Love You Better Page 3

  I laugh at the compliment and give a shrug.

  “What can I say, man. I’m a beast,” I joke back, and flex to show off a bicep. Brewer huffs out a laugh, and just as I’m about to toss out some more cocky bullshit, I hear my name called.

  Ivy is waving at me from the side of the field.

  I wave back with a smile, then turn to Brewer, ready to dismiss him, when I catch him ogling Ivy with a bawdy stare.

  “Damn. I don’t know how you do it, man. If I had that hanging around, I sure as shit wouldn’t be playing Candy Land and making friendship bracelets.”

  “So you’ve said,” I snap. I’m not having this conversation again.

  “I’m just sayin’, man. Word around campus is she’s got a—”

  “Stop,” I growl, cutting him off. “Finish that sentence, Brew, and I swear to fuck I’ll kick your ass. I mean it.”

  Brewer throws his palms up. “Fuck man, got it. I’m just sayin’ what everyone else knows.”

  “And if I hear you repeat it, you’ll have to have your jaw wired shut.”

  “Message received, Pierce.”

  “Fuck off, Brewer.”

  I make my way to Ivy, leaving Brewer without a goodbye or a second glance. I fucking hate it when guys think they can talk shit about Ivy to me just because she likes to party.

  So, she hooks up. So what? So do lots of people. So do all the guys who comment on it. Do I like it? No. But is it up to me? Also no. And it’s certainly not up to any of these judgmental fuckers, either. They’d be lucky to be chosen by Ivy. If she wants to go out every single night and troll for dick with Jesse, that’s her business. But it doesn’t give anyone free rein to talk shit about her.

  “Ivy,” I greet her stiffly, still keyed up from my exchange with Brewer.

  “Kelley,” she replies with a grin, dimple on full display, and immediately my muscles loosen. I’m fucking weak for that damn dimple. She holds up a take-out bag. “Food to buy your love?”

  I gotta laugh at the way her lips quirk up, but when my attention starts to slide down her body, I look away. The way the fabric hugs her curves... How can she be this gorgeous in just leggings and a t-shirt? My t-shirt.

  After the busy day I’ve had, seeing Ivy is the sweetest kind of torture, and all I want to do is sweep her into my arms and kiss her, passionate and deep.

  But I can’t.

  So instead, I settle for a friendly side-hug and another dimpled smile.

  Being in love with your best friend means being painfully aware of the line and constantly toeing it. Giving yourself just enough to take the edge off, but never enough to satisfy the craving.

  I’ve gotten good at repressing most of these feelings over the last few years. Somedays, I can almost forget that Ivy is my own personal siren and nearly everything she does turns me on.

  But then other days, she struts up to me wearing tight as fuck yoga pants, one of my t-shirts, and carrying food, and I’m a fucking goner. I have to swallow before I respond.

  “Depends on what it is,” I joke.

  “Burger from Mac’s Grille.”

  “Cheddar cheese?”

  She nods seriously. “Lettuce, onion, pickle. No tomato or mayo.”

  “Steak fries?”

  “Kelley, I’m not a monster. You know I got the steak fries.”

  “I don’t know. You forget I’ve seen you before coffee. You could give Freddy Krueger a run for his money.”

  She gasps out a laugh and elbows me in the side.

  “Or when you’ve pulled a series of all-nighters? You walk just like Mike Myers and you’ve got a temper to match.”

  She puts on an angry face, but her lips twitch at the sides.

  “That time you got a cold during midterms, you were something straight out of The Ring, I swear.” I’m not exaggerating this one. She didn’t shower for days, so her hair was a mess, she was pale as a ghost—more so than usual—and her voice was so scratchy that it did kind of sound like TV static. Still beautiful, but kind of scary, too.

  “Fine,” she snips, squaring her shoulders. “If you think you’ve got jokes then I’ll just eat this myself.” She starts to walk away, but I grab her and slide my arm around her shoulder.

  “Okay, okay, I suppose I can spare some love for a cheeseburger from Mac’s.”

  “Ick. You’re all sweaty and you smell.” She gives me a light shove, failing to hide her smile. I snatch the bag from her hand with a grin, and she rolls her eyes.

