Running Back To Him by Evelyn Rosado

I arrow my finger to my chest, my nail poking my skin. “I did that. I belong now.”
    “Belong to who? To what? The people we go to school with? Those people won’t remember your or my name once we graduate. That’s supposed to mean something to you?”
    “It means everything.” My voice strains. “It’s all I’ve got. I know it sounds shallow, but it’s something.”
    “You’ve really changed.”
    “But I finally belonged…to something. I didn’t feel abandoned anymore.”
    He frowns. “What do you mean abandoned?”
    “Nothing,” I say wiping away the tear that ran down my cheek. “Can we just finish the game and go?” I sniffle away, choking back the tears. I squeeze the golf club until my fists hurt. The only sound between us is the buzzing of the light pole hovering above.
    The tension between us is palpable as the humidity in the air. We stand there, chests heaving hot breaths and eluding each other’s faces.
    After a few moments of agonizing silence, I stand back over the golf ball and take a few light swings in preparation. Kellen sucks his teeth.
    “Now what?” I say turning around in annoyance.
    “Your grip is messed up. You’re totally holding the club the wrong way.”
    I plant a hand on my hip. “Well I’ve made it this far holding it the wrong way. I’m winning.”
    “For future reference. You know after our little fake hookup is over and you decide to go back to Lucas.”
    “I have about as much chance as getting back with Señor Sleazeball as you do with Mackenzie.” Thinking about it makes me grimace. “I’d rather you strap me down in a chair like on A Clockwork Orange and make me watch three straight hours of Coldplay videos.”
    “I have no idea what you just said.”
    “Don’t worry about it. And back up.”
    “No, listen. Let me show you. There’s no way you’re going to make that shot from here if you don’t hold the right way.”
    I hold out the club for him to take the lead. “All yours, master teacher.”
    He grabs the club and hands it back to me. “You hold. I’ll guide. Get in your normal putting stance.”
    “Yes sir.” I wonder if I said that with too much snark. So what, he should be used to it from me by now. I assume the position and he slides behind me; his body lurching inches from me. His body pours heat onto to me and I feel my throat tightening up.
    “Okay,” he says skimming his arms on top of mine. “Bend your knees.” His chest meshes against my back and the side of his face is next to me. His scent is intoxicating—like I shot-gunned two beers and then did a minute-long keg stand. His scent of orange and sandalwood waltzes into my nostrils.
    He says something about positioning my feet, but I’m still lost in the trance of how delicious he smells. “And then next, you visualize the ball—” My sights were fixated on the ball in front of my feet, but I look up and latch onto his eyes. Those blues drink me in. It must have startled him because as I looked up at him, it made him stop mid-sentence. In the midst of the thick September night’s air, we became lost in each other, lines blurred between what’s real and pretend. I don’t know what’s on his mind, but the way he looks at me is suffocating.
    He has to feel something for me. I can’t discern between the two. Maybe he’s looking at me because he can sense that I have an, oh so slight crush on him. But his look was strange. It was like an acknowledgement…of something. That he finds me cute? That he finds me weird as shit? That he’s stepped over the line? Who knows? Who cares?
    He clears his throat and the breath that falls from his lips melt my face. My knees wobble but I keep my posture. “Where was I?” he says, a shiver in his voice.
    Our eyes are still clamped together. “I’m not sure.” I can’t control that my voice sounds breathy and flirty because my brain is mush, pure mush.
    He smirks and slides his hands on top of mine. I don’t know if he’s just