I squeeze my eyes shut apprehensively, not wanting to turn around to see him standing there in all his beautiful glory.
“You came.” I adjust the books in my locker, then turn around and face him. He smiles, then leans up against the locker next to mine.
“You clean up nice,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “Although, the sweaty version of you isn’t so bad, either.”
He cleans up nice, too, but I’m not about to tell him that.
“Are you here stalking me or did you actually re-enroll?”
He grins mischievously and drums his fingers against the locker. “Both.”
I really need to cut it out with the stalking jokes. It would be funnier if I didn’t think he was actually capable.
I look around at the hallway clearing out. “Well, I need to get to class,” I say. “Welcome back.”
He narrows his eyes at me, almost as if he can sense my discomfort. “You’re being weird.”
I roll my eyes at his assessment. How can he know how I’m being? He doesn’t even know me. I look back into my locker and try to mask the real thoughts on why I’m being “weird.” Thoughts like, why does his past not scare me more than it does? Why does he have a temper so bad that he would do what he did to that poor kid last year? Why does he want to go out of his way to run with me? Why was he asking around about me? Instead of verbally admitting to the questions inside my head, I just shrug and go with, “I’m just surprised to see you here.”
He leans his shoulder against the locker next to mine and shakes his head. “Nope. It’s something else. What’s wrong?”
I sigh and lean against my locker. “You want me to be honest?”
“That’s all I ever want you to be.”
I pull my lips into a tight line and nod. “Fine,” I say. I roll my shoulder against the locker and face him. “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. You flirt and say things like you have intentions with me that I’m not willing to reciprocate. And you’re…” I pause, searching for the right word.
“I’m what?” he says, watching me intently.
“You’re…intense. Too intense. And moody. And a little bit scary. And there’s the other thing,” I say, without saying it. “I just don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”
“What other thing?” He says it like he knows exactly what other thing I’m referring to, but he’s daring me to say it.
I let out a breath and press my back against the locker, staring down at my feet. “You know,” I say, not wanting to bring up his past any more than he probably does.
Holder steps in front of me and places his hand on the locker beside my head, then leans in toward me. I look up at him and he’s staring down at me, less than six inches from my face.
“I don’t know, because you’re skirting around whatever issue it is you have with me like you’re too afraid to say it. Just say it.”
Looking up at him right now, feeling trapped like I’m feeling, the same panic returns to my chest that he left there after our first encounter.
“I heard about what you did,” I say abruptly. “I know about the guy you beat up. I know about you being sent to juvi. I know that in the two days I’ve known you, you’ve scared the shit out of me at least three times. And since we’re being honest, I also know that if you’ve been asking around about me, then you’ve probably heard about my reputation, which is more than likely the only reason you’re even making an effort with me. I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not screwing you. I don’t want you thinking anything will happen between us besides what’s already happening. We run together. That’s it.”
His jaw tightens, but his expression never changes. He lowers his arm and takes a step back, allowing me room to breathe again. I don’t understand why anytime he steps within a foot of my personal space, it sucks the breath out of me. I especially don’t understand why I like that feeling.
I tuck my books to my chest and begin to shove past him when an arm goes around my waist and I’m pulled away from Holder. I glance next to me to see Grayson eyeing Holder up and down, his grip tightening around my waist.
“Holder,” Grayson says coldly. “Didn’t know you were coming back.”
Holder doesn’t even acknowledge Grayson. He continues to stare at me for several seconds, only breaking his gaze from mine to look down at Grayson’s hand that’s gripping my waist. He nods his head slightly and smiles, as if he’s come to some sort of realization, then brings his eyes back to mine.
“Well, I’m back,” he says bluntly, without looking directly at Grayson.
What the hell is this? Where did Grayson come from, and why does he have his arm around me like he’s staking claim?
Holder cuts his eyes away from mine and turns around to walk away, but stops abruptly. He spins back around and looks at me. “Track tryouts are Thursday after school,” he says. “Go.”
Then he’s gone.
Too bad Grayson isn’t.
“You busy this Saturday?” Grayson says in my ear, pulling me against him.
I push off his chest and pull my neck away from him. “Stop,” I say, irritated. “I think I made myself pretty clear last weekend.”
