Come Break My Heart Again by C.W. Farnsworth

Chapter Two

Itake my time unbuttoning and unzipping, sliding the pink romper off my torso and down my legs slowly. I’m left in just my bra and underwear.

“Ready, Elle?” Kinsley Jones rounds the row of lockers, already wearing her school-issued gym uniform. She looks surprised to see me mostly undressed rather than ready to depart.

“Almost,” I reply, pulling on the athletic shorts and a sports bra like I’m in slow motion.

“Dreading gym?” Kinsley asks with a sympathetic smile.

Yes. “No, just tired. I was up late working on that English essay.”

I pull a Fernwood Athletics t-shirt on over my head, letting the soft cotton drop into place around my torso.

I’m not the most athletic. My slender frame can mostly be credited to a fast metabolism, not regular exercise. I have a good sense of rhythm and decent coordination, which is the main reason I’m not an embarrassment to the cheer squad.

I’ve never looked forward to gym class. But I’ve never been apprehensive about attending it before.

Not until yesterday, when I learned Ryder James is not only in my first period class, but also my seventh.

“You know it’s only the second day of school, right?” Kinsley teases me. “That essay’s not due until Monday.”

“Yeah, I know,” I confirm. “But I figured Paige’s birthday is probably going to take up most of the weekend.”

Kinsley laughs. “Yeah, that’s probably right.”

We head out into the gymnasium. It was just redone last year, but the scent of old sweat and ammonia hangs in the air, already overwhelming fresh paint, and varnished wood. My dawdling has made us the two final students to join the rest of the class, and Coach Jackson—the leader of our esteemed football team—marks our attendance off with a small shake of his head.

I pay close attention to his instructions for the start of class, mostly to keep my eyes from perusing the rest of the group. Unfortunately, after three years, I already know the second class is always spent completing a fitness test that’s repeated on the final day, so I don’t really need to pay attention.

Sure enough, we’re sent off to the mats already spread across the varnished hardwood to see how many sit-ups we can complete in a minute. I learned a while ago the best way to ensure a good grade in gym is to make sure there’s a healthy gap between the start of the year and end of the year fitness tests. Meaning I barely brush the bounds of exertion.

Unfortunately, not everyone employs that strategy. I—along with almost all of the class—stopped crunching our abs a while ago. But there are still three figures rising and falling from the mat. Ryder, and two of the boys I cheer for every Friday night. Both Steve and Jeff are red-faced and huffing, but Ryder seems unbothered by the exercise. Coach Jackson is surveying his two players with a proud grin, and everyone else is studying the guys as well.

“Do you think Ryder James is hot?” Kinsley whispers to me.

“What?” I reply, way too loudly.

“I know, I know. He’s from the trailer park. And you’re dating King Liam. But he’s cute, right?”

“I guess so.” Maybe miracles do exist because I manage to sound nonchalant.

“Kennedy was going on and on about him on the drive home from practice yesterday. But all’s fair in fighting over a fling, right?” Kinsley grins.

“I guess so,” I choke out. Suddenly, I’m viewing one of my closest friends as an opponent. Scrutinizing her through the lens of someone desperate to find fault. And losing my mind, obviously.

“Out on the track, everyone!”

The display of male prowess has ended, and I missed the outcome. Based on the disgruntled expressions on Steve and Jeff’s faces, I think I know who emerged victorious, though.

It’s just as hot outside today as it was yesterday. August sun is streaming down atop the synthetic rubber that comprises the running track surrounding Fernwood High’s football field. The springy surface feels as though it’s bouncing the hot rays right back up at us as we meander toward the starting line to begin my least favorite part of the fitness test. Running in this heat sounds like something only a masochist would do.

Or a senior not willing to let a mediocre gym grade impact her perfect GPA.

I line up with everyone else, taking care to keep my distance from Ryder. He hasn’t made any attempt to talk to me—hasn’t so much as glanced at me—since our first encounter outside of History yesterday. There were no demeaning dawdling accusations spoken outside of Mr. Anderson’s class this morning. Ryder merely took the same seat four rows behind me and stayed silent throughout the entire Roosevelt lecture.

I can’t decide how I feel about it. Actually, that’s a lie. It bothers me. I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours trying to convince myself it doesn’t, because it shouldn’t. Up until yesterday, I hadn’t seen Ryder James in over two years. So what if we spent most of freshman year sneaking around? I’m a different person now. If I were to take the time to find out, I’m sure he’s a different person now too.

So why am I sneaking glances at Kinsley to see if she’s looking at him?

An excellent question I stop pondering when Coach Blake’s whistle announces it’s time to start running. Just like earlier, I don’t make any attempt to act like I’m a varsity athlete, moving forward at what could generously be described as a jog. Kinsley stays with me despite the fact I know she goes running regularly. She’s a good friend.

Not sure the same could be said for me, since I’ve spent the last five minutes wondering if Ryder would be able to tell she’s a fake blonde. Based on his impatience with fashion yesterday, I’m certain he’d hold some derision for anyone who seeks out artificial chemicals to change their natural hair color.