  “You just leaving the library?”

  “Yeah. I’ve just about finished all of the free study materials, so I’m going to move on to practice tests next.”

  I pull a fry out of the bag and hand it to her.

  “You’re ready. You could probably take it tomorrow and score a 180.” I mean it, too. Ivy is smart as hell, and she’s one of the hardest working people I know. There’s no way she won’t blow the LSAT out of the fucking water.

  “I’m not ready yet, but I’m almost there. I’ll be ready in four weeks.” I don’t even have to look at her to know her face is set with an expression of determination and focus.

  Ivy Rivenbark is a fucking force.

  “I’m here if you need any help, you know. Study buddy. Accountability partner.”

  She smiles. “I’m good, but I appreciate it.”

  “You’re gonna crush it, Ivy. Seriously.”

  “Thanks, Kell,” she says with a smile, and when she looks up at me, we have a moment of eye contact that gives me chills. The kind that stretches out and fills with something deeper, something more, and makes my heart fucking pound into my ribcage.

  If she was anyone else, I’d read into it. I’d reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and let my fingers trail down her jaw in a caress.

  But she’s not someone else.

  She’s my best friend.

  So, when Ivy blinks and breaks eye contact, giving her head a little shake, I change the subject. Because she doesn’t feel that way about me, and there’s no point in trying to see something that isn’t there.

  “What are your plans for tonight? J is supposed to be home. Wanna come hang out?”

  “I’m going to pass,” she says, and my heart sinks a bit. Because I’m a fucking idiot. “Bailey is off tonight, and I haven’t seen much of her lately. I’m going to stay in and see how she’s been.”

  “Girl code for pillow fights in your underwear?” I tease, and she raises her eyebrow mischievously.

  “Pillow fights naked, Kelley,” Ivy says with a laugh, and I change the subject. The thought of Ivy naked is sure to get my dick hard, and that’s not a situation I want to deal with right now.

  “How’s your ma and Jacob?”

  “Fine. The same. Mom’s working too hard as usual, and Bug had some little weasels at school giving him a hard time, but I called the principal and I think I got it straightened out. He sounded better when I talked to him this morning.”

  “Are these the same little shits from last time?” I’m ready to kick some sixth grader ass. Ivy’s younger brother Jacob is awesome, but he’s got some learning struggles and kids can be dicks, so he gets picked on for being different.

  I hate it for him. He’s honestly the kindest and coolest kid. He’s funny and clever, and he doesn’t deserve the shit these little punks keep putting him through. On top of that, I know it kills Ivy. She feels helpless, and she can’t stand seeing him upset. She’s taken care of him since he was born, so not being able to take care of him now is troubling her deeply.

  “Yeah, it is,” she says with a sigh. “They were stealing his homework and making fun of his handwriting. Calling him Blind Bat Boy. Stupid immature stuff, but it hurts him, you know?”

  Hearing the despair in her voice crushes me. I throw my arm around her shoulder again and draw her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. This time, she doesn’t shove me away.

  “You’re a good sister, Ives. He knows you love him, and he knows you’ll fight for hi
m. He’s strong because you’ve shown him how to be strong. Try not to worry too much about it.”

  She stops walking and wraps her arms around my waist, so I gather her into a tight hug. She buries her face into my chest, and I can feel her deep breaths through my shirt, counting her inhales and exhales, so I close my eyes and wait, trying my best to provide the comfort she needs from me.

  With a final deep breath, Ivy releases my waist and takes a step back, my arm dropping down to my side. I miss her immediately.

  “It’s going to be okay. I’m okay,” she states firmly, and that same look of determination is on her face.

  “I could always hire another little punk to mess with them,” I tease. “Itching powder in their underwear. Tampons in their lockers. Whatever other shit will embarrass those little middle school asshats.”

  She barks out a laugh. “I’ll consider it and get back to you.”

  As I drive her to her apartment, we argue about what movie we’re going to watch this Saturday, and I keep my voice light and playful. Anything to brighten her mood and lessen the weight on her shoulders.

