𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟹𝚛𝚍, 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢
Parker's POV

The following morning I wake up feeling groggy, like an 18-wheeler had run me over the night before.

I groan and kick my feet to loosen the sheets wrapped around my legs. I must've passed out cold, although judging by the crick in my neck and the sweat dried along my hairline, anxiety must have kept me tossing all night.

My back aches as I adjust to lay flat. I shut my eyes against the hazy sunlight streaming through my blinds and rub my eyes with my palms until I see stars. Generally, I would be on the move to go for a run by now. That was before Miles annihilated me last night. Today's schedule looks more like a long soak in the tub and a handful of painkillers.

Making a mental note to give him shit for this tomorrow, I inhale sharply as I throw the comforter back and climb on my feet. I stretch slowly and sigh as my spine pops.

My legs are heavy as I stagger over to the bathroom that connects directly to my bedroom. I smack my hand against the light switch and squint as the lights beam down full force. I'm quick to adjust the lighting to a soft glow before going in and handling my business. I grab a washcloth afterward to wash my face. I glance up at my reflection as I run the cloth under the warm water. Tired green eyes peer back at me, made more prominent by the dark bags under my lashes. My skin seems to have lost its tan overnight. I look like an Eskimo stuck in the middle of winter.

Exhaling softly through my lips, I look away and squeeze the excess water from the cloth, running it over my face. The events from last night will plague me for the rest of the day. It's made more obvious with the growing discomfort in my joints. Greyson would be beyond pissed if I had to miss practice tomorrow because I'm too sore to function. The drawer in my vanity sticks as I yank it open, pawing through old anxiety prescriptions, new and outdated vitamins, and empty moisturizer containers.

"Where in the world..." I mumble under my breath and grab the Aleve bottle tucked in the back of the drawer, giving it a good shake. Empty. "Great."

It wasn't on my agenda to go to the store today. I'll have to if I want to play football tomorrow.

The urge to eat hits me first, so I leave my bedroom after I am done in the bathroom. Glancing to the right, my parent's bedroom door sits open at the end of the hall. They must either be downstairs or out running errands.

I drag my feet over to the staircase and follow the spiral to the living room. Sunlight streams from the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the main living room, making the place glow. The cream couches look untouched, flanked by glass tables and sculptural decor that came from my dad's favorite art gallery in Houston. I narrow my eyes against the brightness as I shuffle over to the kitchen.

Mom is perched at the marble island, her salon dyed blonde hair covering her shoulders, sipping her morning tea as she reads the latest news on her phone. She looks over her shoulder hearing my socks scuffle the ground and smiles at me.

"Good morning! You slept in late... and you look terrible! Did you get any rest last night?" she asks, sitting up straighter in worry.

I nod and grab an orange from the fruit basket before going to the garbage. Resting my foot on the pedal to open the lid, I start skinning the fruit.

"Yeah, I slept great, believe it or not," I reply and grimace as my morning voice cracks.

She scowls and eyes me, looking for any cracks or signs of a lie in my body language. It's a mom thing that she does.

"Mhm. So what's really bothering you?"

I laugh a little and my appetite slips away as the memories from last night come rushing back. I take extra time to pick the white veins off the orange so I don't have to look at her. "I dunno. Nothing. It's just..." I stare at the wall, pondering how much I want to tell her. "Just friend stuff. It's high school drama."

"Did Griffin say something?"

This time, a genuine laugh slips out of me at that question. "No, for once. Not this time."

I look over at her, and her eyes are still on me, egging me to go on. I recognize her silence as a manipulation trick to get me to speak, yet somehow I always fall into her trap. I got lucky with great parents, and I trust them with everything, so my words bubble over and tumble out.

"Okay, the thing is, a new kid joined the school on Monday. He said something dumb when he arrived and took everyone off guard, so now there's petty drama circulating around him. I felt bad and tried being nice to him. I invited him to this event last night, right, and things were going well. It was nice to talk to someone new, and he was cool. I thought he enjoyed talking to me too, but then Turner came by and swept him into their drinking game. He didn't hesitate to walk away from me, which made me feel..." I go quiet, searching for the right word.

Mom slowly adds, "... Abandoned?"

I do a shrug-nod combo and carefully split open the orange. "Yeah, I guess. I'm going to sound like a baby, but I thought he would be different."

