Between Pages 412 and 413

There was a razor blade tucked inside Georgie’s dictionary, between pages 412 and 413—mendacious to meteorite. A lie and a falling star. Nobody ever looked there, not even Missy when she borrowed it for homework she’d never finish. He’d carved a little hollow for it, neat as anything.

The cuts were on his waist, below the belt line, where his t-shirt covered them even during gym. Small, parallel lines, like railroad tracks. He’d started after his daddy told him he’d never amount to anything without a college degree. That was a Tuesday. Next day, he found the old blade in the medicine cabinet, behind the band-aids and the half-empty hydrogen peroxide his momma used on Sheldon’s scraped knees.

Tonight, he sat on the bathroom floor, jeans undone, staring at the white tub. House was quiet except for the fridge humming and the water heater creaking. Sheldon asleep. Missy asleep. Momma and Daddy gone to bed early, which meant they were fighting again—probably about the electric bill, or Daddy’s overtime, or the way Sheldon corrected the preacher at Sunday service.

He pressed the blade against his skin, just above the hip bone. The sting was sharp and clean, a bright pain that cut through the fog. He breathed out. Did it again. And again.

When he was done, he dabbed the blood with toilet paper, flushed it. Pulled up his underwear, then his jeans. The fabric rubbed the fresh lines, and he winced. Good. Meant he was still alive.

He caught his reflection in the mirror. Seventeen. Dark hair that never sat right. A face starting to look like a man’s, but not in a way that impressed anybody. He turned sideways, sucked in his stomach. Not flat enough. He’d been skipping lunch for a week, and when he did eat, he made himself throw up behind the football field. Helped, kind of. Made him feel clean.

He turned off the light and went to bed.

Next afternoon, the Texas sun was a hammer on the back of his neck. Practice was brutal, the kind that left his lungs burning and his legs shaking. Coach put them through suicides until Georgie thought he might actually die, then made them run them again. By the time they broke for water, he was on his knees, gasping, sweat dripping off his nose onto the grass.

“You good, Cooper?”

Georgie looked up. Marcus Hale stood over him, helmet under one arm, a grin spread across his face like he’d just heard a joke nobody else got. Marcus was the team captain, a senior, built like a brick wall with a jawline that could cut glass. He’d been in Medford all of three months, since his dad got transferred to the new auto plant, and he already had the whole town wrapped around his finger.

“Peachy,” Georgie managed, pushing himself up. His legs felt like wet noodles.

Marcus’s eyes drifted down, then back up. Slow. Deliberate. “Damn, Cooper. You got a tiny waist. And that—” He gestured vaguely at Georgie’s backside with his water bottle. “That’s a nice piece of real estate.”

Georgie felt heat crawl up his neck. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Marcus stepped closer, close enough that Georgie could smell the stale sweat on his jersey. “You work out?”

“I run. Sometimes.”

“Run more. It’s working.”

He winked, then jogged back to the huddle, leaving Georgie standing there with his mouth half-open and his heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the suicides.

Georgie didn’t know what to do with that. He’d been called names before, mostly by older guys who liked to pick on him for being the younger brother of a genius. But nobody had ever called his ass nice before. Certainly not a guy like Marcus.

He tried to ignore it. Told himself it was a joke, a way for the new kid to mess with him. But the next week, during a water break, Marcus found him again. Sat down beside him on the bench, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

“You got a girlfriend, Cooper?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

Georgie’s throat closed up. He shook his head.

“Good,” Marcus said. And that was it. No explanation. No follow-up. Just good, like he’d gotten the answer he wanted.

The flirting escalated. A tap on the hip during drills. A comment about how Georgie’s legs looked in the uniform. Once, after practice, Marcus waited for him by the lockers and said, “You know you’re beautiful, right? Like, actually beautiful. The kind of beautiful people write songs about.”

Georgie laughed, nervous and high. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

It was a week later that Marcus stood up in the middle of the cafeteria, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled so loud the whole room went quiet. Everyone turned. Marcus pointed at Georgie, who was sitting alone with a tray of food he had no intention of eating.

“This one’s mine,” Marcus announced, loud and clear. “Anybody got a problem with that, you come talk to me.”

