Previously, this was titled "The Lost Art of Doing Nothing." Despite only having the prologue and first chapter uploaded on Fictionpress, I had written an additional five chapters, and the story was not going in the direction I wanted it to (which teaches me to ever start a story from a single line and just throw it up on Fictionpress). So I took it down, reconsidered it, and have since come up with this. Here's hoping, for your sake and mine, that this version is much more coherent and constructive.

Also: This is my first romance ever. If you read romance, I would really, REALLY appreciate some feedback on this. Since it's my first time ever writing romance, I'm kind of sort of freaking out internally that this will be a total Epic Fail! because romance is my worst subject...and I try to respond to reviews/review in return, if you need some kind of incentive. Pretty pretty please?

Seven Plus One: Chapter One: The Call

"Jazz."

The phone call I get at a quarter past two in the afternoon is one that I know I will shudder to think of for the rest of my life. How could I not, when my best friend in the entire world sounds so desperate and close to tears?

"Come and get me. Please, please come and get me—" The words are strangled, abruptly choked off by emotion, and I slip my feet into my size eight Champions as I stand up.

"Where are you?" I ask my friend gently, hearing him take a sharp breath on the other end. I cross the room to my wooden dresser and pick up my keys; they scrape against the wood and jingle against each other as my hand curls around them.

"I…I'm." There is a pause, and I hear several quick, shaky breaths, almost like he is close to hyperventilating.

I look into the mirror, waiting for the rest of the response. My reflection gazes back at me: slightly slanted brown eyes wary, dark chocolate hair smoothed to my chin, lower lip caught in teeth that were straightened by braces. The frown pinching my tanned skin shows me how worried I am. My clothes, at least, are neat, but it's hard to mess up a white Hong Kong t-shirt and blue jeans.

My friend swallows hard and breathes deep, but does not sound any calmer. "I'm at the Senior Tree. Please…"

I nod, more absently than anything else, because really, nobody but me can see it. "Sit tight," I murmur, trying my best to sound calm. "I'm leaving now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you, Jazz. Oh, God, thank you so much."

"Shh. Fifteen minutes, okay? I'll see you soon."

I end the call and I am out the door, leaving behind my bedroom, my cat, and my half-finished math homework.

"Did you forget something at school, Leigh?" my mother asks, as I go flying through the kitchen, toward the back door. She's got her dark hair pulled back, a glass mixing bowl full of yellow cake mix cradled against her as she stirs, and she's wearing the obnoxiously green apron I made for her in eighth grade Home Ec. four years ago.

I skid to a brief halt long enough to deliver a two-word explanation , my tennis shoes squeaking on the clean gray linoleum as I toss the answer over my shoulder. "Yeah," I say. "Willow."

My mother frowns and opens her mouth to speak, but I am gone again, swinging open the storm door and then pushing the outer one open.

"Bring him back here!" she calls after me. The screen door bangs shut loudly; I race for my car.

As I'm turning out of the gravel driveway onto the street, my thoughts are already racing, and the beginnings of unease are settling in my stomach. Despite the Florida heat, no worse in October than in any other month, I feel cold with worry. I jam my finger into the power button for the car stereo and then settle both hands on the wheel. The LED blinks a few times and then spells out Track 1 – 4:47. Vivaldi surrounds me, and although I had hoped it would be a suitable distraction, the music just fades out of my head after a few minutes.

Willow told me he was at the Senior Tree. I know he was supposed to have one of his extracurricular activities today; on Fridays, he meets with the high school art teacher's intern, Mr. Elwen (or "Jude" with the seniors, as he prefers a first-name basis), to draw and listen to music for an hour. Jude is not much older than any of us—he's working toward his master's in art, thus the reason for the internship. The two of them have similar tastes, and they get along well. For Willow to have skipped this part of his usual Friday routine, something must be wrong, and the fact that he's at the Senior Tree proves it.

The Senior Tree is the oldest tree on the entirety of the Riverside High School campus. Ironically, it's this giant willow tree, with branches as big around as I am and tendrils of leaves that snake so far down they curl on the ground. It's a very good tree to use for getting away from the hustle and bustle of campus life, because the sound is muffled and anything past the branches is almost completely hidden in shadow. In the summertime, the tree provides shade from the heat, and in the wintertime, the tree provides a shield from the icy wind. The only catch is, only seniors are allowed to sit under it. It's sort of like a privilege—you get to your last year of high school, and you get to sit under the willow tree.

Despite this, most people don't. Most of the girls seem to be under the impression that there are chiggers in the tree (which actually happens with mossy oaks, not willow trees). I don't know what the boys' excuses are. Occasionally there will be a day where a few couples will sit under the tree, but either we don't see the couples or they leave for food and somehow don't make it back.