I slam my locker shut and walk away, wondering how in the hell I’ve escaped drama my entire life, yet I have enough for an entire book from the last two days alone.
Breckin takes his seat across from me and slides me a soda. “They didn’t have coffee, but I found caffeine.”
I smile. “Thank you very bestest friend in the whole wide world.”
“Don’t thank me, I bought it with evil intentions. I’m using it to bribe you so I can get the dirt on your love life.”
I laugh and open the soda. “Well, you’ll be disappointed, because my love life is nonexistent.”
He opens his own soda and grins. “Oh, I doubt that. Not from the way bad boy has been eyeing you from over there.” He nudges his head to the right.
Holder is three tables down, staring at me. He’s sitting with several guys from the football team that seem excited to have him back. They’re patting him on the back and talking around him, never noticing that he’s not even a part of their conversation. He takes a drink of his water, his eyes keeping their lock on mine. He sets his drink down on the table a little too forcefully, then nudges his head to the right as he stands up. I glance to the right and see the exit to the cafeteria. He’s walking toward it, expecting me to follow him.
“Huh,” I say, more to myself than to Breckin.
“Yeah. Huh. Go see what the hell he wants, then report back to me.”
I take another drink of my soda, then set it on the table. “Yes, sir.”
My body stands up to follow Holder, but I leave my heart at the table. I’m pretty sure it jumped out of my chest as soon as he indicated for me to follow him. I can put up a good front for Breckin all I want, but dammit if I can’t have a little control over my own organs.
Holder is several feet in front of me and when he swings the doors open, they swing shut behind him. I place my hand on the swinging doors when I reach them and hesitate a moment before pushing out into the hallway. I think I’d rather be heading to detention right now than to talk to him. My stomach is tied up in so many knots it could make a boy scout envious.
I look both ways, but I don’t see him. I take a few steps until I get to the edge of the lockers, then round the corner. His back is leaned up against one of them and his knee is bent, his foot propped against the locker behind him. His arms are folded across his chest and he’s looking right at me. The baby blue hue of his eyes isn’t even kind enough to mask the anger behind them.
“Are you dating Grayson?”
I roll my eyes and walk to the lockers opposite him and lean against them. I’m really getting tired of his mood swings already, and I just met the guy. “Does it matter?” I’m curious as to how it’s any of his business. He gives me that silent pause that I’ve noticed comes before almost everything he says.
“He’s an a*shole.”
“Sometimes you are, too,” I say quickly, not needing near as much time as he does to come up with a response.
“He’s not good for you.”
I let out an exasperated laugh. “And you are?” I ask, throwing his point right back at him. If we were keeping score, I’d say it’s two and zero in my favor.
He drops his arms and turns around to face the lockers, hitting one of them with a flat palm. The sound of skin against metal reverberates in the hallway and straight into my stomach.
“Don’t factor me into this,” he says, turning back around. “I’m talking about Grayson, not me. You shouldn’t be with him. You have no idea what kind of person he is.”
I laugh. Not because he’s funny…but because he’s serious. This guy that I don’t even know is seriously trying to tell me who I should and shouldn’t date? I roll my head back against the locker in a wave of defeat.
“Two days, Holder. I’ve known you all of two days.” I kick off the lockers behind me and walk toward him. “In those two days, I’ve seen five different sides of you, and only one of them has been appealing. The fact that you think you have any right to even voice an opinion about me or my decisions is absurd. It’s ridiculous.”
Holder works his jaw back and forth and stares down at me, arms tightly folded against his chest. He takes a challenging step toward me. His eyes are so hard and cold, I’m beginning to think this is a sixth side of him that I’m seeing. An even angrier, more possessive side.
“I don’t like him. And when I see things like this?” He brings his hand to my face and gently runs his finger underneath the prominent bruise on my eye. “And then see him with his arm around you? Forgive me if I get a little ridiculous.”
His fingertips trailing across my cheekbone have left me breathless. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open and not lean in toward his palm, but I hold fast to my resolve. I’m building up an immunity to this boy. Or…at least I’m attempting to. That’s my new goal, anyway.
I take a step away from him until his hand is no longer touching my face. He curls his fingers up into a fist and drops his hand to his side.
