“Sawyer?”
She could barely make out his form in the darkness underneath the bleachers, but she recognized his voice. “Cooper?”
“Yeah. You took off like a shot. I tried to catch you, but you disappeared into the crowd.”
“I’m sorry, Cooper, I’m just…” She shook her head, hating the way her words sounded, choked by her tears. “Crazy,” she finally whispered.
Cooper carefully picked his way toward her in the darkness. Sawyer felt his fingers first on her wrist, then walking up her arm. His touch gave her goose bumps even though her body was seizing in a panic.
Before she knew it, she was slumped against Cooper, his arms around her, fingers laced at the small of her back. And she was crying. Huge, body-wracking sobs that left a wet spot on his chest, and Sawyer hiccupping and coughing. She broke their embrace, feeling the immediate cold of Cooper’s absence on her chest.
“I’m sorry.” She stopped crying, using her fist to push away the tears on her cheeks.
Cooper stepped into her, his arms wrapping around her again, cautious, this time not pulling her close. “Don’t be. He was your boyfriend, Sawyer. You loved him. It’s okay to be sad.”
A tremble, so heavy it made her teeth chatter, started in Sawyer’s body, and she began to cry all over again.
I did love Kevin, she thought, once. But she hadn’t for a long time. Toward the end, he kissed her as often as he slapped her, and a severe hatred had started deep in Sawyer’s chest. She wanted to break up with him; she had tried a dozen times, but each time he drew her back in with promises, pleas, and threats.
I’d kill myself if you ever left me, Sawyer, Kevin had said when they lay, bodies intertwined, on the grass. I could never live without you. At the time she had found the sentiment passionate and deep and a true statement of their unyielding love. But eventually it became a threat that she found so real it filled her with dread—with guilt. He needed her. Kevin Anderson needed her so much he couldn’t live without her.
It made so much sense, then.
The tears stopped abruptly, and this time it was Sawyer who pulled Cooper toward her. She crushed him against her chest, and her lips, chapped from crying, found his. She kissed him hard, with passion and blazing anger for something she had missed. Her lips parted and her tongue slipped into his mouth just as her arms slipped around his neck, clawed at his back. She didn’t know why, but she needed this. It was almost as if she needed Cooper to wipe the taste—or the memory—of Kevin away.
Cooper groaned when Sawyer leaned into him, her body fitting smoothly into his angles, that burning zinging racing through her bloodstream, firing every synapse in her body. She wanted Cooper Grey.
Her eyes flashed open as her mind started to slow, to clear. That was when she saw the figure under the bleachers with them. It moved slowly, tentative at first, so much so that Sawyer wasn’t sure she’d even seen it. She broke her lips from Cooper’s and narrowed her eyes. Then Logan stepped into the light.
His face was set hard, his eyes having obviously witnessed the way Sawyer had torn into Cooper—the Sawyer who had told Logan that she just wasn’t ready to date.
He blinked at her, and Sawyer thought she saw the light catch, glistening on the moisture on his bottom lashes. He turned to walk away, and Sawyer felt herself consumed with guilt and shame.
“Logan,” she called. “Logan!” She stepped away from Cooper and ran after Logan, but by the time she stepped into the light-flooded mezzanine in front of the snack shack, Logan had disappeared into the hordes of kids lumbering around. “Logan?” Sawyer tried again.
Cooper came up over her left shoulder, wiping his mouth with his hand. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes looked slightly dazed. “Was that Logan kid watching us?”
Sawyer looked at Cooper, her mouth open. Bathed in the stadium lights, she didn’t know what to say. Finally, she shook her head, looked him in the eye, and said, “I’m sorry, Cooper. We really shouldn’t have done that.”
SIX
There was an electric hum in the air when Sawyer pulled her car into the student lot on Monday morning. Nothing was overtly different; the same cheerleaders were tightening the same bouncy ponytails in rearview mirrors, an impromptu football game had broken out in the back forty, but still something seemed different—alive with an energy that sent Sawyer’s hackles up, sent an uncomfortable prick of fire roaring through her.
Sawyer caught up with Lemon Valour as she beelined toward the brick gym, head bent as her fingers flew over her pink jeweled phone.
“Hey, Lemon, what’s going on?”
Lemon looked up, apparently surprised to see Sawyer standing there.
“You didn’t hear?”
Sawyer shrugged and Lemon stopped, slipping her phone into her jacket pocket. “It’s Mr. Hanson.”
Sawyer felt all the breath leave her body; her skin pinched and suddenly felt too tight, too hot.
“Wh—what about Mr. Hanson?” Immediately she felt his feverish, sour breath on her neck, felt his arms tightening around her waist, and she broke out into a full-body cold sweat. “There were police cars parked out front. Were they here for—did he get—”
Lemon nodded and used her index finger to poke at her eyeliner. “Yep. He’s dead.”
“What?” Sawyer sputtered.
“Dead.” Lemon said it so matter-of-factly. Then her cell phone chirped a jaunty, ridiculous ringtone, and she snatched it up, pressed it to her ear. She cut her eyes to Sawyer.
“Nice talking to you, S. GTG. There’s grief counselors in the main office if you want to get out of trig.”
The click-click-click of Lemon’s heels rang out hollow in Sawyer’s ears as she stayed rooted to the asphalt in the student parking lot.
Mr. Hanson was dead?
Dead.
The word throbbed in her mind.
Sawyer picked her way through the student commons. The final bell hadn’t rung yet, so kids still milled around, some red-nosed and breathing into tissues, most looking around, blank-faced and unaffected. She found Chloe sitting on one of the outside tables, legs swinging as she stared off into space, a hard expression on her face.
“Hey, Chloe, what’s going on?”
Chloe sniffled, her nose a deep red. “Mr. Hanson is dead.”
“Yeah, I heard that. Hey, are you okay? I didn’t even know you knew Mr. Hanson. I mean other than the occasional ogle.” She tried to chuckle, tried to force some lightness into the conversation.
Chloe remained stone faced. “He is—was—the faculty advisor for honor society last year.”
“Hey, how’s your forehead? Did your parents say anything?” Sawyer tried to touch Chloe, but the girl shrank away.
“Can you believe they’re saying the guy was murdered?”
Sawyer’s stomach wobbled and thunked to her knees. “Murdered?”
Chloe sliced her index finger across her neck.
“His throat was cut?”
“Maybe. I’ve heard that, that his lover’s husband came and shot his dick off, that his gay lover shot his dick off, that that weird kid who smelled like feet and corn chips and always wore that black hoodie from last year came back and stabbed him. Oh, and that he slipped and hit his head on a bust of Caesar Chavez.” Chloe shuddered. “Either way, our teacher is dead. That’s scary, huh?”