Page 37 of Play Nice

It flees through the open sliding glass doors out to the deck, fast footsteps. Thud thud thud thud.

I’m up, and I’m wild, and I’m chasing the figure onto the deck.

Thud thud…thud-thud-thud-thud.

There’s an awful crack, followed by a morbid groaning.

I reach inside and flick the back light on, then look over the banister to see there’s an adolescent at the bottom of the deck stairs, splayed out on the yard.

“What the fuck?” I yell.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

A beat. “Yeah.”

“Good,” I say. “Remember this. This is what breaking and entering feels like.”

“Hey! Hey!” I hear. There’s a guy running over.

“Hasn’t anyone ever heard of private property?” I ask.

“Baker. Baker, are you okay?” This guy is older. Around my age.

The kid, Baker, punches the older guy on the arm. “You asshole! You said the house was empty!”

“It was,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t,” I say. “Clearly.”

The guy squints up at me. The light on the back of the house is ruthlessly bright, illuminating the yard out to the perimeter of the woods.

“Shit,” he says. “Hey, I’m sorry about this. I’m Austin. I live down the street. This is my nephew. I, um…”

He pauses to laugh.

“I dared him to break into the house.”

He takes a step to the side, and I get a better view of him. Curly brown hair. Pretty face. Tall.

“That so,” I say, tilting my head so my own curls fall forward. I give him a grin.

13

Turns out Dad left a first aid kit in the upstairs bathroom, with a note on top reminding me to be careful, to be safe. I bring it outside, down to where Baker sits in the yard.

“It’s not broken,” Austin says, checking Baker’s ankle. “Just sprained.”

“Here,” I say, handing over an antiseptic wipe and a Band-Aid for the scrape across the boy’s forehead.

He’s a sweet-looking kid. Big eyes, mouth full of braces. On the verge of puberty, poor thing.

“Thanks,” Austin says, his gaze lingering. I return his stare, give him the up-and-down. He’s dressed in gray sweatpants and a black tank. He has a delicate gold chain around his neck. The uniform of a douchebag. His saving grace are his Vans. If he had on Nikes, it’d be game over.

Also promising—his sweatpants look like they could be from Costco. They’re not designer sweatpants. There’s a direct correlation between men who wear designer sweatpants and men who can’t make me come. I’ve done the unfortunate research.

He has muscles, but they’re not gym muscles. He’s not wearing the tank top to show off his shoulders and his biceps. He’s not trying too hard. All the guys in the city are trying too hard, especially the ones who pretend like they aren’t.