Left Field Love
: Chapter 8

The damp paper towel helps, but my face still feels sweaty and gross even after I’ve wiped it repeatedly. Glancing at the clock above the sink, I ball up the paper towel and toss it into the trash.

Landry High requires students to take one semester of gym each year, and that we do fitness tests as part of the curriculum. I didn’t need to wheeze around the track four times to know I’m not in the best of shape. I prefer to let the horse do the running, and I don’t exactly build up much cardio endurance hauling hay bales.

To make matters worse, I had to watch all the other seniors with the unfortunate fate of having gym second semester—including Madison and Caleb—jog around the football field effortlessly.

With one last anxious glance at the clock, I leave the locker room and hurry in the direction of the newsroom. Andrew hates when we’re late.

Instead of the usual hustle and bustle, I’m met with complete and utter silence when I walk inside. No one has moved from their desk to the center of the room where we usually hold our meetings.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out why.

“What are you doing here?”

Both Caleb and Andrew turn at the sound of my voice. Andrew looks relieved; Caleb amused.

“Did you get lost, Lennon?” he asks me, smirking. “Been waiting a while.”

“Gym ended ten minutes ago,” I reply. “You couldn’t have been waiting that long. And I’m guessing you spent most of that time trying to replace the newsroom.”

Caleb makes a show of glancing around the small, sparsely furnished room. “At least there was a sign on the door. Otherwise, I might have confused this with a janitor’s closet.”

“Feel free to tell the school committee they should reallocate some of the athletic department’s funds, and we’ll redecorate.”

Caleb grins. “Nah, on second thought, I like it. Very minimalistic.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble replaceing your way out. The door is two feet from you and marked Exit.”

I can tell from the way Andrew opens and closes his mouth twice he would love to rebuke me for directing that comment at the subject of our biggest story.

Caleb appears completely at ease as he strolls toward me. I’m painfully aware every member of the paper is tracking his movements.

There’s a reason we were relegated to a room in the far corner of the school. People who are not on the paper do not just stop by the newsroom.

Especially not popular people.

Especially not Caleb Winters.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss as he leans against my desk and studies the clippings from past articles I have posted. “You can’t just show up in the newsroom!”

“You showed up at my practice.”

“That was different!” I protest.

“How?”

“It…just was!” It’s far from a compelling reason, but it’s all I can come up with.

The corner of Caleb’s mouth curls up. I wait for him to pounce on the inadequacy of my response, but instead he changes the subject. “You’re avoiding me.”

“No, I’m not.” It’s my automatic reaction to disagree with anything he says, but in this case, he’s right. I am avoiding him. The only time we’ve spoken since his grandfather’s funeral was forty minutes ago when he asked me if it was my first time running.

Unfortunately, I think his own pace was fast enough he missed seeing the gesture I responded with.

Caleb is obviously expecting my denial, because he speaks before I’ve stopped. “Yes, you are.” His voice is confident. “Because of what happened at my grandfather’s funeral.”

Julie’s desk is closest to the door—closest to us—and she loses the battle pretending like she’s not listening to our conversation. Her head jerks toward us involuntarily, before she catches herself and quickly looks back at the computer screen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I hoped—thought, expected—the weird moment we shared on Sunday would be easily forgotten.

“Why haven’t we met about the article?” Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. The move makes his biceps bulge, and I have to swallow twice before I can answer.

“I was giving you some…time,” I reply, in what I hope is a tactful way.

“I don’t need time.” Caleb glances at Julie. “Hey, do you have a pen?” he inquires.

“Uh, yeah…sure…here,” she stutters, handing a blue ballpoint to him.

Caleb smiles at her. “Thanks…”

“Julie,” she supplies.

His grin widens. “Nice to meet you, Julie. Any guys give you trouble, be sure to sic Matthews here on them. I can tell you from personal experience she’ll—”

“Caleb!” I snap.

Caleb smiles as he grabs a sticky note off the desk and jots something down on it using Julie’s pen. “Call me when you’re free tonight,” he says, handing me the fluorescent square of paper. “I have practice until six. We can meet up after that.”

I glance down at the series of numbers. Caleb hands Julie her pen and heads for the door. He turns back around right as he’s about to reach it. “Bring your English stuff too,” he calls. “We can work on the project.”

“What was that?” Julie asks me as soon as the door swings shut behind Caleb.