A few guys laughed. Some girls whispered. Georgie wanted to disappear into the linoleum floor. But Marcus walked over, sat down across from him, and stole a fry off his plate. “You weren’t gonna eat that anyway,” he said.

And Georgie, for the first time in months, felt something other than hollow.

They started dating. Quietly at first—meetings behind the bleachers, quick kisses in the parking lot, phone calls late at night when the Cooper house was asleep. But Marcus didn’t do anything quietly for long. Within two weeks, everyone knew. Georgie caught some sidelong glances from the football team, a couple of snickers from the cheerleaders. But Marcus shut it down fast with a glare or a sharp word, and nobody pushed it.

Marcus made it his mission to show Georgie how beautiful he was. He said it every time they were alone. You’re like an angel. No, seriously. You have this light in your eyes. Don’t you see it? Georgie didn’t, not really. But when Marcus looked at him like that, he wanted to believe.

They were in Marcus’s truck, parked out by the old grain silo, when things started heating up. Marcus’s hand was under Georgie’s shirt, tracing the line of his spine, and Georgie’s brain was fizzing with static. Marcus kissed his neck, his collarbone, the spot behind his ear that made him shiver.

Then Marcus’s hand slipped lower, past Georgie’s waistband, and Georgie flinched.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus pulled back. His eyes were dark, concerned. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. I just—” Georgie’s throat tightened. He looked away, out the window at the dark fields. “I’ve never done this before. The whole thing. I’m a—I’m a virgin.”

Marcus went still. For a long second, Georgie was terrified he was going to laugh, or worse, get annoyed. But instead, Marcus cupped his face, turned it back toward him, and kissed him soft and slow.

“Hey,” Marcus whispered against his lips. “That’s not a bad thing. That’s a gift. And I’m not gonna take it from you in the back of a truck like some asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole.”

“No, I’m not. That’s why you’re gonna wait. And when we do it, it’s gonna be right. Somewhere nice. With a bed. And candles, if you want.”

Georgie laughed, wet and shaky. “Candles?”

“I’ll burn the whole damn town down for you if you ask me to. Candles are easy.”

That night, Georgie went home and hid the razor blade deeper in the book. He didn’t cut. He wanted to—the urge was there, a familiar ache—but he thought of Marcus’s hands on his face and he left the blade where it was.

It took another three weeks. Three weeks of stolen moments and whispered promises. Three weeks of Marcus saying soon, angel, soon. Three weeks of Georgie’s heart pounding every time they were alone.

Marcus had a job at the auto parts store on Saturdays. Georgie’s parents thought he was at a study group. They never checked. Sheldon didn’t care what he did as long as it didn’t interrupt his routine. Mary was too busy driving Sheldon to academic competitions and worrying about his social development. George Sr. was too tired to ask questions. And Missy—well, Missy had her own world.

So Georgie brought Marcus home on a Saturday afternoon. The house was empty. He led him through the living room, past the cluttered kitchen table, up the stairs that creaked in the same three spots they’d been creaking since Georgie was a kid. His bedroom door closed with a soft click.

It was a mess, like always. Clothes on the floor, schoolbooks scattered on the desk, an old poster of a Corvette peeling off the wall. Marcus didn’t seem to mind. He looked around, smiled, and said, “This is where you grew up.”

“Yeah. Sorry about the mess.”

“Don’t be.” Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, pulled Georgie down beside him. “I want to know everything about you. Every little thing.”

They kissed slow. Marcus’s hands were gentle, patient, always checking in. You okay? Too fast? Tell me if you want to stop. Georgie’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might pass out, but he didn’t want to stop. He wanted this. He wanted Marcus.

They undressed each other piece by piece. When Marcus saw the cuts on Georgie’s waist, he stopped. His fingers hovered over the faded white lines, the fresh pink ones. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at Georgie with an expression that was too raw to name.

“It’s not—they’re not—” Georgie started.

“I know.” Marcus kissed his forehead. “I know, baby. I know.”