Anyway, the Senior Tree is where Willow and I have lunch every day, along with our friends Maribel Giovanni and the Daniels brothers. It's our favorite spot, and everyone who could possibly need to seek us out during lunch knows to find us there. When Willow is dating someone, they also sit under the tree with us. The rest of us haven't tried dating anyone yet, but if we do, our dates will sit with us.

The downside to the Senior Tree is that it's where Willow's last two relationships ended. As you can probably imagine, that tree holds many happy and sad memories, despite there only being three quarters left in the school year. After them, Willow decided he wanted to try again—he's strong and stubborn like that. His current relationship seemed to be going in a positive direction, and so you can understand why I'm so nervous about the call I got from him.

As I pull into the senior parking lot, a wooden sign greets me with painted blue script: Welcome to Riverside High, and in smaller print just below, Senior/Teacher Parking Only. A smaller but taller sign, this one white metal, protests in bold red print: No Drop-Offs. I pull straight into a parking space, where I can see the back end of the school with its two-story building and rows of portables. Moving on autopilot, I shut off the car, get out, shut the door and press the lock button; I don't hear a beep in response, but I'm not paying attention anyway.

The Senior Tree is located in the middle of the school courtyard. The courtyard is big; it seems huge, when you're a freshman at orientation, but over the years it shrinks down to a more natural size. I run for it, stuffing my keys in my jeans pocket as I go; I stumble awkwardly until I manage to get my hand free again. With every step, my worry increases. Please don't let this be what I think it is. Please don't let it be.

Eventually the tree is in my sights. The courtyard is mostly deserted; the teachers get mean if you aren't gone by two o'clock on Fridays, and it's almost three now.

But somebody must be here, because I can hear shouting. The voice it belongs to sounds familiar, too familiar, and the voice that counters it is Willow's. He sounds upset, and despite how desperate I am to get there, suddenly I am slowing down.

Willow never shouts. Not unless you get him really worked up. He's a genuinely nice guy. He's a lover, not a fighter, but he fights for what he loves, and he's always fought for his beliefs and his boyfriends.

Yes, boyfriends. Willow is gay. But he doesn't do one night stands, or open relationships. His last boyfriend, Aaron Law, couldn't seem to understand this. They resolved their differences and are kind-of-sort-of friends, meaning that they don't hate each other's guts, but they don't really talk much. Aaron is happy that Willow is looking for real love—supports him for sure, even though he doesn't want the same thing yet. When Willow found Lucas, we all thought maybe he would be the one; after all, Lucas was sweet, and kind, and he wanted something real, too.

That's why this is so confusing to me. The other person under that tree is definitely Lucas, no question—a month of sitting with him under the willow has ensured that I know his voice. He and Willow seemed happy at lunch today, so this is a new development. I swallow hard and tune in, slowing my steps further until I am stopped at the outside border of the willow's branches.

"I thought you wanted this!" Willow is shouting, and I can vaguely see him gesturing, his hands cutting slashes through the air.

"You don't know what I want!" Lucas shouts back. I part a few of the willow branches to see better; yeah, definitely him. I recognize his short blond hair and the red Everclear concert tee he was wearing at lunch today. His posture is rigid, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

"Apparently not!" Willow agrees, throwing up his hands. "You—fuck. You told me you weren't looking for an open relationship!"

"I wasn't! I'm not."

"Then what the fuck was that behind the portables today, huh? You were fucking kissing Trevor Allen!" Willow screams, and my heart skips a beat. Lucas was cheating?

"Shut the fuck up!" Lucas yells over him, breathing hard. Lower, he continues, "Shut up! Willow, I can't believe you're making such a big deal out of this."

"What? Damn it, Luke—"

"Is it really so hard for you to just accept the fact that I've found someone new? That I've found someone better than you?" Lucas wants to know, his voice dangerously soft.

Willow drops his hands, staring at Lucas with wide eyes. "Luke…Lucas, you…I mean, I just—fuck, we wouldn't be here if you'd just told me—"

"Told you?" Lucas sneers. "Why?"

Willow's expression hardens. "It's common fucking sense, you asshole!" he cries.

"Why?" Lucas shouts, jerking a little. "Why should I have let you in on it? You've got your secrets, and nobody knows about them—"

"That's different," Willow says desperately. "Luke—"

"—like your little book that you carry around all the time! You—you write fucking whatever in it and you never let anybody see it, even, even when I've asked you time and time again, like, what? It's that hard to just fucking come and talk to me when you're feeling bad? You don't trust me so you just write it all out, all your little secrets about how your mom sucks and your dad sucks and your life sucks and everything is so fucked up and you won't just come and fucking talk to me instead?!" Lucas yells, his voice gradually getting louder. At the end of it Willow freezes, and I know Lucas has gone too far.