“You think I should stay away from Grayson because you’re afraid he has a temper?” I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes at him. “A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
After another few seconds of studying me, he lets out a short sigh with a barely noticeable roll of the eyes. He looks away and shakes his head, grabbing at the back of his neck. He stays in this position, facing opposite me for several seconds. When he slowly turns around, he doesn’t look me in the eyes. He folds his arms across his chest once again and looks down at the floor.
“Did he hit you,” he says without any inflection in his voice. He keeps his head trained to the floor, but looks up at me through his eyelashes. “Has he ever hit you?”
Here he goes again, inducing me into submission by a simple switch in demeanor. “No,” I say, quietly. “And no. I told you…it was an accident.”
We stare at each other in complete silence until the bell for second lunch rings and the hallway fills with students. I’m the first to break my gaze. I walk back to the cafeteria without looking back at him.
Wednesday, August 29th, 2012 6:15 a.m.
I’ve been running for almost three years. I don’t remember what started it or what made it so enjoyable that I became so disciplined at it. I think a lot of it has to do with how frustratingly sheltered I am. I try to stay positive about it, but it’s hard seeing the interactions and relationships the other students have at school that I’m not a part of. Not having internet access wouldn’t have been a big deal in high school a few years ago, but now it’s pretty much social suicide. Not that I care what anyone thinks.
I won’t deny it, I’ve had an overwhelming urge to look Holder up online. In the past when I had these urges to find out more about people, Six and I would just look them up at her house. But Six is on a transatlantic flight over the Atlantic ocean right now, so I can’t ask her. Instead, I just sit on my bed and wonder. I wonder if he’s really as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. I wonder if he has the same affect on other girls that he does on me. I wonder who his parents are, if he has siblings, if he’s dating anyone. I wonder why he seems so intent on being angry with me all the time when we just met. Is he always this angry? Is he always so charming when he isn’t busy being angry? I hate that he’s either one way or the other and never in between. It would be nice to see a laid back, calm side to him. I wonder if he even has an in between. I wonder…because that’s all I can do. Silently wonder about the hopeless boy who somehow burrowed himself into the forefront of my thoughts and won’t go the hell away.
I snap out of my trance and finish pulling my running shoes on. At least our tiff in the hallway yesterday was left unresolved. He won’t be running with me today because of it, and I’m pretty relieved about that. I need the quiet time to myself today, more than any. I don’t know why, though. It’ll just be spent wondering.
About him.
I open my bedroom window and crawl outside. It’s darker than usual for this time of morning. I look up and see that the sky is overcast, a perfect indicator of my mood. I take in the direction of the clouds, then glance at the sky to the left, curious if I have enough time to run before the bottom falls out.
“Do you always climb out your window or were you just hoping to avoid me?”
I spin around at the sound of his voice. He’s standing at the edge of the sidewalk, decked out in shorts and running shoes. No shirt today.
Dammit.
“If I was trying to avoid you I would have just stayed in bed.” I walk toward him with confidence, hoping to hide the fact that the sight of him is causing my entire body to go haywire. A small part of me is disappointed he showed up today, but most of me is stupidly, pathetically happy. I walk past him and drop onto the sidewalk to stretch. I spread my legs out in front of me and lean forward, grabbing my shoes and burying my head against my knees—partly for the muscle stretch, but mostly to avoid having to look at him.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d show up.” He drops down and claims a spot on the sidewalk in front of me.
I raise up and look at him. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m not the one with the issues. Besides, neither of us owns the road.” I practically snap at him. I’m not even sure why.
He does that staring and thinking thing again where his intense gaze somehow renders me unresponsive. It’s becoming such a habit of his I almost want to give it a name. It’s like he holds me with his eyes while he silently thinks, purposefully giving no tells in his expression. I’ve never met anyone that puts so much thought into their own responses. The way he lets things soak in while he prepares his own response—it’s like words are limited and he only wants to use the ones that are absolutely necessary.
I stop stretching and face him, unwilling to back down from this visual standoff. I’m not going to let him perform his little Jedi mind tricks on me, no matter how much I wish I could perform them on him. He’s completely unreadable and even more unpredictable. It pisses me off.