“That was Caleb Winters,” I say sourly, dropping into my swivel chair.

Julie rolls her eyes. “I know. What I don’t know is why—”

“Lennon! Would it have killed you to be nicer to Caleb?” Andrew appears alongside my desk, looking annoyed.

“Yes. It actually might have.”

Andrew shoots me a sharp look. “Please do not do anything to mess this up, Lennon. I already told the printer to double our order for next month’s issue, before… If Caleb is still willing to do the article but you mess it up and we have to lead with Steve’s story about the new running track—we’re going to end up with a lot of wasted paper.”

I sigh. “I’m not making any promises. But if it makes you feel any better, Caleb still seems set on doing the article. If nothing I’ve said to him so far has dissuaded him, I seriously doubt he’s going to change his mind now.”

“That does not make me feel any better,” Andrew replies, which is probably fair.

“Look, I’m apparently meeting him tonight—” I grit my teeth in annoyance. “So I’ll have a draft ready for you next week, all right?”

“Fine.” Andrew lets out a long-suffering sigh, sounding more like a sixty-year-old than a high school senior.

I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “You insisted I do this, remember?”

“He said he’d do it with you, or no one else,” Andrew replies. “What was I supposed to do, Lennon?”

Andrew may act like he runs a global news organization rather than just a small school paper, but he did what any reasonable editor would to ensure a good story. He didn’t have a choice, but I did.

I could have gotten out of this, and I didn’t.

There’s nothing worse than realizing the person you should really be angry with is yourself. Because I didn’t take the out when Caleb offered it. Because I have been avoiding him since his grandfather’s funeral last weekend.

“The article will be fine, okay? Good. Great, even.”

Andrew eyes me dubiously, but nods. “Okay.”

He heads toward the center of the room, where the rest of the staff has already begun to assemble for the meeting. I grab a notebook and follow.

“Happy Hump Day!” Andrew calls out, falling comfortably into his favorite role: overseer of everything.

“I thought you said good reporters don’t make sexual references,” Joe Watkins replies with a cheeky grin. Out of everyone on the paper, he’s probably my favorite peer. Mostly because he seems to enjoy teasing Andrew about how seriously he takes his role almost as much as I do.

“My mistake. I thought I was dealing with near adults, not with reporters who have the maturity level of middle schoolers,” Andrew retorts.

“You should probably start calling me Mr. Watkins, then,” Joe informs him. “Treat people the way you want them to act, and all.” That comment draws a few guffaws from the rest of us.

Andrew exhales deeply. “Joe, you can go first.”

Joe leans back in his chair and crosses his ankles. “I’m working on a piece detailing the two new courses they’re adding in the fall. One is a medieval history class I would actually take if I was still going to be here. The other is some super advanced chemistry for the nerds who already made it through regular and advanced. Don’t expect any details on it because I didn’t understand a word of what Mr. Johnson said when he explained what the course would cover. Should make a splash on the fourth page.”

Andrew lets out another long sigh, but the rest of us are all grinning. “Great. Just avoid using the word ‘nerd’ in your article, all right? We’re trying to foster an inclusive atmosphere and demonstrate the academic rigor our curriculum offers.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud, and I’m not the only one. I have no idea where Andrew comes up with this stuff. He must read the school handbook for material.

“Sure thing, boss,” Joe replies, adding a mock salute for effect.

“Steve, what about the running track?” Andrew asks.

I tune out the next few article updates in favor of worrying about tonight. So, it’s fitting when Andrew reaches me and I have no idea what we’re talking about.

“We already know how Lennon’s article is going,” he states dryly.

I roll my eyes.

“I totally thought people were exaggerating about you and Winters,” Joe comments.

“What do you mean, exaggerating?”

Joe shrugs. “People talk, is all.”

I’m no longer replaceing Joe’s commentary amusing.

“Julie, what’s the running track update?” Andrew asks.

“On time and on budget,” she reports. “It’s going to be a struggle to write a thousand words on it, to be honest.”

“Finish the draft,” Andrew instructs. “And then let’s see if we can add a new angle to it. There’s talk of a new auditorium. Maybe we can get a quote from Principal Owens on that.”

Julie nods.

Our meeting lasts another twenty minutes. I rush out of the newsroom as soon as it ends, eager to avoid any conversations about the entertainment Caleb and I provided prior to the meeting.

