The parking lot is empty and the only light comes from a single lamppost casting oval beams across the painted lines on the asphalt. I scan the other side of the lot, running my eyes over the grass, the playground, and the shelter until I see a figure sitting motionless on top of a picnic table.
A flutter runs through my stomach and I pick up my pace, heading straight for him. Bo stands up on the bench as I approach and hops down to the ground. I jog across the grass, smiling as his face becomes clearer. He’s wearing different clothes; black Nike joggers with a black t-shirt and his ancient pair of red and grey New Balances. His hair is tied back like it usually is for soccer games, in a small messy bun at the crown of his head. He doesn’t look like a skater anymore; he looks like a soccer player again. When he drops his hands to his sides, I notice he still has the beige hair bands looped around his wrist. He never took them off.
His mouth stretches into a smile so wide that his dimples show and his eyes look like they’re closed. As soon as I touch his shoulders, he bends down, grabs me behind my legs, and lifts me up to his waist. Wrapping my arms and legs around him, I collapse into the familiar warmth of his body and press my nose into his neck.
Why is it so easy to ignore the past few weeks and be happy to see him now?
Whatever, I’ll have time to regret it later.
I pull back, running my hand up the side of Bo’s neck, and kiss him. He tastes so good that I never want to stop. And when I finally pull away, he gazes up at me like he hasn’t seen me in weeks.
“There you are,” he drawls in a voice thick as honey.
“Here I am?” I scoff, “I’ve been here, Bo.”
He lowers me back to the ground and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward the gravel path that leads to the Cotton Ridge trail. I know where we’re going, I’ve walked this path with him too many times to count. Without a word, he steps off the gravel onto the dirt trail, guiding us into the darkness of the forest. I glance up at him, looking for any reaction. But he’s calm, looking straight ahead, holding me against his side.
“Where are we going?” I mutter, squeezing his fingers hanging in front of my neck.
Bo glances down at me with a smile, “Like you don’t know.”
Of course, I know. It’s the place he always takes me, the one I don’t know how to get to without him.
“I do know. I just want you to talk to me…” I gaze up at the black tree trunks climbing into the sky, “act like I exist…” I feel the spark of anger ignite in my gut again, “not treat me like fucking garbage like you do everyone else.”
Bo veers off to the side where the path finally splits off to the Cotton Ridge. He stops at a maple next to the trailhead and grabs my waist, spinning me around and backing me into the massive trunk. I feel his hands at the side of my face, tilting my head back to look at him.
“Stop,” he murmurs, “just stop.”
I grab his wrists, squeezing them in defiance, “Stop what?” I ask, searching his face, “What the hell’s going on with you?”
I barely get the words out before Bo brings his lips to mine with a kiss so deep, it steals the breath from my lungs. He presses me against the tree, wrapping one arm around my back so tight, I don’t think he’ll ever let go.
When he finally does, he lingers for a few moments, just gazing at me, “A lot,” he brushes his thumb back and forth across my cheek, “but I’m here now, aren’t I?”
I let Bo lead me down the Cotton Ridge trail to the downed oak where we always veer off to the right, continuing down a path that’s not actually part of the trails. It’s a game trail, carved out of the woods by the herds of deer that pack the Wyandot. At least that’s what I think it is, based on the little I’ve picked up from going camping with Col and my dad every summer. From there, it takes about 20 minutes to reach a break in the trees where they give way to a limestone boulder that juts out of the earth above a dried creek bed.
For some reason, I don’t bother speaking until we get there, content in pretending this is just another night I’m wandering through the woods with Bo to a secret place where problems don’t exist. But once we’re here, I can’t pretend anymore, and there’s nothing to talk about except pointed questions and unspoken resentment.
“Are you ignoring me because I got into UCLA?” I finally break the silence.
Bo walks to the edge of the rock and stares out into the trees that fade into a black abyss, “Why would you think I’m ignoring you?” he asks after a few moments.
Are you fucking serious?
“Because,” I scoff in disbelief, “you don’t speak to me, you stopped texting me, we don’t do anything together anymore, you walk past me like I don’t even exist.”
“I’ve been busy,” he shrugs with indifference, “I’ve been working a lot. And what do you mean I don’t speak to you? I still talk to you.”
“Yeah, when you feel like it,” I look away with a huff, “why are you making this so difficult?”
Bo steps away from the rock’s edge and strolls toward me with a smirk, “E, I think you’re being difficult enough for the both of us.”
I crack a brief smile, but it quickly disappears, “No, Bo,” I shake my head, “you don’t get to do that—brush me off like I’m imagining things. For a while, I saw you more than my own family, but after I found out about UCLA, you disappeared. You wouldn’t even acknowledge me. That’s not what you do because you’re working a lot.”
Bo exhales in exasperation and meanders in a circle, “I didn’t bring you out here to argue,” he says dismissively.
“Then why did you bring me out here?” I snap, growing tired of his ambiguity.
“Why?” he turns back to me with intrigue, “Because I want you to tell me about your abortion, E.”
All the air leaves my lungs like a balloon deflating. Suddenly, the woods don’t seem so vast anymore. The longer Bo looks at me, waiting for a response, the more the trees feel like they’ve uprooted and are inching closer and closer to the limestone plateau.
“What?” I reply, my chest heavy with dread.
Bo turns on his heel and slowly strolls toward me. His expression remains the same, eerily calm with a hint of amusement. He stops square in front of me, just a couple of feet from my sneakers, then tilts his head.
“What’s wrong?” his tone changes, taking on a sardonic edge.
My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest, “Who—” I stop short, my mind racing, still unsure how to respond.
Hannah…
One defective condom later and I didn’t realize I would have to not only question my entire future, but also question the loyalty of one of my best friends who couldn’t manage to keep her goddamn mouth shut about my personal life.
Hannah was the only person I told when I missed my period and took a pregnancy test four weeks ago. I was terrified and I spent hours crying to her about what I should do and then, later, what I wanted to do. And she didn’t judge me. She listened to me and told me it was going to be OK. She went to every single appointment with me and made sure I was OK.
After all that, why would she go and tell Bo about it? Why in God’s name would she tell the one person who I didn’t ever want to know this? And who else did she tell?