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t judge. He just kept kissing him, softer now, like Georgie was something fragile and precious. And then he laid him back on the bed and took his time, worshipping every inch of skin, whispering how beautiful he was, how perfect, how he was glad Georgie had waited for him.

When it happened, it was gentle. Marcus held him, guided him, talked him through every breath. It hurt a little, but it was good. The kind of hurt that came with being held, with being loved. When it was over, Georgie lay in Marcus’s arms, sweaty and trembling, and Marcus kissed his hair and whispered, “I love you.”

Georgie had never heard those words from anyone but his mother. And even that felt different. This was a new kind of love, one that settled in his chest like a warm stone.

“I love you too,” he breathed.

Marcus stayed until the sun went down. They talked, laughed, kissed some more. Georgie’s body felt heavy and light at the same time, a deep ache in his muscles that he liked. When Marcus finally got dressed and kissed him goodbye, he promised they’d do it again soon.

“But you gotta hide it better next time,” Marcus said, grinning. “Or your daddy’s gonna kill me.”

Georgie laughed. “He won’t know.”

“Mmhm. Sure.”

Marcus climbed out the bedroom window onto the roof of the porch, the way he’d come in. He waved once, then dropped down into the bushes. Georgie watched him go, a smile stuck on his face that he couldn’t shake.

He barely slept. Every time he moved, he felt the phantom pressure of Marcus’s hands, the echo of his voice. He drifted in and out of dreams, warm and content.

Morning came too soon. The sun was bright through the thin curtains. Georgie swung his legs out of bed and immediately felt it—a deep soreness in his hips, his thighs, the space between. He stood up and wobbled. Walking to the door felt like learning to use his legs all over again.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Didn’t bother with the mirror. He knew he looked wrecked. His lips were swollen, his eyes were bright, and there was a flush on his cheeks that no amount of cold water could fix. He limped down the stairs, one hand on the railing.

The kitchen was alive with the sounds of breakfast. Mary was at the stove, scrambling eggs. George Sr. sat at the table, reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee. Sheldon was at his spot, annotating something in a notebook. Missy was pouring orange juice.

Georgie made it to the table and collapsed into a chair. The movement made him wince.

Mary turned. “Good morning, Georgie. You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She looked at him. Really looked. Her eyes narrowed, and her hand paused mid-scramble. “Georgie, honey, are you feeling okay? You look… flushed.”

“I’m fine.”

George Sr. lowered his newspaper. He stared at Georgie for a long moment, then looked at the way he was sitting—stiff, uncomfortable, angled to one side. “You limping?”

“No.”

“You just winced when you sat down.”

“I pulled a muscle at practice.”

“Yesterday was Saturday,” Sheldon said without looking up. “There was no practice scheduled for the junior varsity team on Saturday. The schedule has been the same all season. It’s illogical to claim you pulled a muscle at practice when there was none.”

Georgie wanted to throw a spoon at him. “I ran. On my own.”

“Incorrect. You never run on your own. You’ve told me on multiple occasions that running is ‘for suckers’ and that you only do it when Coach makes you.”

“Sheldon, shut up,” Missy said.

“I’m simply pointing out the inconsistency.”

Mary set down the spatula. She walked over to the table, and Georgie could feel her gaze on him like a searchlight. She reached out and touched his cheek. “You’re warm. And your lips look chapped. Are you coming down with something?”

“I’m fine, Momma.”

“You don’t look fine.” She glanced at his neck. Her hand moved to his collar, and before Georgie could pull away, she tugged it down slightly. There was a mark there, just below his jaw. A red-purple bruise.

The kitchen went quiet.

George Sr. stood up. “What is that?”

“Nothing.”

“That ain’t nothing. That’s a hickey, Georgie. You got a hickey on your neck.”

“It’s just a bruise.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy.” George Sr.’s voice was low, controlled, but there was a tremor in it. “Who were you with last night?”

Georgie’s heart slammed against his ribs. He looked around the table—Sheldon’s curious frown, Missy’s wide eyes, Mary’s pale face, George Sr.’s clenched jaw. He felt trapped, a rabbit in a snare.

“I was with a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Just a friend.”

Mary’s hand was still on his cheek. Her fingers were trembling. “Georgie, honey, were you… did you…”

“Momma, please.”

