Yardley

Three Weeks Later

“Sooners, eh?”

I glance up to find an unfamiliar face staring down at me, a speckled, mint green lunch tray in his hands. His eyes drop to the logo across my chest, and I’m pretty sure I caught a hint of an accent in his voice.

“It’s my boyfriend’s,” I say, tugging on my sleeves before adjusting the collar. This thing is way too big on me, but it still smells like him and it’s the next best thing to wearing his hugs. “He’s a fan.”

The guy chuckles, reaching up to adjust the knit stocking cap on his head … which also bears the same logo. I don’t ask why he’s wearing a stocking cap in August. Judging by the rest of his appearance—swim trunk-looking shorts, a button down plaid shirt, black socks, and white shoes—he either likes attention or he’s making some kind of rebellious statement about seasonal wear.

“You must be too?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I find most Sooners fans to be obnoxious pricks. I just like the color. Mind if I sit?”

I shrug. One of my friends from chemistry usually eats with me, but of course she’s sick on the first day of senior year. The rest of my friends have different lunch periods. It’s like I’m right back where I started not quite two years ago.

“I’m Griffin,” he says, shoving a flaccid French fry into his mouth. He chewsa few times, staring at me, and then swallows. “Thing tasted better than it looked.”

“You must not be too picky.” I glance down at my untouched meal. I can’t believe they charge three dollars for this crap.

“This is five-star restaurant quality compared to my old school,” he says.

“Where are you from?”

“A little town outside Oklahoma City. Doubt you’ve heard of it,” he says.

“You’re probably right.”

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Yardley.”

“No, your real name.” He’s teasing. I think. At least judging by the smirk on his tanned face.

I check the time. Fifteen more minutes of sitting here waiting for the bell to ring. But watching Griffin chow down on his hockey-puck cheeseburger makes me laugh. He even rolls his eyes and pretends to wipe drool from his mouth.

Clown.

“So that shirt,” he says, glancing at my chest again. “You said it was your boyfriend’s?”

Just the mere mention of Nevada makes my chest squeeze, like he’s this sacred entity only I’m allowed to mention. “Uh huh. Why?”

“Just wondering if I’m going to get shoved up against a locker for talking to someone’s girl.”

“This isn’t some John Hughes movie,” I say. “No one’s going to shove you up against a locker. I mean, unless you’re being a shit. Then they might. And in that case you’d probably deserve it.”

Griffin lifts his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s take it down a notch. What’s with the attitude?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, dragging in a breath of disgusting cafeteria air. I don’t want to be here. Senior year without Nev is going to be tough. There’s definitely a void here, without him. A nagging emptiness. A little less life in these halls. It’s just … different. And it puts me in the worst mood. “It’s complicated.”

“You’re what, seventeen? Eighteen?” he asks. “How complicated could your life be?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Griffin slams the rest of his cheeseburger down. “You’re something else, Yardley. You know that?”

I lift a brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Some people have real problems. That’s all I’m saying. Unless you’re homeless or dying, you might want to be a little less sulky princess and a little more grateful.”

I admit I’m throwing myself a pity party. And I admit he has a point. But he also has a lot of nerve to talk to a complete stranger that way.

“It’s all relative,” I say. “Problems are, that is.”

Griffin pulls in a deep breath, his hazel stare heavy. “Yeah. I guess.”

Returning to his meal, he eats with a little less vigor this time, and I take a moment to reflect on what it was like to be the new kid not so long ago.

“What class do you have after this?” I ask.

“Creative Drawing II,” he says. “You?”

“Ha. Same.” I glance at his hands, eyeing the same kind of calloused spot on his finger that I have from years of using graphite pencils.

“Lucky you.” He opens his milk carton. Two percent. Yuck.

“More like lucky you.”

“That’s the best you’ve got?” He laughs. “Yardley, hang with me and I’ll teach you the way of my people. We really need to work on your comeback game. It’s an art, really.”

