Trying to live

The field was empty, just like I'd feared. No boys, no lacrosse practice—just the sound of wind and my own gnawing guilt.

I had no work and no plans.

Cam crossed my mind. I had a boyfriend. Most girlfriends spend their free time with their boyfriends, and yet here I was.

I thought I could watch lacrosse practice, assuming the team would still be out on the field since the autumn weather was unusually mild. But the only thing waiting for me was emptiness. The field stretched out, barren and quiet. I used to sit here, watching practice or waiting for someone.

My mind betrayed me with a memory: Henry laughing, his voice carried on the wind. I shook it off and stared harder at the emptiness, as if that could erase him from my thoughts.

I should've asked Cam or Scott about practice instead of just showing up with no real plan. Then, through the door leading to the field, I saw some of the guys leaving the locker room.

That meant Cam might come out too.

Guilt crept up my spine. I hadn't really talked or texted him since the cafeteria earlier. I'd just left him there without explaining where I was going. The truth? I hadn't gone anywhere, just spent the rest of my break in the library. Even during class, I avoided him, replying to his texts with curt, uninspired responses like "fine."

My eyes caught on someone leaving the locker room. Dirty blond hair, rumpled clothes, and a Nike gym bag. I knew exactly who it was.

"Wyatt," I called out, my voice tentative.

He didn't turn around. Maybe he didn't hear me. Or maybe he didn't want to.

"Wyatt!" I called louder this time, more insistent.

Still no response.

I grabbed my bag and hurried toward him. "I said your name twice, and I know you heard me, Wyatt," I said, catching up to him and grabbing his arm.

He turned around, and I gasped. "Wyatt, your face."

He gave me a crooked smile, then winced. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," I said firmly.

His left eye was ringed with bluish-yellow bruising, as if someone had punched him hard. His jaw was swollen, his lips were split, and there was a fresh cut near his eyebrow.

"How did this happen?" I asked, my voice shaking.

Wyatt shrugged. "A small fight."

I stared at him, incredulous. "You've been gone for two weeks, and the last time I saw you was at..." I trailed off, a horrible suspicion creeping into my mind.

"Em," Wyatt began, but I interrupted.

"At your house," I said softly, piecing it together. "I was arguing with your stepfather."

"Em, don't—"

"You got hurt because of me." The words came out like a whisper, my chest tightening with guilt.

Wyatt sighed, his expression tired. He'd expected me to say that. "Em, come on—"

"Just tell me the truth. You got those bruises because I didn't shut up. You warned me, but I didn't listen. I was so angry, and now you're—"

"Shut up," Wyatt said sharply, gripping my shoulders. "This happens all the time, and I'm not the only one who got some." He smirked, pointing to his bruises. "I got the old man too. His black eye looks worse than mine. He had to call in sick for three weeks. Maybe more."