The truck is missing when I finish the trek around the barn, indicating Gramps is at one of his two local haunts: the racetrack or the post office.

Rather than start with my chores the way I ordinarily would, I decide to go for a ride first to burn off some of the nervous energy fizzing inside me.

After dropping my backpack in the kitchen and getting changed, I head into the barn. Eat My Dust, better known as Dusty, whinnies when I head to her stall first.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur, rubbing the soft hair directly beneath her forelock. She nudges against me, soaking up the attention. “You ready to run?”

Dusty’s warm breath saturates the fabric of my fleece jacket as she continues to nuzzle me, looking for treats.

I grab her halter from its hook and slip it on, before leading her out into the shavings-strewn aisle. Dusty tosses her head impatiently after I clip on the crossties, eager to get outside. I tack her up quickly; my fingers so well-trained they move through the familiar motions without requiring any thought.

I lead Dusty outside, over to the empty water bucket propped upside down for this very purpose. I balance on it and swing my right leg over her broad back, then shove both feet into the stirrups. She dances beneath me as I settle in the saddle, my knees bent forward to compensate for the short stirrups. I keep a tight grip on the reins, but not to guide her. She knows the route to the training track as well as I do.

Dusty’s literally champing at the bit. The leather reins dig into my palms as she makes her impatience with the slow pace clear.

“Easy, girl,” I murmur as we cross the driveway.

The training track is nothing more than an oval stretch of dirt, but it serves its intended purpose. It used to be surrounded with fencing, but most of the rails have sagged, giving it a forlorn, tired appearance. Not that the energetic horse snorting excitedly beneath me minds. The starting marker is still standing. I guide Dusty over to it as I rise into a crouch over her black mane, making sure I’m balanced evenly over her withers.

I watch Dusty’s muscles ripple and tense beneath me as I tug her to a stop. I ensure the reins are taut and weave my fingers into the fine strands of her mane.

Then, I let her fly.

I lost track of how many times I’ve ridden a horse a long time ago. My mother returned to Landry while she was pregnant with me. Living on Matthews Farm is all I’ve ever known. I remember the day Dusty was born ten years ago. I remember watching her place second in our last season as a working farm, back when we still had the money for trainers and jockeys and grooms and entrance fees. Horse racing’s an expensive business.

No matter how many times I do this, the thrill is just as spectacular. There’s nothing in the world quite like it.

My eyes tear with water.

My thighs burn from the effort of holding upright and still.

My skin prickles as chilly wind sneaks underneath my fleece and combs through my hair.

Any discomfort fades from my mind as I look down at Dusty’s loping strides eating up the sandy dirt. The familiar scenery of Matthews Farm flashes by in a blur of color.

I may not have a lot of things, but I have this.

The rest of my chores drag. Partly because I don’t have my usual ride to look forward to after they’re finished. But mostly because I’m overflowing with apprehension about seeing Caleb tonight.

I finish feeding the stallions their dinner, and head inside. Gramps is back from his outing. I head to the kitchen sink first to wash the grime off my hands. Gramps leans over to kiss the top of my head as he pokes at what I think is soup on the stove.

“Good day?” he asks as I dry my hands on the threadbare towel hanging on the stove door.

“It was fine,” I respond. “Newspaper meeting ran long. I’ve got a new article to finish for the next issue.”

“Oh, really?” Gramps frowns at the bubbling liquid he’s stirring.

“Uh-huh,” I confirm, brushing past him to grab two bowls from the kitchen cabinet.

“What’s the article about?”

I sigh. “Baseball. It’s an interview with Caleb Winters.”

“They assigned that to you?” Gramps raises his grizzled eyebrows in surprise. He’s well aware of my distaste for both the sport and the boy.

“Yes.”

“Huh,” is all Gramps says at first. “Might be good for you, Lennie. A chance to branch out.”

It’s exactly what I expect him to say. Gramps is a perennial optimist. Part of why I’m such a pessimist. Together, we represent some semblance of actual reality.

“I guess. I don’t have a choice, really. I need to stay on the school paper if I want to work for the Gazette.”

Gramps purses his lips, the same way he does every time the topic of my fall plans comes up. “Dinner is ready. You ready to eat now?”

“Yeah, I am.” I hesitate. “I have to meet Caleb for the interview tonight.”