Mom shakes her head and sticks her hand out for a slice, which I oblige to. She pops it in her mouth and chews before responding. "Honey, you need to understand that your feelings are valid. You let your guard down with someone new, and that's a big deal. Especially when you've been burned before."

I cringe at how she words that. Regardless, she keeps talking.

"I know how you feel about drinking, and yeah, that might set you apart. But if he's worth your time he'll circle back, and if not? That's not a reflection on you. Maybe he just got caught up in the moment. Look at this as an opportunity to grow and continue to be a good friend—which I'm sure he'll need if he's caught up with Turner," she says knowingly, as I've vented out stuff about him in the past, too.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Hey, where's dad at?" I look around the kitchen as I suddenly notice the lack of his presence.

"He had to run out to his studio this morning and get some things ready for a shoot tomorrow. Why, what's up?"

"No reason. I didn't know if he was at the store or not." I use my fingernail to trace the marble pattern on the countertop. "Playing last night made me sore, and I'm out of painkillers, so I thought I would see if he could grab me some."

Mom tsks and sets down her mug with a soft clink. "Shoot! I wish I had some to give you, but we ran out a few days ago when my head was killing me. Do you want me to ask if he'll grab some while he's out?"

"No, don't bother him. I'll go into town. I need gas, anyway."

"Alright." Mom shrugs and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and pulls her phone back out. "If you say so. Are you going now?"

"Yep. No time like the present, right?" I try to smile, but only one side of my mouth lifts as I shove off the counter and gimp out of the kitchen.

"You got that right. Drive safe, please!"

"Always!" I call over my shoulder and go to the back foyer, snatching my keys off the hook and slipping on my sandals simultaneously. There's no reason to get all gussed up for Walmart. "Later!"

"Bye!" Mom yells back, and I cut her off as I shut the door behind me.

~

I hum to myself and tap my fingers on the wheel as I pull onto the highway exit and slip in the right line. The blinker ticks in beat with my music before I pull onto the street, squinting as the sun slides directly into my line of sight. As I pull down the sun visor, a flash of blue body paint whizzes past my car in the left lane. Instantly, my heart is inside my throat. What are the odds that I drive past Miles?

I blink rapidly to flush the bright-white sunspots out of my eyes and hit the accelerator harder to catch up to the car. The Audi sings in response, except it's all for naught. My chest deflates as my vision clears up.

"I'm literally crazy," I say out loud when I realize that's not the logo of a Mustang on the back of that specific car. It's a damn Corvette.

Why I'm even remotely interested in running across Miles is beyond me. I'm the type of person that practically slinks down into my seat if I pull up next to a schoolmate at a red light, even with the dark tint on my windows. What would I have done if it was him? Wave him down? Have a conversation through the windows while going fifty miles per hour down the road? Yeah, definitely not.

I exhale and rest my left elbow on the windowsill to run my fingers back through my hair, glancing out the window. Seriously, I need to grow up if—

"No way," I whisper to myself and drop my hand down from my hair onto the wheel.

Up ahead on the left side of the road, there's an AutoZone with a blue Mustang parked out front. An actual Mustang this time, with white racing stripes down the middle. Maybe I could scratch it down as a coincidence, except for the young black boy crossing the parking lot and stepping up to the door.

Divine intervention.

Later in the evening, I'll look back at this moment and wonder what in the actual hell I was thinking, but that's the issue: I don't think as I step on the gas.

It's like being on the NASCAR track as I clench my teeth and fly past the guy in the Corvette, only to hit my brakes and yank the wheel to the left. I probably send the poor driver into cardiac arrest as I cut him off, and I can't hear his car horn over the sound of blood rushing through my ears. I hardly even scan for oncoming traffic as I shoot across two more lanes, the tires squealing as I narrowly avoid an oncoming Tesla that gives me an equally-as-angry honk.

I'm out of breath as I yank my wheel back toward the right, practically drifting into the AutoZone parking lot. Sliding my car into the first empty spot I see, my hands shake from the adrenaline as I throw the shifter into park and snatch the keys into my hand.

Actually, my entire body is shaking as I walk across the parking lot. Nerves make my skin hot as I pull open the door and step inside, blinking at the blast of cold air conditioning. A bell chimes above the door to announce my arrival. The employee behind the desk is blissfully unaware of my close call to death out on the street. Actually, she doesn't even look up from typing on the computer as I walk past.

It's not until I walk past the air refreshers that I realize that I went completely out of my way for a chance to run into Miles.

