing video games, eating lunch side by side on the playground, backyard races, Sebastian’s constant attempts to impress because Emir was so epic.
“We should, um,” Sebastian stutters, rubbing the heel of his hand over an eye.
“Time for a run?”
“Yes!”
Sebastian could point out that a run after smoking isn’t wise, but he’s not here to highlight Emir’s bad habits. Plus, he can totally use it later, when Emir is being a jerk because Sebastian wants to add an extra mile to their run.
“Also,” Sebastian grabs Emir’s wrist, his thumb pressed to the pulse point on the inside. “Hunter’s a good guy.”
“What’s that mean?” Emir asks, brow furrowed.
Don’t be a dick to him, Sebastian wants to say. Instead he says, “I saw what happened yesterday. He’s a good guy, Emir.”
Emir considers him through slit eyes. Then, after taking a deep breath, Emir nods. “Time to run,” he whispers, freeing his wrist from Sebastian’s grip.
Sebastian doesn’t argue. He gives Emir a head start and catches up when the sting in his chest subsides. It’s a relief when neither of them mentions the stupid kiss or not being friends anymore.
* * *
The dining hall is empty after practice. It reminds Sebastian of a post-zombie apocalypse. Coach O’Brien confiscated half of the team, including Willie and Mason, to go replay footage of the St. Catherine’s boys in the rec room. Everyone acts as if the tension buzzing from the coaching staff about the Spartans game is normal.
Sebastian fears that, this time, they’ll be in over their heads. He plays it cool, though, parking his exhausted body at their table by himself. Summer is at its height; a mild heat wave is only tolerable because they’re so close to the lake. He kicks a foot up on a chair, studying today’s lunch: yogurt, a granola bar, and an especially green protein shake.
Is this what college is going to be like? Unless he’s willing to die a boring death by staying in Bloomington, he’ll be solo while Mason heads to Michigan, where his uncle is in good with a few of the coaches, and Willie does the local thing.
Sebastian frowns at his yogurt.
“You look funny when you’re thinking.”
When Emir plops down on the tabletop, Sebastian’s eyes open wide.
Emir says, “It’s disturbing.” He makes a face that Sebastian supposes is the one he was making a minute ago. It resembles a dog’s when the vacuum cleaner comes on.
Sebastian, his body betraying him, shivers. He replies, “I do not,” without the conviction he wants.
“Yes, you do!” Emir’s feet rest on a chair, Willie’s chair, as he bends to steal the granola bar from Sebastian’s tray. It won’t be missed. “Actually,” Emir continues as he points a finger at Sebastian, crunching on granola, “you used to make that same face when Mrs. Callaway made us read My Side of the Mountain.”
Mrs. Callaway was a tyrant, always making them read books that put Sebastian to sleep. The Hobbit was an awesome exception. “Literature was boring,” Sebastian mumbles.
“If you were struggling, I would’ve helped you.” Emir’s mouth slants and his brow creases when he adds, “Back then.”
Sebastian’s skin prickles from his chest on up. He chews his thumbnail; confusion and conflict fester in his system.
Emir sits, inscrutable, as if they’re not walking on this very thin sheet of ice.
Tension and his warped sense of timing make Sebastian ask, “What happened?” before he realizes what’s coming out of his mouth.
Emir chews granola slowly. “Remember when I went to England for a summer?”
Sebastian nods. After fifth grade, Emir’s family left, and he didn’t hear from Emir at all. It was their first Fourth of July without viewing the fireworks from a tree in Sebastian’s backyard while fireflies hovered around their ankles. No one explained to him what happened. Life simply ripped Sebastian’s left arm off and told him he didn’t need it. And, sure, Sebastian could’ve tried to find Emir, but he was ten. He knew how to operate his Xbox, not set up a Facebook account.
“My grandmother, my nani, was sick for a long time. Then, she died,” Emir says, face pinched as if the memory’s still fresh. “We stayed in London because my mom was too shook up to function.”
Sebastian chews his lip, wanting to say something but unsure what.
“And then I came back.”
He came back in the middle of the school year, when Sebastian had filled the emptiness left by Emir with Willie, Mason, and Zach, and was living in an alternate universe where his new best friends were Mason and Willie. Then, out of a wormhole, Emir returned with a different view of Sebastian, as if Sebastian was an alien and not the kid who’d sat alone on a couch, missing a goofy-grinning, skinny kid no longer there to help him bomb zombies.