Gramps does a remarkable job of hiding his surprise. Me meeting a boy at night? Even for a school assignment? Unheard of. “Well then, let’s eat.”

“What are we having?” I ask, a little apprehensively.

Gramps chuckles. “Potato soup.”

Well, that explains the unappetizing color, I guess. I ladle some soup in one bowl and give it a tentative sniff. Not bad.

Before Gramps injured his hip last year, we used to share in the barn and household chores. Now that he’s significantly less mobile, I’ve almost entirely taken over caring for the horses, leaving Gramps to handle the cooking and cleaning, for the most part. It’s far from a perfect set-up but we’ve managed to make it work.

As soon as we finish dinner, I take a shower and change into clean clothes. Hair still dripping, I pull out my phone. Caleb said to call. So, in a small attempt at revolution, I text the number I memorized instead of paying attention during the paper meeting.

Lennon: Free whenever.

Immediately, I second-guess my choice of words. But before I have time to overanalyze for too long, he replies.

Caleb: I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.

I didn’t expect him to respond so quickly. Or at all.

I rush downstairs.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to head out,” I tell Gramps, grabbing my backpack from the corner of the kitchen where I dropped it earlier. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Gramps is in the middle of loading the dishwasher, but I’m sure he’ll be retiring to the living room and a baseball game within minutes. I’d be surprised if he’s not asleep in the next hour.

“Okay, Lennie,” Gramps replies. “Have fun.” There’s a teasing lilt to his words, and I’m tempted to roll my eyes in response before heading out the front door.

The wind has died down. It’s not as cold outside as I braced myself for, especially with wet hair. I hurry down the dirt driveway, skirting around potholes that make the truck’s suspension groan every time it leaves the property. I make it to the end of the driveway before any headlights come into sight, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach our faded green mailbox before the ten minutes have passed.

I’m not ashamed of the ramshackle property, although most people probably would be. But Caleb setting so much as a foot on Matthews Farm feels too intimate. Too personal.

Caleb was right earlier. I have been avoiding him. I am freaked out about the moment that transpired between us at his grandfather’s funeral.

Headlights appear.

Nerves knot in my stomach as the window of the shiny black truck rolls down. “Were you planning to walk, Matthews?” Caleb asks.

“Just trying to speed things along,” I reply, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat. His car smells brand-new, and the soft leather seat feels like sinking into a cloud. I expect there to be junk food wrappers and baseball equipment strewn about, but the interior is immaculate.

“You’d rather walk down your driveway in the dark than spend an extra two minutes with me?”

“You said it, not me,” I say as I snap my seatbelt. “And…you’re the one going out of your way. I figured it was the least I could do.”

I say the words as a peace offering, but they’re true. I’m not used to other people taking care of me. Helping me.

He seems to hear the honesty in my voice, because his turns serious. “It’s not a problem.”

The quiet crooning of a country song about a broken heart serves as our soundtrack for the five-minute trip from my house to his.

The Winters’ estate is just as striking at night as it was during daylight when I was here on Sunday for the funeral, maybe even more so. The main house is entirely lit up, illuminating the sprawling yard and immaculate landscaping. It looks even larger empty, without crowds milling about.

Caleb parks right in front of the mansion, then climbs out and heads straight for the stairs that lead up to the porch. After about twenty feet, he glances back and realizes I’m not following him.

He says nothing, just arches an eyebrow.

I blow out a breath, well aware he’ll probably make fun of me for this. As far as I know, Caleb is about as interested in horses as I am in baseball. But I’ll never be back here. This will be my one chance to see Kentucky’s most famous stable.

“Can we—can we look inside?” I ask, nodding toward the huge barn.

Both eyebrows rise now. “You want to go in the barn?”

“Yeah. Just for a minute?”

He shrugs. “Okay. Sure.”

Caleb veers left, heading toward the looming structure that houses the horses that have won a majority of the Landry Cups over the last decade or so.

Soft lights glow all around the exterior of the barn, showing off the clean concrete that surrounds it. Caleb approaches a small side door tucked next to the massive sliding one and types a code into the keypad attached to white siding. A light flashes green and he pulls the door open, gesturing for me to walk inside first.

I mutter a “thanks” before stepping into the barn. Being cordial toward Caleb—Caleb being cordial toward me—still feels strange.

Automatic lights flicker on as I enter what turns out to be a kitchen filled with shiny appliances and granite countertops.

