Page 53 of Body Shot

“Yeah. It was a stupid thing. We went to this old stadium that was being torn down, him and I and a few other guys. We were skating down the ramps . . . really long, concrete ramps.” I pause, remembering us all egging each other on, how Aidan laughed and showed off and… “He got going so fast, he lost control and crashed. He had a massive head injury.”

There’s so much I’m not telling her. Guilt and shame twist inside me, as they do whenever I think about what happened that day. When I remember seeing him fall. The laughter at his wipeout that turned to deadly silence as we all realized something was wrong. Very wrong. The way his neck was twisted. The blood leaking out of his ear. His limp body.

My mother telling me it was my fault that it happened.

“Oh no.” Her fingers tighten on mine. “Oh, Beck. How old was he?”

“He was fifteen. I was thirteen.” I fight the churning sensation in my gut.

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah. It was.” For so very many reasons, which I am not going to get into. I’m not sure why I even told her that much. Maybe her story about losing her parents made me want to share that I’ve lost someone, too. Aidan was probably the last person I cared about. Until I got to be friends with Marco and Cade.

Normally I’d make a joke about something, to cover up how much I still miss Aidan and the guilt and remorse and self-disgust I feel about his death. But right now I got nothin’.

Hayden’s doorbell rings and we lift our heads. Our eyes meet. I think we’re both relieved at the interruption. I smile and give her hand one last squeeze, then rise off the couch. “Sounds like the food’s here.”

As I walk to the door, I take a few deep breaths, getting control of the emotions that had threatened to boil over during that discussion. That would’ve been great—breaking down in front of Hayden. Jesus. I swipe my forehead as I answer the door.

I pay the delivery kid with cash, mindlessly throwing in a good tip. Hayden carries the bag of food into her kitchen. I join her there a moment later.

“Everything we need.” She hands me a pair of chopsticks. “Even extra hot sauce.”

I arrange my fingers and expertly waggle the chopsticks. “That’s good,” I say. “I like it hot and spicy.”

She grins and gives me my bowl. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The flutter of her eyelashes reveals her reaction. Heh. I like getting a reaction out of her.

We sit on her couch and dig into our meals, eating in silence for a few moments, neither of us resuming our earlier heavy conversation. The song playing from her speakers is “Break on Me.”

“You like Keith Urban?”

“Who?”

I grin. “He’s singing this song. He’s a great guitar player.”

“Oh! I don’t really know much about music.”

“Where’d you get the playlist?”

She shrugs and picks up a shrimp. “It’s a streaming music website. They suggested it.”

“Oh man.” I heave a dramatic sigh. “More things we need to educate you on.”

She pops the shrimp into her mouth, chews, and swallows. “You’re an expert on music?”

“I like music.” I lift one shoulder. “My parents made me take piano lessons when I was a kid.”

Her mouth drops open. “Shut up.”

“No lie. I was actually pretty good, but I really wanted to play guitar. I finally rebelled and quit piano lessons and started guitar. Played in a band in high school and college.”

“No way.”

“Way. Why are you so disbelieving?”

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