Rush The Game

give me answers when he’s not an answer kind of guy.
    I remember the feel of his lips on my wrist.
    I think about him all during my run, but when I get back to find that there are a ton of texts waiting for me, my focus shifts. I guess everyone’s tired of waiting for me to offer info about my fight with Carly, so now they’re digging for it. There are texts from Dee and Kelley and Sarah. There’s even one from this girl we sometimes hang with, Emily. All of them want to know about Luka. Sarah wants to know about Jackson; I guess Carly was at her house when they both saw me with him in the park on Sunday. Dee wants to know why Carly’s mad at me. Every text is about Carly or Luka or Jackson, but none are actually from Carly or Luka or Jackson.
    My, but Carly’s been a chatty girl—chatty with everyone but me.
    She’s so angry with me. Part of me wants to say, Who cares? But this is Carly . I need to make things right. Besides, I didn’t do any of the things she accused me of, and I have no intention of letting her punish me for stuff she just thinks I did. The taste of her temper I had for the past two days was quite enough. She should win the award for passive-aggressive.
    So once I’m dressed and my hair is dry, I call her. When she doesn’t pick up, I leave a message in between mouthfuls of yogurt and granola.
    “Hey, Car. It’s me. I’m mad at you, too. Hanging up on me was a shitty thing to do. Ever heard of talking ? You want info? Here it is. His name’s Jackson Tate. I did not have plans with him on Sunday. I was upset because I found out this girl I met through . . . kendo”—I planned that explanation in the shower. It’s a lie, but a small one—“died, so I went running and he was running, so we ran together and he happened to be there when I had a mini meltdown. For about thirty seconds, he stopped being an asshole and gave me a hug till I got my shit together.” But that’s just it. Jackson isn’t an asshole. Well, not all the time. He’s different than I thought he was at first.
    I rush on with my explanation, “I left him at the park and ran home to find Luka waiting for me. Unexpectedly. We did not have plans that I failed to share with you. And since he was still there when you pulled up, there was no chance to call you and dissect details. End of story.”
    I pause, trying to climb inside Carly’s head and offer something that will make her smile and forgive me. Remembering what she said to Kelley and Dee on Friday, I decide on, “But Jackson’s hot.” He is, but he’s more than that. Much more than he originally let me see. “And his guns ought to be licensed.” I close my eyes, remembering that it isn’t just his guns that are beautifully sculpted. His abs, his chest, he’s like a work of art. “And, um, I guess Luka’s hot, too. See you in English.”
    I put my bowl in the dishwasher, then freeze as I stare at the beer bottle on the counter. Just one. That’s good, right? I think that’s good. After a second, I reach for it and drag it closer.
    “Just one,” Dad says from behind me, his voice too cheerful.
    “So I see.” I glance over my shoulder at him. His hair’s wet from the shower. He’s freshly shaved. And he’s smiling at me. Still, something feels off, but I can’t quite pin down what it is. I grab the empty bottle, stow it in the box under the sink, and wipe the counter clean.
    “Counter wasn’t dirty,” Dad says.
    I swallow and turn to face him. “I know. It’s a habit.”
    “You can’t always control everything, Miki.” He reaches for me and takes my hand. He doesn’t bring up last night’s nightmare, but I figure that’s part of what he’s talking about.
    “Lately, I feel like I can’t control anything . Not even in my sleep.” I regret the admission the second I make it. Tears sting my eyes. I’m not good at this, at talking to him, at letting my emotions out when I’m with him. With anyone. I feel like if I open even a tiny crack, they’ll all come pouring out, and I’ll be broken and out of control.
    I remember the way I lost it with Jackson in the park and again with Luka on the driveway when we came back from the mission and I started laughing like a hyena. That scares me. I can’t be that girl. I need my life to be like an abacus, all my beads in neat rows.
    “No one can control what they see in their sleep,” Dad says. “Is this about that boy?”
    Depends on which boy he’s asking about. I sigh.