Not what I was expecting.

Almost everyone in Landry has obscene amounts of money. The Winters family has the most, so it shouldn’t surprise me that this is the nicest kitchen I’ve ever been inside.

But it’s in a barn, which is unexpected.

“Through here,” Caleb says, not bothering to stop and admire the spotless kitchen the way I am.

The next door leads into the center aisle of the stable. More lights flicker overhead.

It’s exactly what I expect, and nothing like it.

There are familiar elements. It smells like hay and horses and liniment and pine and leather, same as every other barn I’ve been inside. But there’s no dust or manure or even a stray shaving.

The black rubber mats that run down the center of the aisle look like they’ve been freshly vacuumed. Unlike the worn, chewed walls that enclose our horses, every horse here has a stall that’s constructed from a mixture of black iron and mahogany wood.

The entrance to each stall reaches about four feet high, allowing the horse to stick its head out into the aisle. On either side of the door, wrought iron slopes up gradually, creating a “U” shape that frames the front of each stall. To the right of each door hangs a leather halter and a golden nameplate.

The only sound aside from our footfalls on the rubber is the quiet munching of hay. A few horses duck their heads out of their stalls, but most of them just continue eating their dinner, unbothered by our visit.

The stalls seem to stretch endlessly, even though I know they must end eventually. Occasionally, I think I feel Caleb’s eyes on me, but every time I glance over he’s focused on the barn.

Finally, the stalls stop, transitioning into a grooming and bathing area filled with fancy equipment and racks of brushes. I halt but Caleb keeps walking, heading toward a massive sliding door just past a shelf filled with shampoo and bug spray.

“There’s more?” I ask. I haven’t been counting, but we’ve already passed dozens of stalls.

“I thought you’d want to see the stallions.” Caleb slides the wooden door open, exposing a cement hallway that veers abruptly to the left. As we walk down the hall, snorts and stamps sound.

The stalls down here are bigger, allowing the massive horses more space to pace. Eight heads pop out into the aisle, pricked ears and proud profiles appearing left and right.

A huge, coal black stallion whinnies, straightening the elegant slope of his neck as he shakes his thick mane. Caleb approaches the horse and begins stroking the skinny white blaze that runs down the center of its wide face.

I take a step toward the stall, trying to see the horse’s name plate. The stallion snorts, eyeing me suspiciously. There’s a wild savagery and a barely-restrained power that’s captivating to witness.

“This is Grand Slam.”

“Last year’s Landry Cup winner.”

“Yeah.” Caleb’s hand moves lower, stroking the rippling muscles of Grand Slam’s neck. “He’s mine now, technically.”

“Your grandfather…”

“Yeah.”

“You named him?”

“It was between Grand Slam or Babe Ruth,” Caleb replies.

I smile. “Of course.” I study the majestic animal. He must be close to seventeen hands. “It suits him. He’s handsome.”

“He’s handsome, but I’m just hot? That’s cold, Matthews,” Caleb teases.

I roll my eyes. “I knew you were going to replace some way to bring that up again,” I mutter, moving on to the next stall.

This stallion’s not as skittish as Grand Slam was, and he lets me stroke his neck for a couple of minutes before I turn back around and we head back into the main section of the barn.

“Thanks,” I tell him, about halfway down the aisle.

“For what?”

“For showing me around.”

“You’re big into horses, huh?”

I glance over at him, eyebrows raised. “You are aware we live in Horsetown, USA, right?”

“Yeah. But you can live somewhere and not subscribe to everything it stands for,” Caleb responds. My steps slow as his words register. I’m not sure we’re still talking about horses.

“Well, you didn’t grow up here,” I remind him. “It’s different when it’s all you’ve ever known.”

“Meaning you wouldn’t like horses if you hadn’t grown up here?”

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly.

“Your grandfather doesn’t race them anymore, though.”

I’m surprised he knows that. Based on Caleb’s low level of involvement in his own family’s horses, I wasn’t expecting him to know anything about my family’s. “Uh, yeah. He stopped racing after…” I clear my throat. “He just decided it was time.”

“But he kept all the horses? That’s a lot of work for…well, nothing back.”

I scoff, well aware of exactly how much work it is. “It’s not nothing,” I reply, miffed. “We still breed them. They’ve all got championship bloodlines. And I ride them… sometimes.”

We emerge outside. The night air feels especially chilly after being in the warm barn.

