Unknown: Hey, it’s Jules.
Despite knowing it would be him before even reading it, I can’t help but roll my eyes at his nerve. I save his number before sending off a response.
Me: Why do you have my phone number?
Jules: Why not? It looks like I’m seeing you again this week. ;)
Me: Not if I tell Giselle I won’t go.
Jules: Ah, but you’re not going to do that, though…
Me: Why wouldn’t I? I specifically told you it wasn’t going to happen.
Jules: But we both know that isn’t what you want, Bodhi.
Is this guy for real? Who the fuck does he think he is?
Another text comes in when I don’t respond.
Jules: Come on… it’ll be fun. I promise.
Me: This is wrong. In no universe should you and me be meeting up in any capacity. ESPECIALLY at a hotel.
Jules: Lounge* It’s in the hotel lounge. Let’s not be dramatic.
Me: You know what I mean. It’s wrong.
Jules: This one time, and if you completely hate it, have no fun, and still feel the same, you’ll never have to see me again. Just… please.
The“please”wraps around my chest like compression tape. How can I say no to that? And if I’m being completely honest with myself, do I even reallywantto say no?
Me: Fine. Dinner, but that’s it.
Hitting send, a thrill runs down my spine at the same time trepidation clutches my insides in a vice. I toss my phone on the bed, heading to the bathroom to shower all this sweat off me. My mind can’t help but drift to Ryan in between thinking about his fuckingdad. How fucked up is this?
I wonder what Ryan is up to these days. If he’s happy, if he ever thinks about me and our friendship, or if I’m nothing but a distant memory that stays locked away inside his mind. The latter wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Not after the way we left things in high school.
Once I’m dried off and dressed, I give in to the compulsive need. Sitting at my desk, I power on my laptop, pulling up Instagram. My fingers move of their own volition, typing in the nameRyan van der Meer, and pressing enter. It doesn’t take long for me to find the right profile. He looks nearly the same as he did in high school. He’s tall—almost as tall as his dad—and he’s all muscle and definition. His body was made for football.
I’m not surprised to see he’s a senior at USC, probably on a football scholarship. It was always his dream to play ball there. The West Coast, specifically California, never piqued my interest. Something about being overweight and unliked in a state that’s known for its beautiful people with their beach bodies just never sat right with me. Ryan, on the other hand, dreamed of California sunsets and learning to surf for as long as I can remember.
Scrolling through his page, I don’t see any pictures of him with either of his parents. Not a single one as far back as it’ll let me go. Does he come home on holidays and breaks? He’s as popular as I remember he was. Pictures and videos at parties, at games, out with groups of people.
Our friendship was always odd. It never made sense, at least not to me. Ryan was well-liked. After people got to know him once he moved to our district in middle school, he was sought after and loved. I, on the other hand, was not. Puberty hit me hard, and in an unfavorable way—acne and weight gain.
Me and Ryan became friends right away, and part of me always assumed—and feared—he’d leave me in the dust once he made more friends. That’s how it always went. He didn’t, though. At least not for many years.
By the time I glance at the clock in the top right-hand corner on my laptop, an hour has passed. I’ve scoured through every photo he has, watched all his stories, and effectively realized how much better he’s doing than me. How much happier he seems than I am. Slamming my computer closed harder than necessary, I press my elbows to the desk, thrusting my fingers into my nearly dry hair.
My stomach grumbles loudly at me once more, and I know I need to eat.
But I don’t.
Chapter Seven
Bodhi King
Summer Before High School