George Sr. came around the table. He was a big man, and when he stood over Georgie, he blocked out the light. “You’re gonna tell me who it was, or I’m gonna call every parent in this town until I find out.”

“Daddy, I can’t—”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Tears burned in Georgie’s eyes. He hated it. Hated that he was about to cry in front of everyone, hated that they were all staring at him like he’d done something wrong. But he hadn’t. It was good. It was love. And they were ruining it.

Meemaw chose that moment to walk in through the back door, a basket of laundry on her hip. She took one look at the scene and set the basket down. “Well, ain’t this a pretty picture. What’d I miss?”

“Georgie has a hickey,” Sheldon announced.

“Sheldon!” Mary snapped.

“What? It’s a factual observation.”

Meemaw walked over to the table. She looked at Georgie, at the mark on his neck, at the way he was holding himself. Her expression softened. She reached out and took his chin, turning his face toward her.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

Georgie’s lip trembled. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Did somebody hurt you?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me.” The words came out before he could stop them. He heard the he hanging in the air.

George Sr. went still. “He.”

Silence.

Mary’s hand dropped from his face. She took a step back. Missy’s eyes were wide as dinner plates. Sheldon looked confused, his brow furrowed.

Meemaw nodded slowly. “All right. That’s what I thought.” She turned to the rest of the family. “Everybody, sit down. We’re gonna talk about this like adults, and nobody’s gonna yell, and nobody’s gonna say something they regret.”

“Like hell we’re not gonna yell,” George Sr. said. “My son just told me he was with a man last night.”

“He told us no such thing. He told us he was with a friend who didn’t hurt him. The rest of it, you’re filling in from your own imagination.”

“Meemaw, he’s got a hickey from a man.”

“So what?” Meemaw crossed her arms. “You got a problem with that, George?”

George Sr. opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His face was red. “I don’t—I ain’t got a problem with anything. I got a problem with my son sneaking around and getting marked up like a piece of property.”

“That’s not what he is,” Georgie said, his voice cracking. “He’s not like that. He’s—he’s good to me.”

Mary was crying now, silent tears running down her cheeks. “Georgie, you’re too young. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m seventeen, Momma. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“You don’t,” she insisted. “You can’t. The Bible says—”

“The Bible also says love thy neighbor, and I’m pretty sure that don’t come with a list of conditions.” Meemaw’s voice was sharp. “Mary, you been so busy with Sheldon’s problems, you ain’t been paying attention to Georgie. And that boy over there—” she pointed at George Sr., “—you been so busy working and worrying, you forgot your oldest son is a person too. With feelings. And needs.”

She looked down at Georgie, and her eyes were wet. “He got a name, this friend of yours?”

Georgie swallowed. “Marcus.”

“Marcus Hale? The new quarterback?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Meemaw nodded. “Heard he’s a good kid. Got a reputation for being polite.”

“He is. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

The words hung in the air. Mary covered her mouth. George Sr. sat back down, heavily, like all the air had gone out of him. Missy was looking at Georgie with something new—not shock, but curiosity. Sheldon was still confused, but he’d gone quiet, which was the closest he ever got to processing something he didn’t understand.

Meemaw reached down and squeezed Georgie’s shoulder. “You did good, telling us. Even if it weren’t on purpose.”

Georgie looked up at her, at the face that had always had his back, even when no one else did. “I love him,” he said, quiet and fierce. “He makes me feel like I’m worth something.”

Mary let out a sob. George Sr. stared at the table. Sheldon said, “Love is a chemical reaction in the brain, but I suppose that doesn’t invalidate the emotional experience.”

Missy snorted. “Shut up, Sheldon.”

Meemaw kissed the top of Georgie’s head. “You are worth something, honey. You always were. Even if the rest of this family forgot to tell you.”

Georgie let himself cry then, just a little, just enough to let out some of the pressure. He didn’t know what happened next—whether his daddy would try to ground him, whether his momma would march down to Marcus’s house with a Bible—but for now, he was sitting in the kitchen, sore and tired and loved, and the razor blade in his dictionary felt a million miles away.