I pull my jacket tighter to keep any wind from sneaking underneath. “Simon gave me some questions. There’s only ten, so it shouldn’t take long to get through them. That should give me enough for the article. Andrew can’t wait to get my draft, especially after your unexpected visit earlier.” I emphasize the last three words. “Thanks for that, by the way. Andrew’s convinced I’ll scare you off and we’ll have to lead with a story on the running track that no one will read.”

There’s a pause before Caleb replies. I play with the zipper on my coat, wondering when I started feeling nervous around him, instead of annoyed. Has this giddiness always been there, hidden beneath irritation? Or is it new?

“You should take that as a compliment,” he finally says. “Not much scares me.”

“You’re saying I scare you?”

“You pack a hell of a punch, Matthews.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. As tempted as I’ve been on multiple occasions, I’ve never actually hit Caleb.

“It means you tell it like it is. Not many people do, or want to have to confront it. Why do you think people act so nervous around you?”

“Because my mother gambled away all our money, made some questionable choices when it came to men, and then dropped dead out of nowhere. Then, my absentee father felt some misguided sense of obligation, so he returned, only to overdose at the racetrack when parenting became too much for him,” I say, summarizing my messy past succinctly.

Caleb lets out a short, surprised laugh, and then quickly glances over at me, like he’s worried his amusement at the expense of my parents’ demons will offend me.

“I, uh, I didn’t know the details,” he says.

He’s lying.

My mother died when I was in sixth grade; my father the summer before I started high school.

It feels like a long time ago—it was a long time ago—but the drama surrounding my parents is far too juicy not to be still gossiped about regularly. I’m certain Caleb has heard far worse about my family than what I just shared with him.

“That’s not why people are intimidated by you, Lennon.”

I shoot him a look of disbelief as we climb the front stairs to his house. “You’re joking, right? That’s all people care about.”

“No, I mean it,” Caleb insists. “I never see you talk to anyone at school besides that new girl…”

“Cassie,” I supply.

“Right, Cassie,” Caleb agrees quickly, probably worried I’m going to lecture him about remembering girls’ names again. “I’m just saying, if you opened up a little… Some people might surprise you.”

It’s remarkably similar to what Cassie said before Marcus’s party, but I’m more willing to believe Caleb on this. Given our history, I don’t think he’ll sugarcoat anything.

“Some people might.” I stress the first word, because I’m pretty sure I know who we’re talking about. “But most won’t. You walked into homeroom with me, the first day of freshman year. You saw how they all looked at me. I’m still the same person I was then.”

“Maybe other people aren’t.” Caleb holds open yet another door for me—this time the imposing black one that marks the entrance to the house.

I step inside the front foyer and open my mouth, ready to respond. I close it again when a stunning blonde woman appears in front of us.

“Caleb, where have you been?” she asks, patting the elaborate twist her hair is pulled back in. “I texted you three times. You were supposed to look over the color schemes for your graduation party.”

“I was at Colt’s. Then picked up Lennon,” Caleb replies. “You can choose whatever colors you want, Mom.”

Mrs. Winters fixes her gaze on me. I experience the uncomfortable sensation of being closely scrutinized and found lacking. “You’re the Matthews girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Winters, I’m Lennon Matthews,” I reply. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You didn’t mention you were having a visitor tonight, Caleb.”

I mimic Mrs. Winters’s cool indifference. “Caleb and I have a school project to work on.”

Caleb’s mother looks relieved to hear I’m here on a strictly academic basis. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She sweeps out of the front entryway as dramatically as she appeared.

“I feel surprised,” I tell Caleb.

He grins. “Yeah, my mom is probably not the best example. She tried to acclimate to living here by becoming the snobbiest snob of them all.”

Caleb walks toward the central staircase. I trail behind him, registering the inside of the house for the first time. It’s similar to the minimalist exterior of the house but paired with polar contrasts. The ivory walls meld into ebony floorboards. The floors are dotted with woven rugs, and the white painted plaster is covered with black-and-white framed photographs.

Once we reach the top of the stairs, Caleb turns right, leading me down a long hallway. It has a similar color scheme, interrupted by the occasional flash of color. An oil painting of the Tuscan countryside here, a vase of blue hydrangeas there. Finally, Caleb pushes open a door at the end of the hall.