The bell rings, and I gather my things, slinging my bag over my right shoulder before grabbing my tray. Griffin follows suit and by the time we finish dumping what remains of our food, we’re walking side by side toward the art corridor.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Langsinger has introduced Griffin Gaines to the class and assigned him a spot next to me where my friend, Lexie, usually sits.

Lucky me.

Mrs. L places a vase and a few fake pieces of fruit in front of us and tells us we’re doing still life drawings today, and within a minute she’s back at her desk checking emails as per usual. One of the students behind me asks if we can listen to the radio and then tunes it to a local classic rock station that happens to be playing Kashmir.

I’m in a constant state of missing Nevada, but sometimes I’m washed in waves of sadness so strong they take my breath away. Bryony would say I’m being dramatic, but I can’t deny the way that I feel. The emotions are too strong.

My eyes water, my chest hurts.

The room spins, I forget to breathe.

I physically miss him with every part of me.

Griffin hums along to the song, but just barely, and his head tilts to the side as his pencil glides across the paper. He forms the outlines first, then begins shading the vase. He’s good from what I can tell. Better than me, honestly.

“You like Led Zeppelin?” I ask.

“Like?” He turns to me, tugging on his knit cap. I realize I have no idea what color his hair is. I’m guessing something sandy. “No, no, no. Love. I love them.”

I smile. “So does Nevada.”

“Nah-who?”

“Nevada. My boyfriend,” I say.

“Please tell me you’re not one of those people who constantly feel the need to fit the word boyfriend into every sentence,” he says. “I’m about to lose all respect for you if you are.”

I frown. It isn’t intentional … he’s always on my mind. I can’t help it if I work him into conversations. Sighing, I tell myself it’s going to be a long year if I keep this up. I need to pull myself together, put on my big girl panties, and handle this exactly the way I planned—with dignity and patience and a positive attitude.

“Where is your boyfriend anyway?” he asks. “Does he go here?”

“Away. At college. He plays basketball for Grove State.” I sketch a plastic pear, but it looks more like a malformed apple. I’m normally better than this, so I’m not sure what the deal is.

“Ah, see, now you’re just bragging,” Griffin says, jutting his elbow into my side.

Shaking my head, I say, “Not bragging. Just answering your question. You asked where he is. He’s off at college playing basketball.”

“But you name dropped. Grove State is the shit right now. That’s thee hottest school in the eastern division.”

“I’m proud of him, that’s all.”

He’s almost finished shading in the top of his vase when he places his pencil down and turns to me. “So you’re that girl. The one pining away while her boyfriend’s off at college. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it almost never works out.”

Says my friend, Lexie, and the rest of the world. He doesn’t need to remind me.

“Yeah, well we’re different,” I say. “What we have is different.”

I know how I sound, but I speak the truth.

Griffin chuckles, sticking his pencil behind his ear and ripping his paper in half for some insane reason. It was perfect, and now he’s destroying it so he can start fresh.

He’s crazy. Certifiably.

“Why are you doing that?” I ask. “It was good.”

“I want to start over.” He crinkles the paper into a ball and shoots it into a trash can across the classroom. “I didn’t like the perspective on it. Or the shading. Wasn’t realistic enough for me.” He grabs another sheet of paper and begins again, only this time I can’t help but notice him glancing past the still life arrangement toward the table in the corner. “Hey, who’s that redhead over there? In the blue shirt?”

“Cassidy Madden,” I say.

“She single?”

I roll my eyes.

“What?” he asks.

“Such a guy,” I say.

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks. “Is she nice? What do you know about her?”

“She’s nice enough,” I say. We don’t travel in the same social circles. “She’s a cheerleader.”

“Ew. Pass.” Griffin studies the vase. “I should’ve known. She’s got a freaking satin ribbon in her ponytail. She’s pretty though.”

“There are lots of pretty girls at this school,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, turning to me. “I see that.”