The Girl in the Road

Proud

Cam

“Where were you yesterday, bro? Coach said you were sick, but you seem fine.”

I’m in the locker room, getting dressed for practice. It’s Tuesday—the day they’re releasing Aspen. I wanted to be there for her, but Blue very loudly and emphatically insisted that he should be the one to take her home, and Aspen shot me a look that pretty much said don’t start with him, so I left it alone. She gave me her number, anyway, for when she’s finally reunited with her phone; I’ll give her a call as soon as practice is over.

“Just a little bug,” I lie to my buddy and center, Tanner, as I pull off my shirt. “I didn’t—”

“Jesus,” Tanner interrupts, eyeing a giant bruise on my stomach that I had almost entirely forgotten about. “What happened there?”

“Nothing,” I say a little too quickly, yanking on my jersey and trying to force the memory of how I recently acquired that particular bruise out of my head. “It’s just from when Jamie tackled me at practice the other day.”

“Dude takes practice way too seriously,” Tanner mutters as he pulls on his own jersey. “C’mon—don’t want to be late.”

I follow him out of the locker room and onto the football field, where we find Mel and her squad already there and warming up. Several of my teammates whistle out catcalls at the sight of the perfectly proportioned girls stretching this way and that; I shove them good-naturedly, as I always do, before jogging up to Mel to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“We missed you yesterday, babe,” Mel tells me. She smells like some sort of flower, though I couldn’t say which. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” I don’t like lying to her, but what am I supposed to say? Aspen’s story isn’t mine to share; she seems like a deeply secretive person.

Yet another thing about her that I can relate to.

“Want to grab a bite after practice?” Mel asks me. “Something easy on your stomach?”

“I’d love to, but Mom’s cooking up something already.” I can tell she’s hoping for an invite, so I add quickly, “You know—family time.”

“Right.” She looks disappointed, but she holds her chin high. “Well, I’ll catch you tomorrow, then, babe.”

And with a very blond swoosh of her ponytail, she turns back to her squad.

- - - - -

Aspen doesn’t answer the phone when I call her that evening, so I settle for a lame, overthought text message: Are you home? Safe? Okay?

“How many times do I have to say it, Cameron? Get your goddamn nose out of your goddamn phone.”

“Sorry,” I say automatically, shoving my phone in my pocket. “It was just Mel.”

I always say it’s Mel when I’m on my phone; it’s the only way I can get him off my back. Dad loves Mel, if I didn’t mention it already. He loves Mel, the team, and anything and anyone else in my life that stands a chance of making him “proud” of me.

So, basically, anything that isn’t related to Blue Marshall or Rocket Glower.

Sorry—The Halfway Crooks. I’ve really got to ask them what that new name is about.

“You can text with her all you want when our meal is over,” Dad says firmly, poking at his food in annoyance. Mom’s cooking has really fallen to the wayside lately.

In spite of that, I glance at my mother, whose eyes are glued to the plate in front of her, and say, “Food’s delicious, Mom.”

“That’s a stretch,” mutters Dad as he loosens his tie. He always eats dinner in his work suit—stays in it until he goes to bed. “How long did this take you, Ash? Ten minutes?”

He’s not wrong—I’m pretty sure this is just Velveeta macaroni with a few onions and tomatoes chopped in. But she still made an effort, which is more than he or I can say.

“I didn’t…” Mom bites her lip. Her eyes start to tear up, and her cheeks turn pink. “I don’t...”

“Oh, forget it,” Dad snaps, slamming his silverware down and standing dramatically up out of his seat. “Clean up, would you, Cam? I’m going to bed.”

I glance at Mom, who’s doing that thing where she pretends I don’t exist. She’s really good at it—been practicing for a long time.

Heaving a sigh, I rise to my own feet and start clearing up the dishes.

- - - - -

At almost eleven o’clock, when I’ve just about given up hope that Aspen Hart will ever speak to me again, she finally texts me back.

I’m okay. Blue had his mom pay my hospital bill, after all. So I’m pretty pissed about that.

Damn, Blue. I won’t lie—I’m glad, at least on some level, that the poor girl doesn’t have to worry about paying the hospital what I can only imagine is a whole lot of zeroes. But what she said made sense to me—that now she owes him and his family a debt she’d rather just owe to The Man.

Blue isn’t like that, though. He’s not without his flaws, but he would never hold it over her head or demand something in return.

Right?

Sorry to hear that, I reply. Are you back with your mom now?

But she doesn’t answer that question. She has a way of doing that, I’ve noticed. Only answers the ones she wants to. How was practice?

I don’t want to talk about practice. I don’t want to talk about myself at all. Forget practice. I want to know, Aspen. Are you with your mom? Are you safe?

But she still doesn’t answer me.

Cursing, I get out of bed and start to pace. Why does she have to be this way? What’s she trying to hide from me? She’s already admitted that she’s more or less penniless; she’s already admitted that she has no plans to attend college. What else is she so ashamed of?

It only takes a few minutes for me to become so frustrated, I call her again. This time, she answers.

“I’m fine,” she says shortly. “I don’t like to talk about that stuff, Cam.”

“Why not?”

“Why don’t you want to talk about practice?”

“Because it’s boring. What do you want to know? How fast I ran? How many goals I scored? Something tells me sports don’t exactly fascinate you.”

“Okay. Then tell me about your girlfriend.”

I feel like she just punched me in the gut.

“She’s… nice,” I stammer. Is it just me, or is my voice suddenly ten octaves higher? “Her name’s Mel. What do you want to know?”

She seems to consider this for a moment. Then she asks, “What’s her favorite Kinks song?”

Mel doesn’t listen to the Kinks. But I think she already knows that.

“Just tell me if you’re with your mom or not,” I insist. “I’m picturing you, I don’t know… sleeping in a tent or…”

“I’m with her.” Her voice is a bit more gentle now—softer. “There’s a roof over my head, Cam. We’re poor, but we’re not homeless.”

Was that really so hard? And yet… why do I get the sense there’s so much she’s not telling me?

“It’s okay that Mel doesn’t like the same music as you,” she says after a moment. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. There’s a lot more to love than your favorite band.”

She’s right—there is.

But what Mel and I have still isn’t love—not even close.

“Did you get your old job back?” I ask her. “What was your old job, anyway?”

“I was a server at the Pizza Hole. And no—they replaced me. But it’s fine.”

I’ve been to the Pizza Hole before. It’s the sort of hole-in-the-wall that rarely cards its customers, especially if they’re willing to throw a few extra bills its way. It’s known for cheap pizza, cheaper beer, and pretty, female servers who often get harassed by their drunk customers.

I don’t much like the thought of her working at a place like that.

“I could ask around,” I tell her. “Mel’s folks own a few donut shops in town. And my buddy Tanner—”

“Thanks,” she interrupts, “but I’ve got something in the works. I’ll be fine, Cam. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I found you in the middle of the road, mostly unconscious and covered in blood,” I remind her. My voice is softer now—a bit more tender than I intended. “How could I not worry about you?”

“It was an accident,” she says firmly. “That’s all.”

For the first time, I start questioning whether it was an accident at all.