I hadn’t seen Marcus since graduation, and I’d preferred it that way. Even 10 years later, his name still left a bad taste in my mouth.
Back in high school, he got a real kick out of cornering me in the halls. He’d drift up behind me, bump my shoulder, and murmur, “Less than,” with a grin for whoever was watching.
Teachers called him “spirited.”
If my stutter caught when I tried to speak, he leaned in like we were buddies. “Spit it out,” he’d say, low and amused, and heat would crawl up my neck into my ears.