"Lucas…nobody sees that. Nobody but me. Even Jazz doesn't see that," Willow says softly, looking stricken, and he's right—I've never seen what he writes about. "It's not a trust issue, Lucas, it's just personal—"

"Personal?" Lucas spits out violently. "What, like not coming and talking to me about how you feel is fucking personal?"

"No," Willow says carefully, and he takes a step forward. He's taller than Lucas by an inch; it's not very intimidating for him, but I would be scared out of my mind if he stood over me like that. "Like not telling me that you're cheating on me with someone else is fucking personal!"

"Why should it be? You said it's not a trust issue but it is, Willow, it fucking is! You don't even know!" Lucas is breathing hard; Willow shrinks back, looking horrified again. "No, don't you open your mouth and fucking apologize," Lucas snaps bitterly, looking him square in the eye. "You know how a relationship works. God, you've been through, what, like—four or five already! It's absolutely ridiculous for you to think that not sharing your thoughts with the person who loves you is not a trust issue. It is, Willow. You're just too spineless to admit it. You won't unload your problems even when they're killing you and I can tell, it drives you crazy, you get that look on your face when you zone out in the mornings and you won't fucking talk to me! So obviously—obviously you don't care about me. You don't love me."

"Lucas, I—"

"No, you don't! Willow, having a relationship requires communication. We do not communicate. Sure, we talk about school, our homework, our friends…but we don't talk about the things that really matter. Even when I mention my family, you just never pick up the thread. You never talk about your home life or your familyor your parents' divorce, and I just can't figure out why. Why? Why haven't you ever invited me over, why haven't you ever let me see your book, why haven't you ever just come and talked to me?"

Willow swallows hard. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice choked. "I should have talked to you about it, I know I should've, but that's not an excuse for you to go off and cheat on me. If you had told me all of this sooner, I could've…I would've—"

"No, you wouldn't have," Lucas states coldly. "Look, forget it, Willow, and forget us. If you can't come and talk to me then we obviously shouldn't be together."

I can't take it anymore. The leaves rustle as I push through them; both boys turn to look at me when I've made it past the branches. Willow looks heartbroken, and his voice cracks as he utters his nickname for me. "Jazz."

Lucas sneers. "Oh, so that's what you were doing when I found you again. You called your little girlfriend." He looks me up and down as I square my shoulders and glare at him, and he titters softly. "Evaleigh Jacinta Ryan. Nice to see you again."

"I think you should leave, Lucas," I tell him, and my voice has taken on that soft, dangerous note that was in his earlier.

He looks back at Willow, angry. "You see? This is what I mean. You couldn't talk to me, so you chickened out and called her instead. You're so pathetic, Willow!"

I shove him firmly into the willow branches, glaring. "You need to go," I command, my voice steely now. "Get lost, Lucas Carmichael. Don't you ever come back here."

Lucas snorts at me. He narrows his eyes at Willow, but I take a threatening step forward, and he rolls his eyes , standing tall as he turns and stalks off. The willow branches close seamlessly behind him, shutting out the world.

When I'm sure he won't come back for the last word, I turn my attention to my best friend, hurrying over to him. He's collapsed by the tree trunk, shaking with his head buried in the knees of his black jeans. His hair makes a curtain over his face, hiding it, but I can still hear the sobs racking his slender frame.

I drop to my knees beside him and reach across his shoulders, tugging on the left one; he turns into me almost at once, burying his face in my neck and clutching at my shirt as a fresh wave of sobs breaks over him. I hold him tight, rocking him gently, and blink back my own tears as I murmur to him soothingly. "Oh, sweetheart…shh, Willow, shh. He's gone, it's all right. It's okay, baby. Shh, shh…"

He doesn't try to speak until most of the sobs have quieted. His voice hiccups in odd places as he gets the words out, and my heart aches for him. "I-I thought. I thought, that he, he l-loved me. I di—I didn't. I didn't know…that he. Was s-so. So uh-uh-upset. I'm soh-sorry. Lucas, I—I'm sorry."

"Shhhh," I whisper, pressing a kiss into Willow's silky raven hair as another wave of tears streaks down his face. He moans and presses his face into my shirt, and we stay there, like that, as time passes.

Eventually he goes quiet. I hold him for a few minutes more, and then I run my fingers through his hair to get his attention. He stirs a little, sniffing, and I ask softly, "You want to get out of here?"

He pulls back and straightens, wiping at his eyes. He doesn't smile when he looks at me. "Yeah," he mumbles sadly.

I get up and take his hand, helping him up; when I move to let go, he tightens his grip a little. I look at him, surprised, and he doesn't look at me, just starts forward. I give in, and we head for the parking lot.