Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul

staccatochirpsaboveus,Istarttowonder:ifHudsonwantedtobewithme,whydidn’thecallortext?
    It’snotlikeIaskedhimtoshowupatmydooronawhitehorse,buthecouldhavegottenintouch.He couldhavesaidsomething.
    WhydoIalwayswaitforhimtotalkfirst?
    “So,tellmeagainwhyyoudidn’ttext?”Itrytokeepmyvoicelight,butitrisestooquicklyattheend.
    Ilowermyhead,studythepavement.
    Hudsonlooksmywayforasecond,thensqueezesmyhandandkeepswalking.“Couldn’t,”hesays.
    “Don’thaveacell.”
    “What?”
    Hudsonsmileswide.It’ssorareforhim,Ialmosttrip.Hishandtightensaroundmine.
    “Noemail,either.Nothingdigital,”hesays,hissmileeasyandbignow,likeI’veneverseenit.He looksdown,laughs,likehe’sproudofhimself.
    “So,you’rehidingfromtheFBI?”Iask.
    Heshrugs,looksatmeagain—hislipsatightsmile,likehe’stryingtokeepitfromspreading,hisblue eyesflashingrecognition.“Sortof.”
    “Dotell.”
    “Mydadworksingovernmentsecurity,”hesays.Irememberhisdad.Good-lookingforanoldguy.
    Scary.Alwaysserious.Alwaysinasuit.“Hethinkshecantrackanyone.AtfirstIquitthegridjusttopiss himoff.Whichtotallyworked.”Hudsonletsoutasoftlaugh,shiftshisgriponmyhand.Mywholebody flusheshot.Ikeepwalking.We’rehalfwayaroundthepondnow.Theskyhasmovedthroughgraytoflat black.
    “Atfirst?”Iask.
    “Yeah.”Hisstepsslowdown,hishandgetsheavy.“Imeanttogobackon,butJolenewassopissed.”
    Jolene. JustwhenI’dfinallyforgottenabouther,heresheis.
    “Notbecauseshecouldn’ttalktome,”hesays,sneakingaglanceinmydirection,“butbecauseshe couldn’ttalktomeonline.Shecouldn’ttagmeinapicture.Shecouldn’tupdateherstatuswithamessage tomeifIwasn’tontheretowriteback,orlikeit,orwhatever.Iwassickofit.”Hepauses.“Whatwedid
    —whatIdo—it’snotforanybodyelse.”
    Westopinfrontoftherockthatmarksthefarthestedgeofthepark.There’snowherelefttogo.
    “Igetit,”Isay,myeyesonthepond,thetrees,thesky,anythingthat’llgetthepictureofthemtogether outofmyhead.
    “Iknewyouwould.Youalwaysdid.You’renotlikethat.”
    “Nope,”Isay.NoInstagramfanclubhere.Mybodytensesandshakes,aninvoluntaryshiver.
    “You’recold,”hesays.“Comehere.”Hudsonunwindshisfingersfrommine,putstheballdownat hisfeet,andpullsmetohim.Mycheekisnearhisneck;Icanfeeltheheatriseoffhisskin,themovement ofhischestthroughhissweatshirt.Idon’twanttomove.Butwhenheslideshisarmsdowntomywaist, insteadofhimIfeelJoleneguidingmyhandunderhershirt,acrossherstomach,overherskirt.Iseethe lawnchair,herlegseverywhere.
    Hudsonsaidhebrokeupwithher.ButisiteverreallyoverwithJolene?
    Ipullawayfromhim.Hepresseshislipsintoaline,sitsdownonthelargerock,andsteadiestheball withhiscleat.Isitnexttohimonthehard,slopingsurface,ourthighstouching,ourarmswedgedtogether.
    Neitherofusspeaks.There’sonlythewind,thestrayscratchofadryleafblownacrossthecement,and thethingIhaven’ttoldhim:thatItookJolenehomefromBella’sparty.
    “Anyway,”Hudsonsays,rollingtheballbackandforthwithhisfoot,“afterbeingoffthegridfora while, I didn’t really want to go back. I liked the quiet.” Hudson shrugs. “I quit social stuff first, then email.Igotridofmycelllast.Thatpartwasinspiredbyyou.”
    “Me?”
    “Thenightyouleftyourphoneatthemanhuntgame,”hesays.
    “Right,”Isay.Idroppeditinthebasketatthebeginningofthegame;wealldid.Andthenlater,Kris andIleft.Wedidn’tgoback—notforourphones,notforhim.Notforanything.It’slikemylifecracked thatnight,likeitsplit.Hewentinonedirection.Iwentintheother.
    “Ikeptit,youknow,”hesays.
    “Kept what?” I ask. I’ve gone back to that night so many times, wondering if I could have done something different; but each time I make the same choice. I walk away from Jolene. She ends up with him.
    “Yourphone,”Hudsonsays.Hestopstheballwithhisfoot,looksatme.
    “Really?”It’stheonethingIdidn’tmindlosingthatnight:thescreenwasshattered,andmyparents hadrefusedtobuymeanewone.Thedayafterthegametheymarchedmetothestore,gotmyoldphone