  3

  9th Grade

  “So, what do you think?” I ask my best friend Preston as we’re filtered into the gym and onto the bleachers. “You see anyone you know?”

  “Yeah. Brandon from South Middle is down there.” He points to the other side of the gym. “We go to the same sleepaway camp. And Bobby Flemming goes to church with my cousin. He’s over there.” I swing my eyes between the people Preston just pointed out. “What about you? See anyone?”

  I scope out the gym again. It’s the first day of ninth grade, and both local middle schools filter into Morgan County High School. Preston and I both went to North Morgan Middle, so we’re already familiar with the teachers and the school layout, but there are also incoming ninth graders from South Morgan Middle starting today.

  “I know Gavin is gonna be here. We played him in baseball this summer.”

  “Oh yeah, Gavin. The dorky kid with the braces.” Preston laughs.

  “Yup. He’s cool, though. He hit that homerun off Baker Kennedy and Kennedy was pissed for like weeks.”

  Preston and I scan the crowd from our seats on the bleachers as hordes of freshmen filter in through the doors for the assembly.

  “Hey,” I nudge Preston with my elbow. “Down there. Is that Chris Moore? From the summer soccer camp?”

  I’m trying to get a good look at who might be Chris when I feel someone sit down next to me. I glance over my shoulder, thinking maybe it’s someone else I know, to find a girl with a blonde ponytail digging through a messenger bag.

  A girl I definitely do not know.

  “Hey,” I say to her. “You’ve got your head shoved so far into that bag that you could be wearing it as a hat.”

  She startles and sits up straight, whipping her head around and fixing me with a glare.

  “Excuse you?” she huffs.

  “I said, you’ve got your hea—”

  “Yes, I heard what you said. What I want to know is why you felt the need to say it?”

  Well damn.

  “Sorry,” I shrug. “I was just kidding around.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes soften, and her lips turn up into a small, embarrassed smile. “Well, okay then. I get a little grumpy when I’m hungry.” She waves a granola bar in front of her, which must have been why she was digging around in her bag.

  “It’s cool. My ma says I get hangry, too. I’m Kelley.” I point to my chest and smile real big. “Everyone calls me Kap, though. I’m from North Middle.”

  “Ivy,” she says with a smile and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  Just as I’m about to pester her with more questions, the principal starts talking into the microphone to begin the assembly.

  He talks about the student handbook and dress code and conduct expectations. All crap we’ve heard before. I just want to get to my classes so I can see who’s in them with me. I also want to get up with some of the guys from the summer soccer workshop. Tryouts are in two weeks so if I wanna make varsity as a freshman, I need to see who I’m up against, maybe see if anyone will run extra drills with me. My dad tries but he’s terrible at sports. Golf does not count.

  Just as the principal is closing the assembly, I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to find the blonde girl—Ivy—looking up at me with determined eyes.

  “Kelley,” she starts.

  “Ivy.”

  “Um, I was wondering if you could show me to the locker bank nine?” She looks a little nervous, but her voice is steady and kind, and I feel weirdly proud of her. My mom always tells me to face my fear and work through my nerves—it’s how I made it through the travel baseball league tryouts two summers ago. It’s not easy. I’m still figuring it out, to be honest. But Ivy obviously can do it, and my chest warms all funny-like.

  “Yeah. I’m in eight so you can just follow me.” As we head out of the gym, I tell Preston I’ll catch him later. He’s in bank four so he’s heading the opposite direction of us.

  “Let me see your schedule,” I say to Ivy, and she quirks a brow at me but hands it over. “Rivenbark.” I roll her last name off my tongue, accentuating the v and the k sounds. “I’m a Pierce. That’s why our banks are close.” I study her schedule some more. “You’re in English with me.” I grin over at her and she gives me a small smile.

  “Cool. It will be nice to know someone.”

  “You don’t have any classes with anyone from your middle school?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not from here.”

  Oh. That makes sense why she would be sitting alone at the assembly, then.

  “Where’d you come from?” I ask her, genuinely interested, and she laughs a little.

  “Bowen? It’s about two hours south of here.”

  “Never heard of it. But that sucks having to move right before high school,” I say, and she shrugs.

  “It is what it is.”

