“I didn’t come all this way to fucking chastise you, Saylor. I knew you’d never face it, any of it, and—”

“Are you calling me a coward?” I snap.

“I wasn’t the one to leave Germany without saying a proper goodbye,” Beck shoots back.

“What did you want me to say?” My voice is no longer just angry; it’s also loud, echoing through the enclosed expanse of field we’re standing on.

“Something!”

“I figured you’d be too busy posing for magazines to notice I’d even left,” I retort. “Oh, wait, that’s exactly what happened!”

“I think I made it pretty clear I’d noticed at CFOC,” Beck replies.

“Saying ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t an easy answer for me,” I tell Beck. “I know you think it was, but it wasn’t.” He doesn’t say anything, so I forge ahead. “Whenever any other guy has asked me how I felt about him, I’ve always known. Sometimes I’d hedge around it, tell him I was too busy with soccer or wasn’t looking for anything serious. Most of the time I wouldn’t. But the point is, I knew. I don’t know anything when it comes to you, Beck, except you’re the best sex I’ve ever had. But you’re more than that. You always have been. And I didn’t know how to express that to you. I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“You’re supposed to know,” Beck replies quietly. “You think I’ve ever told anyone else I want a relationship? You think it was easy for me to say that, knowing you’d probably run in the opposite direction?”

I bite my bottom lip, studying him. Then, I grab his left hand and start hauling him toward the exit door. I only manage to pull him a few feet before he halts.

“What are you doing?”

“Just trust me,” I implore. “I want to show you something.”

He doesn’t say anything but lets me lead him through the door that leads out to the soccer stadium. His strides pick up a bit once it comes into sight, realizing our destination. I hop the fence, and he mirrors me, trailing me out to the center line. I flop down on the turf, and he studies me for a minute before lowering himself down beside me.

“This is why I came,” he says quietly, so softly I almost don’t hear the words.

“To stare at the sky?” I ask, as I do just that.

“No, I can do that in Germany,” Beck responds, smirking as he sits back up.

I scoff as I sit up too, brushing bits of tire off the backs of my legs. The skin feels textured now, with dozens of tiny indentations marring the ordinarily smooth skin.