This is such a joke.

I don't even have a good reason to be here because I'm definitely not telling Miles that I enjoy being around him. Normal people don't pull stunts like this. Stalkers do.

But was it really stalking if I happened to see him when I drove past?

That's it. I need to get out of here before my cover is blown.

Turning around on my heel, I shove my hands in my pockets and hurry down the aisle. It's just my luck that, as I turn the corner, Miles starts down this aisle and collides directly into me.

"Shit!" He curses and fumbles with a bottle of brake fluid in one hand while his other hand bolts to steady me.

I grunt on impact and stagger backward, eager to get away from his palm that's pressed onto my hips. "I'm so sorry, that's my bad. I'm in a rush. I should've looked around the corner," I ramble and proceed to bite my tongue when I realize that I'm rambling.

I wish I had gotten hit by that car. It would've been easier to die rather than have this conversation.

"Chill, bro! You're good!" Miles chuckles and backs off, his eyes drooping over my fit.

This is just my luck. I never changed when I left the house this morning because I thought I would go straight to Walmart. Instead, Miles gets to see me in all of my black t-shirt and grey sweatpants glory. There's no stopping the embarrassed blush that rises to my face.

"Besides," he keeps chatting and walks past me to pause at the cabin air filters, "it's payback for what I did to you last night. How are you feelin'?"

I cross my arms over my chest and turn to watch him as he selects a filter. "Decent enough, considering your seven-foot tall and two-hundred-fifty pound ass crushed me into the ground."

Miles scoffs and looks over at me with his eyebrows raised, even though it's hard to take him seriously when he's trying to hide his smile. "Is that a fat joke?"

"No, it's the truth!" I laugh and wave my hand to motion at him.

"Fact check: I'm 6'5" and one hundred ninety-five pounds. Nice try, though. I'm sure you always mix up heights since you're so short." Miles winks as he teases me and tucks an air filter under his arm.

"Short? Really? Whatever," I grumble though it's hard to act mad when he lets out that pure laugh.

"Lighten up, homie, I'm only messing with you. Hey, what are you here for?" Miles asks, tilting his head with the question.

"Oh, uhhh...." I drawl. My stupid brain goes blank, which is a grand feat considering how much I was overthinking three minutes ago, and my fingers go numb with panic. Over Miles shoulder, I notice the quarts on the back wall. "Oil! I'm here for oil. My car is getting low, and I was going to top it off."

Miles hums and nods. "When's the last time you got it changed?"

I blink at him. "Got what changed?"

"Your oil." He smirks.

I feel like grabbing that brake fluid from his hand and chugging it until my heart stops.

"Oh, shit, yeah. Um, like, three months ago," I stutter and run a hand back through my hair. It suddenly got way hotter in here.

Tsking, Miles puts his back to me and walks over to the far wall. I hurry to catch up as he speaks. "You don't want to top off at that point. It'll be better to change it, and it's better for your car. What do you drive?"

"An Audi A6." As I look at the wall covered in all sorts of oil brands, I hope his next question won't be about what oil I need. When it comes to vehicles, I'm a lost cause. That's why I always bring it to the dealership to get my oil changed.

Miles lets out a low whistle and scans the wall before grabbing two bottles. "Big spender, huh?"

"Yeah, right." I laugh dryly, a little offended by his question, even though he didn't have an ounce of venom in his voice. "More like mommy and daddy's money."

"Buen punto. At least you're honest. Here." Miles walks back to me and passes over the oil. "What are you up to today?"

My ears burn in pleasure with how easily that foreign language rolls off his tongue. Actually, I'm so caught up in replaying those two words in my head that I almost forget to answer him until he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"Nothing. I was planning on going home," I reply and shuffle the two bottles in my hands.

"Cool, then why don't you follow me to my house? I live fifteen minutes down the road, and I've got everything to change your oil if you want. It'll be faster than waiting for a different mechanic, and cheaper too." Miles beams. "Not that I was planning on charging you, anyway."

"What? No, I can't expect you to do that," I express and follow him like a lost duck as he walks past me to the front of the store.

"Yes, you can. Either way, I'll be outside doctoring my ride. The least I can do is change your damn oil. I'm not taking no for an answer. You're coming over."

Well then. My head goes a little fuzzy when Miles gets bossy. At the very least, that's probably why I can't think straight and end up agreeing.

I'm going over to Miles house.