Sebastian kept his distance. Emir did too. Their lost friendship became a passing thought.
“I get nervous around people,” Emir says, staring at his knees. “People call me weird all the time, but I’m just extremely shy. It’s easier for me to stick to myself.” He hunches forward, growing smaller.
Sebastian absently puts a hand on Emir’s knee.
The tops of Emir’s cheeks blush rose. “So, no, I didn’t mean to be an asshole to Hunter. I’m just not good with people. The only person I never had to try with is you. We got on well, and then you were gone.”
Sebastian sinks in his seat. It’s not a sucker punch catching him off guard, but it aches. He would gladly have made room for Emir in his crowd if they actually talked once Emir came back. That’s mainly Sebastian’s fault too. Why the hell isn’t working through feelings a class offered to middle school kids? As soon as puberty hits, all of a sudden people find reasons not to like you: weight, height, acne, sexuality, race, parents’ income, whatever. Confidence is earned by how many flaws you can find in someone else.
“Once high school started…” Emir trails off for a moment. “It’s bloody easy not to want to make friends with people when they stare at you.” Emir sighs. “The crippling shyness is just a bonus.”
“I went through it, too.”
Sebastian is overwhelmed by the reality that what ruined his friendship with Emir was a misunderstanding. They’re not mortal enemies, but each have some major self-esteem issues to work through.
“I never noticed what people said about me when you were around.” Emir smiles at his knees. “That’s the thing. I spent so much time caring about you, I didn’t know anyone else existed.”
Sebastian slumps, but he’s not willing to admit that Emir’s confession knocks him back.
The dining hall is slowly starting to fill. Players walk in laughing; loud conversations are punctuated by trays dropped on tables. Emir tenses under the hand Sebastian has on his knee.
“Sorry,” Sebastian says, nervously, pulling away.
“I should go.” Emir pushes off the table with one hand. His cagey eyes look around. The noise is getting louder. His mouth pops open and his eyes scan Sebastian as if he’s about to say something else. Instead, he nudges through the congestion at the entryway to leave.
“Bro,” Mason says, smacking his tray on the table. Willie follows; Hunter and Grey squeeze into the other side. “What was that about?”
Sebastian frowns. “Nothing.” But it’s a pretty big something that he hasn’t got a clue how to explain.
“But that was Shah, at our table,” Mason says, annoyed.
“Just drop it.” Sebastian’s face is hot, his shoulders are way too tense, and he hasn’t had time to process the last ten minutes. Explaining any of that to Mason is an unnecessary task.
“But he hates us.”
“You,” Hunter corrects, biting into his ham sandwich. “He hates you, Riley.”
“Whatever.” Mason rolls his eyes.
Sebastian’s hands shake, and a crackling fire licks at his chest. He’s not a violent person, but hell, he wants to punch something or someone. Also, he wants to ask Mason if he’d ever let Emir sit with them? If, outside of camp, Mason would have a civilized conversation with Emir the same way he talks to all those assholes at their school who pretend to be his friend? But he can’t, because Mason has been a good friend. Along with Willie, he filled that gap in Sebastian’s life where Emir used to be. For that, Sebastian’s grateful.
“So, you guys aren’t friends?” Willie inquires, confused.
“No,” Sebastian says, but the lie sticks to his throat. “I don’t know. Let’s just talk about something else.” His hairline is sweaty; his stomach gnaws its way into his chest.
After a silent conversation with their eyes, Willie and Mason shrug. Mason goes on about Coach’s plans for their first game. Willie complains about the heat. Sebastian can deal with his nauseated stomach as long as he doesn’t have to talk about Emir.
He steals glances at Emir’s empty corner.
The topic turns to the pro leagues. Grey says, “I think—”
But Mason clears his throat, “Show of hands for who doesn’t care what The Brat thinks?”
Of course, Mason is the only one with a hand up, but it’s enough to awaken a little hurt in Grey’s eyes. She lowers her chin.
Sebastian slips an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispers. He wants to tell her that Mason’s an asshole with a good heart, that his only example for treating someone he might care for was his father, the deadbeat bastard who ditched his mom while she was pregnant with Mason’s youngest sister, but that’s not his baggage to unpack.
Pride overruns Sebastian when Grey smiles with her eyes. Maybe he’s not so bad at this friendship thing.