Page 47 of My High School Rebel Boyfriend
HARPER
MITCHELL’S LIFE DOESN’Tmake sense to me.
It’s a bit like my life with diabetes—too much sugar can make my diabetes symptoms worse, which could cause serious health problems in the long term.
Yet, sugar is the very thing that will save me during a hypoglycemic attack.
Mitchell’s step-father beats him for random reasons, sometimes for no reason.
And he suffers in silence because he values his mother’s wellbeing more than his own. That’s courage, that’s astounding.
And I have to respect his wishes to keep the secret.
Because I don’t know Wade and what motivates him, and I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a young mom desperate for support and stability for her only child.
It’s heartbreakingly complicated.
MY GYM BAG SWINGS OFFof my arm as I balance my keys and a container of Mom’s salted caramel brownies in my gloved hands. Mitchell’s waiting at the sliding door, a grin on his face as he makes no attempt to help me push my way through into his living room.
“A little help would be nice,” I say, shaking the snow flurries from my jacket.
“I like watching you struggle.” He smirks as he pulls off my beanie, his fingers running through my hair.
His favorite thing,
now my favorite thing.
He pulls me in, keys falling, brownies ignored as his lips find mine, soft, tender, sweet.
A loud clearing of a throat jolts Mitchell out of my reach and the gruff voice of Wade booms, “Thought you’re here to work out.” It causes Mitchell to tense; it’s ingrained in him, but there’s a hint of humor in Wade’s next words. “Your muscles, not your lips,” he snickers, which makes me smile.
You see, he’s making an effort.
Mitchell offered to help me with training and the other day we were in his home gym, me lifting a pair of five pound weights while he lifted the big ones, the fifty pound dumbbells. Wade had come in and instantly Mitchell apologized for us being there and was ready to shuffle me out, but Wade had stopped us, demanding to know what we were doing.
I witnessed Mitchell’s fear with my own eyes and that’s when I stepped in. Naive, innocent, I didn’t know any other way. I told Wade I needed to get stronger, more powerful for my volleyball, and that Mitchell was showing me what to do, that he was taking me through the weight program that he’d started back in eighth grade.
I took Mitchell’s notebook from his hands and put it in front of Wade’s face, every session recorded, the amount lifted, the number of repetitions and sets. Yeah, Mitchell was a bit of a geek when it came to record keeping. Five years of training scribbled down in pen and makeshift columns.
“You’ve kept doing this?” Wade had asked, flicking through the two notebooks that had been stapled together.
“Yep.”
“Every workout?”
“That’s what you told me to do.” Always on the defensive.
Wade had sat down on the bench. He read through the pages. “Look at this, bench press, you started back on thirty pounds.” A chuckle. “Whatcha doin’ now?”
“Uh, usually one forty five.”
Wade nodded and clicked his tongue. It had been hard not to stare at him, his tank top showing off his muscly shoulders and chest, thick neck, ropey veins running down his tattooed and scarred arms. His size was impressive, for sure, and in most circumstances I’d have been intimidated, but I suspected there were issues here beyond my comprehension.
And my heart beat for one boy now, and with naivety comes hope.
“Mitchell said you taught him,” I said, sitting alongside him. I could see Mitchell fretting, wondering what on earth I was doing, wanting to get me out of the place.
“Yeah, he was a skinny wee thing back then.” He laughed, turning more pages.
