Page 60 of Just Friends Forever
I take in a breath and look around. I do feel free. I’m energized, I’m undercover, and I’m wearing sweats. What else could I possibly desire?
My eyes fix on Troy.
Wrong answer.
“It feels pretty dang good,” I say. “Now what?”
His eyes jump to a spot behind me, suddenly alert, just as a flash goes off somewhere on the street. “Now we run.” He grabs my hand and starts running, and I’m only a half-step behind him. Not because I’m slower but because this sidewalk isn’t big enough for Troy Sheppard’s shoulders and me to exist side by side.
I suppress the impulse to glance behind me. We’re both wearing hoodies for a reason, and a backward glance will give them exactly the shot they need to prove it’s us.
Troy tugs my hand, pulling me to the left, and we cross the street. Once our feet hit grass again, I can hear the patter of the paparazzo’s feet in pursuit of us. I pick up my pace, squeezing Troy’s hand a bit more tightly.
We approach a group of townhomes, and Troy pulls me onto their small front lawns, then hard left into the little alley between. We hurry through to the street leading to their garages. Troy keeps us hugging those garages until he suddenly pulls us toward one of the side-yards again.
I resist slightly, worrying the paparazzo will be waiting for us in front of the townhomes, but Troy’s hand is insistent, and I surrender.
He’s right. There’s no sign of the paparazzo. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and I’m desperately hoping we are Jerry and the paparazzo is Tom. Tom never won.
We’re nearing the end of the row of townhomes, where it’s open space again until we can cross the street and hope for an accessible backyard or something. I glance down the side-yard between the second-to-last and last set of townhomes. It’s full of recycling bins, and I yank Troy with me.
He only resists for a split-second, and I pull him through the maze, letting go of his hand as I crouch down in the small area between two bins and the townhouse wall. Troy squeezes into the space right next to me.
It’s quiet except for our heavy breathing, which I force through my nose instead of my mouth. It’s dark outside, but Troy’s eyes are alert enough I can see their blue.
Footsteps sound, and we both still, our breathing stopping altogether. I can’t stop my heart, though, and it’s pounding mightily, hopped up on adrenaline. I grab Troy’s hand again. His eyes flick to mine, and my heart flutters, even amidst the possibility of being found by this stalker paparazzo.
It’s wrong of me to feel what I feel for Troy when he has a girlfriend. I’ve only seen Lyla one time, which might be why I’m having a hard time keeping her present in my mind. It’s not like Troy’s constantly texting her or calling her. How serious can they be when they’ve hardly spent any time together since I arrived?
I shut my eyes. Right now, I’m the dictionary definition of justification.
But the way Troy is looking at me… is there something inside him that still wonders what might have happened between us if I hadn’t been such an idiot?
No, Stevie.You were justifying before, and now you’re seeing what you want to see. Back off.
“Is it safe?” I ask in a whisper so soft, it wouldn’t register on the decibel scale.
His eyes squint as he listens for any sound. “Let me check.”
I nod, but he doesn’t move. He stares at me. It’s expectant and intent, with a hint of a question. His gaze shifts down. Is he going to kis—
“Can I have my hand back?” he asks, a tinge of amusement in his voice.
I release it like a bomb about to blow me to smithereens.
“Thanks,” he says, standing and stealth-walking to the edge of the townhome. He looks around, then checks the backside of the townhomes. “Coast is clear.”
“They could be hiding,” I say.
His grin spreads. “Game on.”
The game, I discover, includes hopping another fence. This time, I keep my distance as Troy sails over after me. I can only handle so many close encounters before my integrity crumbles like a dried-up sand castle.
We run in silence, not holding hands this time. Maybe Troy’s afraid I’ll keep his and never give it back.
He stops in the safety of a bougainvillea bush at a corner house. “I think we’ve lost them,” he says between breaths.
“I think so too. Which is great because I’m not a sprinter.”
