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Kenny’s older brother had fixed the engine of the old junker whose hood we were now sprawled across, soaking up the sun. It was our routine—coming out to Stark Lake at least once a week in the beat-up truck that the McCormick brothers drove through town with a mix of pride and disdain. It was a miracle that the half-worn tires could still carry that rusty, windowless hunk of metal. Useless in winter, but perfect for days like this.
It was just like Bella Swan’s fucking truck. Which, in and of itself, was fascinating.
We came to the lake to skip class. Kevin would lend the truck to Kenny every now and then, and we’d sneak off to cool off with a swim under the blazing summer sun. There were always beers and cigarettes; sometimes Kenny would even bring a joint his brother had left him.
I always wore sunglasses on these trips, not to protect my eyes from UV rays, but so I could freely admire McCormick’s freckled torso. He was scrawny, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was the bruises that always seemed to decorate his skin. Kenny never seemed to care. If he noticed my gaze, he never said anything. He’d just stretch out under the sun, content to bask in its warmth.
Today, though, I couldn’t take my eyes off the massive bruise that covered most of his back. He’d been cornered by a group of dealers who hung around the abandoned plaza. Something about a debt his old man owed.
I’d seen it from afar. It wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed one of the blonde’s daily battles, but it always stunned me how he reacted—completely indifferent to the blows and insults. It wasn’t apathy, though; it was something else. Resilience. And I found that fucking admirable.
The strength of summer seemed to pour out of him, as if his golden hair were made of sunlight itself.
And for some reason, I felt grateful to be able to bask in his glow.