Page 2 of Give You Up

“Will you be back tomorrow? My daughter would love to hear more.”

I give her an apologetic smile. “Today’s our last. I hope your daughter looks into DU more. Thanks again.”

I move out of the line and make my way to Gunner. His attention drops to the napkin in my hand. Understanding his dad well for a five-year-old, Gunner hops off the bench and tips up his face. I dab at the blue flavoring.

“Clean. Dad will be happy.” I plant a kiss on Gunner’s forehead. His tongue and lips can be stained blue, but not his face. Beau Huntington adores his only son’s face and would rather perfection remain flawless. His words.

“Syn?”

“Yes, kiddo?” I mirror his whisper.

“That guy’s giving you a mean look.”

They’re looking at you. They’re staring. Why do they stare? Why do they look?That is what Gunner said when we made the dumb mistake of going past the shaved ice shack and into town. With as progressive as the world has become and the progress women have made with regards to their bodies, face piercings and sleeve tattoos should not be an issue.

I was wrong. The people that live in or visit Bayside are conservative, stuffy, and snobby. They peered down their noses at me. Gave me a wide berth. Looked at Gunner with wonder and me with disdain as though I am a troublemaker undeserving of my baby brother’s angelic face.

We didn’t go back into town after that.

I straighten and look where Gunner is looking. It’s the couple who was behind me in line. She is beautiful, a slim, tall redhead who looks great in a strapless blue-and-yellow dress. Put that same dress on me and I would be mistaken for a teenage boy, with my straight-as-a-board body, nonexistent breasts, and short hair.

My attention swings to the guy next to her. His eyes lock with mine, and I suck in a quiet breath, never imagining that in a million years, I would run into my ex-boyfriend in front of a frigging shaved ice shack.

Taron Vaughn. Eyes so dark it’s like staring up at the starless night sky. Hair the shade of my favorite hour—midnight. I haven’t seen him in four years, and he is taller, more muscular, and from how he fills out his simple white T-shirt and jeans, more man than boy.

His gaze bores into mine. Unspoken questions hang in the air between us as this palpable crackling of electricity, like lightning in a heat storm. Gunner slides his hand in mine. The woman with Taron sets her hand on his arm.

He and I continue to look at one another. We are adversaries wondering what the hell is wrong with the universe that it put us here. Wrong place, wrong time. Or right place, wrong time? One thing I am certain of, this is not the time or the place for catching up.

Without a word to him, I hurry Gunner out of there. From the looks of it, Taron has moved on with his life, and . . . I glance down at the boy staring up at me with questions on his cute-as-a-pie face, I’ve moved on too.

Then why is my heart breaking all over again like it did when I kissed a boy who wasn’t Taron?

2

Taron

Two months later . . .

The bass is thumping. The drinks are flowing. The girls are decked out in short shorts and skimpy tops. They come up to us guys with flirty smiles, not being shy with their caresses or the way they lean their luscious bodies against ours, making sure to rub their tits on us as they do so.

Man, these girls are forward, and I am expecting nothing less. Girls cruise these jock-filled parties for one reason—the chance to sink their nails into their next meal ticket. The guys come for something other than free booze. They are here for easy game.

It’s an overgeneralization I am not proud of, but from past experience, it’s what I see happening time and time again. I scan the crowded house, and seeing one of my roommates, I raise my red Solo cup, grateful he and Jordan are throwing me a welcome party before school starts in a week.

Andy acknowledges me with a nod. Hooking my thumb on the pocket of my jeans, I take in more of the partygoers, not seeing who I transferred from Stanford to Dumas University for. Five-foot-five, white-blonde hair, slate gray–blue eyes, inked, pierced.

Shit, seeing Syn again after years of nothing from her, and with that kid, my hate for her grew to an unbearable level even as my curiosity shot through the roof. Since she left me standing in the hallway of our old high school, in shock at seeing her swapping spit with a dude on the baseball team, I have wanted a piece of her.

Most of all, there are secrets of hers to unearth.

Where’d she move to? Why did she ghost me? Why the fuck did she cheat on me with that douchebag, Grady? Was I not good enough? How could she get pregnant with Grady’s kid?

Syn’s mom showed up at our house, claiming Syn got knocked up and could we do her a solid and help Syn financially?

What the fuck? That’s what I had said. Mom gave me a disapproving look for the f-bomb. Dad got all paranoid, reminding me to glove up every time. The tips of my ears heated having that discussion in front of my mom. And after they dropped that proverbial bomb? I went looking for Syn, and guess what the fuck? She disappeared.

The house she lived in with her mom? Empty. How does shit like that go down with the snap of a finger? Who scrams that fast?People with secrets. A few weeks later, Mom showed me Syn’s mother’s obituary.

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