Probably just wishful thinking on my part.

Four trips around the track, and I look like someone who made an effort, even though I didn’t. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades and gathers in the ribbed hem of the sports bra I’m wearing underneath my t-shirt. Half of my hair has escaped from the ponytail I hastily assembled prior to gym. I yank out the elastic as soon as I catch my breath.

Classmates start to trickle back toward the entrance to the gym, eager to return to air conditioning. I’m not one of them.

“Go ahead,” I urge Kinsley. “I’ve got to talk to Coach Blake about coordinating something with the football team.”

“Okay.” She buys my excuse for lingering readily enough, and I turn, heading in the opposite direction from everyone else. Well, almost everyone. I already heard Coach Blake call out to Ryder to stay behind, which is the only reason I’m choosing to prolong my time surrounded by humid air being slowly baked by the sun.

I approach Coach Blake slowly, keeping my eyes on the lines of the track. There aren’t any scuffs or smears. Straight white line after line marks my progress toward the football coach and the guy I seem incapable of ignoring. Or of allowing to ignore me, rather.

I assumed Coach Blake asked Ryder to remain behind to welcome him back to Fernwood High. Maybe to compliment him on his performance today. I’m not sure how Ryder plans to improve upon it for the final fitness test, but that’s not my problem.

But as I near them, I hear they’re discussing football.

“…just one practice?” Coach Blake is saying. “The team could really use you.”

“I’m not interested,” Ryder states firmly.

Coach Blake sighs, then looks up and spots me.

“Elle? Do you need something?”

“To talk to Ryder.”

I was planning to instigate our conversation a little more subtly, but that’s what comes flying out of my mouth.

Both of Coach Blake’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Interestingly, Ryder does not appear surprised by my request. I ponder what that means as Coach Blake glances back and forth between the two of us.

“All right, then,” he finally says. “Think it over, James.”

The hard set of Ryder’s jaw suggests he has no intention of doing so, but he nods.

One last look between us, and Coach Blake follows the line of students rapidly disappearing inside the gym.

Once again—still—my filter fails me. Before Ryder asks me why I’m instigating this conversation, before I even attempt to set a cordial tone, words stream out.

“I never told anyone about us.”

I drop the words like an anvil. A challenge. An attempt to appear like I’m in complete control when it comes to him.

“Yeah, I figured,” is the casual response. If he’s surprised by my statement, it’s hidden beneath a copious amount of indifference. Well hidden.

“Are you planning to?” I press.

Ryder snorts. “No.”

I was worried he might think I’m ashamed of our past association. Now I’m worried he is.

“Okay, good.”

“Good,” he repeats, moving to walk past me.

The curiosity is too much. “So… where were you?”

He pauses to study me. “Down south.”

“Florida?”

His lower lip quirks. Because I just let slip I kept track of the rumors about his absence?

“Something like that.”

“Why did you leave Fernwood?”

More silent staring. I don’t think he’s going to answer this time. “My brother’s dad took off,” he finally says. We’ve never discussed our respective sets of parents, but I take note of how he says his brother’s father, not his. “My mom—well, she can barely take care of herself. Two of us were too much. My uncle offered to help, and off I went.”

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

“Yeah, I know.” He doesn’t apologize.

“Why did you come back?” Curiosity and accusation mix in my voice.

“I’m old enough to help out now.” But there’s more to it. I can read it in the way he glances away after answering.

“And?”

He meets my gaze again and gives me a wry smile, acknowledging my intuition. “My uncle was mixed up in some shit. It got… messy.”

“By messy, you mean illegal?”

“Maybe,” he admits.

“My mom’s cousin got arrested for selling prescription drugs last year,” I inform him. “He is—or was—a pharmacist.”

Ryder laughs, the first glimmer of any positive emotion when it comes to me. The husky sound warms my chest. “Okay.” His face relaxes into a grin.

“Just in case you thought you had the market cornered on family problems.” I mean the words as a joke, as an attempt to let him know I appreciate him answering my questions when I kind of expected him to just walk away. But I can tell from the way his jaw hardens that’s not how he took them, even before he speaks again.

“Yeah, Elle. Your life looks real tough. Endless sunshine must get exhausting.”

My temper rises to the challenge. “I’ve gotten some burns,” I snap.

I wasn’t sure if Ryder had heard about Sarah yet, but the way his face pales gives me the answer. “Elle, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. We’re in agreement about the past. That’s all I wanted to make sure of.”

I stalk off as quickly as I can without appearing as though I’m angrily running away, even though I absolutely am.

I know my life appears pretty perfect. I know Ryder James is not the only one who thinks so. I also know that in comparison to his life, especially after what he just shared with me, my problems probably look an awful lot like clear skies. Families like mine are often sheltered from storms.

But his words didn’t just sound like a presumption.

They sounded like a judgment.

And for some reason, Ryder James’s judgment bothers me in a way no one else’s ever has.