I let out a low whistle as I walk inside. “Ran out of money to pay the interior decorator?”

His chuckle vibrates in my chest, low and husky. “Decorating my own room was a bribe for moving here.”

After the carefully matched, neutral tones in the rest of the house, Caleb’s room is an assault to the eyes. The walls are painted an outrageous shade of red; one that reminds me of expensive sports cars or outlandish flowers. The bold color is mostly covered by posters depicting various logos, bands, and baseball players. Lots and lots of baseball players.

There’s a massive four-poster bed in the center of the room, pushed up against the wall between two windows that are exposed to the exterior of the house. A desk sits to the right, and a dresser to the left. Just past the dresser, there’s a door that I can see leads to an attached bathroom.

“You did a great job,” I tell Caleb dryly, dropping my heavy backpack down next to his desk.

Caleb disregards the sarcasm in my voice. “Thanks.” He drops down on the bench at the end of the massive bed, so I take a seat at his desk.

It doesn’t take long to run through the questions Simon gave me. Caleb answers them seriously, and in a manner that tells me these are the types of questions one is actually supposed to ask in a sports interview. Suggesting Simon should have been the one writing this article all along. But neither of us bring that up.

I take careful notes recording his answers, knowing I won’t remember the baseball jargon otherwise.

After the interview questions are finished, we switch to English. It’s shockingly easy. Past project partners were always content to let me do the bulk of the assignment, but working with Caleb feels like completing a project with a clone of myself.

I even replace myself saying, “Yeah, that’s a great idea.”

Caleb looks at me with shock. “Did you just compliment me?”

I roll my eyes. “I can think you’re smart and an annoying, entitled jock, okay? Plus, you were the one who made certain I knew you’d knocked me out of first in our class.”

He shoots me a triumphant grin that reminds me I hadn’t exactly conceded that fact to him. “You were first?”

“You knew that.”

“You confirmed it.”

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” I retort. “We still have one semester left, and I fully intend to finish first.”

“Game on, Matthews,” Caleb says with a smirk.

By the time we finish outlining our paper, I know we’re way ahead of everyone else in our class. The paper’s not due for another month, and the accompanying presentation is a few weeks after that.

Caleb realizes the same. “We’re basically done,” he tells me. “We can meet again in a couple of weeks.” I wait for the dread to accompany his words, but it doesn’t appear in the pit of my stomach.

“Okay,” I reply.

Silence falls between us. I shut my notebook, then fiddle with the metal spiral.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Caleb asks. His voice is casual, but serious.

In my mind, I’m screaming Absolutely not! Terrible, stupid, dangerous idea. Whatever this strange shift between us is, it won’t end well. For me. Despite living in the same town, Caleb and I are from two very different worlds.

But what comes out is, “Sure.”

Caleb rises from his sprawled position on the bench and walks over to the built-in cabinet directly across from the bed. He opens it to reveal a large flatscreen television, then he walks over and flops down on the lime green comforter that clashes horribly with the red walls.

I hover awkwardly, already regretting agreeing to stay. Caleb appears the picture of ease, tucking one arm behind his head. His sweatshirt rides up, exposing a sliver of skin. A flock of butterflies appears in my stomach, fluttering uncomfortably. Being alone in a bedroom with him suddenly feels like a bad idea for a completely different reason.

“Come on, Matthews.” Caleb pats the bedspread. “Don’t make it weird.”

I inch over to the bed, and finally take a seat on the edge, before lying down on the soft comforter. I make a point to keep as much distance as possible between us, which turns out to be a couple of feet, thanks to the oversized bed.

“Want to watch Frankenstein?” Caleb jokes as he flips through movie titles on the screen.

I scoff. “Pass.”

“What about this?” Caleb asks. I glance at the screen to see he’s pulled up some action thriller.

“Fine,” I say, raising a hand to mask the yawn I can feel coming. Lying down was a bad idea. Every limb of my body suddenly weighs a hundred pounds, sinking down into the foam mattress that’s way more comfortable than my own bed.

Caleb starts the movie. Gunshots and shouts sound from the television’s speakers. It’s not the silence I’m used to falling asleep to, but it doesn’t matter. I’m losing the battle with my eyelids.

I’m too tired to talk.

I’m too tired to insist Caleb drives me home.

I’m too tired to care that falling asleep in Caleb Winters’s bed is a really bad idea.

And then I’m too tired to think at all.