  “Well, don’t worry Ivy Rivenbark,” I say loudly, tossing my arm over her shoulders as we round the corner into locker bank nine, “I’ll help you settle in and be your first friend.”

  She looks up at me, a warm smile slowly stretching over her face, making a dimple pop on her left cheek and her blue eyes—very blue eyes, like Gatorade blue—shine through her glasses, and something weird pinches in my gut.

  “Thanks, Kelley Pierce,” she says through her toothy smile. “I could use a friend.”

  All day, I wait impatiently for English with Ivy. I keep looking for her in the halls but haven’t seen her yet. Every time I see a blonde ponytail, my gut does that weird pinching thing again, but it’s never her. Eyes are never blue enough or dimples aren’t deep enough or the facial expression doesn’t contain enough determination. Nope. None ‘em are enough to be Ivy Rivenbark.

  When fifth period finally rolls around, I hustle into the classroom and put my stuff on one of the two-seater tables near the front. I drop my notebook onto the chair next to me, and then I watch the door.

  “’Sup, Kap,” Sam Benning calls out to me when he walks in the room. “How was summer?”

  “Good, man. Travel soccer and we went to Wisconsin Dells for a week,” I reply, but I don’t take my eyes off the door. When I don’t ask Sam about his own summer, he mumbles something and tries to sit next to me.

  “Seat’s saved, Sam.”

  “Oh sweet, is Preston in this class, too,” he asks about my best friend.

  “Nah. It’s for someone else,” I tell him, and just as I’m about to tell him that I’m helping out a new student, I see a flash of blonde hair walk through the classroom door, and Sam Benning is forgotten.

  “Ivy!” I practically shout, jumping up from my chair and waving at her. She startles and flushes, and I immediately feel like a jerk for embarrassing her, but then her lips turn up in a small smile that erases my self-doubt and she walks toward me.

  “Kelley,” she says with a playful grin that makes her dimple
pop, clutching her books to her chest.

  “Ivy,” I grin back. Is it weird that I like that she’s using my real name? “As your first friend at Morgan County High,” I take my books off the chair next to me and pull it out for her, “I saved you a seat. First friends are always table buddies.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me. “They are?”

  “Yeah, here they are. I don’t know how you guys did it in Boatin—”

  “—Bowen.”

  “Yeah, Bowen, but here at Morgan, we are always table buddies with our first friends. It’s in the handbook. Were you paying attention this morning at the assembly?” I tease.

  Ivy laughs and rolls her eyes, but she sits down in the seat next to me and I’m hit with the same zing of triumph I felt when I scored the winning goal in the final soccer game this summer at camp. What the hell is that about?

  The teacher tells us all to settle down. Her name is Mrs. Jolie, and I think she’s probably like eighty or something but she’s real cool. She comes to all the home sports games and dyes her hair a different color every year for homecoming. I lean over and whisper this to Ivy and she giggles, putting her hand up to her mouth to try and hide it.

  Zing. Triumph again.

  “So, since there’s a good chance there are some unfamiliar faces in the classroom right now, we’re going to do a little activity,” Mrs. Jolie says. “You’re going to be interviewing someone in the class whom you do not already know, and then you’re going to be using what you learn to write an essay about them. Don’t just learn the basics—make your essay interesting. You have sixty seconds to find your partner.”

  I immediately look to Ivy. “We don’t really know each other yet since we only just met this morning. Want to be my partner, Table Buddy?”

  “I believe I’d like that, Table Buddy.” Zing.

  Over the next thirty minutes, Ivy and I take turns asking each other questions. I learn that her middle name is Jean (mine’s Allen); her name means “ivy plant,” which she says is boring (mine is Irish and was my great gran’s last name, which Ivy says is cool); she has a four-year-old brother named Jacob (I’m an only child); she loves horror films (I hate them, but I didn’t tell her that because I don’t want her to think I’m a wuss); her favorite subject is math because she’s really good at it (mine’s history because I like how it answers a lot of my questions); her favorite dessert is everything (I told her she had to pick one and she threatened to break up our new friendship because she refuses to discriminate against dessert) and her family just moved into a house two neighborhoods from mine.