He stretches his legs out in front of me. “Give me your hands. I need to stretch, too.”
He’s sitting with his hands out in front of me like we’re about to play patty-cake. If anyone was to drive by right now I can just imagine the rumors. Just the thought of it makes me laugh. I place my hands in his outstretched palms and he pulls me forward toward him for several seconds. When he eases the tension, I pull back while he stretches forward, only he doesn’t look down. He keeps his gaze locked on mine in his debilitating eye-hold while he stretches.
“For the record,” he says, “I wasn’t the one with the issue yesterday.”
I pull him harder, more out of malice than a desire to help him stretch.
“Are you insinuating I’m the one with the issue?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Clarify,” I say. “I don’t like vague.”
He laughs, but it’s an irritable laugh. “Sky, if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t do vague. I told you I’ll only ever be honest with you, and to me, vague is the same thing as dishonesty.” He pulls my hands forward and leans back.
“That’s a pretty vague answer you just gave me,” I point out.
“I was never asked a question. I’ve told you before, if you want to know something, just ask. You seem to think you know me, yet you’ve never actually asked me anything yourself.”
“I don’t know you.”
He laughs again and shakes his head, then releases my hands. “Forget it.” He stands up and starts walking away.
“Wait.” I pull myself up from the concrete and follow him. If anyone has the right to be angry here, it’s me. “What did I say? I don’t know you. Why are you getting all pissy with me again?”
He stops walking and turns around, then takes a couple of steps toward me. “I guess after spending time with you over the last few days, I thought I’d get a slightly different reaction from you at school. I’ve given you plenty of opportunity to ask me whatever you want to ask me, but for some reason you want to believe everything you hear, despite the fact that you never heard any of it from me. And coming from someone with her own share of rumors, I figured you’d be a little less judgmental.”
My own share of rumors? If he thinks he’s going to win points by having something in common with me, he’s dead wrong.
“So that’s what this is about? You thought the slutty new girl would be sympathetic to the gay-bashing a*shole?”
He groans and runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. “Don’t do that, Sky.”
“Don’t do what? Call you a gay-bashing a*shole? Okay. Let’s practice this honesty policy of yours. Did you or did you not beat up that student last year so badly that you spent a year in juvenile detention?”
He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head, then looks at me with what seems like disappointment in his expression.
“When I said don’t do that, I wasn’t referring to you insulting me. I was referring to you insulting yourself.” He takes a step forward, closing the gap between us. “And yes. I beat his ass to within an inch of his life, and if the bastard was standing in front of me right now, I’d do it again.”
His eyes are filled with pure anger and I’m too scared to even ask him why or what it’s about. He may have said he’d be honest about it…but his answers terrify me more than asking the questions. I take a step back at the same time he does. We’re both quiet and I’m wondering how we even got to this point.
“I don’t want to run with you today,” I say.
“I don’t really feel like running with you, either.”
With that, we both turn in opposite directions. Him toward his house, me toward my window. I don’t even feel like running alone, today.
I climb back in my window just as the rain starts pouring from the sky, and for a second, I feel sorry for him that he still has to run home. But only for a second, because Karma’s a bitch, and Holder is definitely who she’s retaliating against right now. I close the window and walk to my bed. My heart is racing as fast as if I had just ran the three miles. Except right now it’s racing because I’m so incredibly pissed.
I met the guy a couple of days ago, yet I’ve never argued more with anyone in my entire life. I could add up all the arguments Six and I have had over the last four years, and it wouldn’t begin to compare to the last forty-eight hours with Holder. I don’t even know why he even bothers. I guess after this morning, he more than likely won’t.
I pick the envelope up from my nightstand and tear it open. I pull Six’s letter out and lean back on my pillow and read it, just hoping to escape from the chaos in my head.
Sky,
Hopefully by the time you’re reading this (because I know you won’t read it right away) I’ll be madly in love with a hot Italian boyfriend and not thinking about you at all.
But I know that isn’t the case, because I’ll be thinking about you all the time.
I’ll be thinking about all the nights we stayed up with our ice cream and our movies and our boys. But mostly, I’ll be thinking about you, and all the reasons why I love you.
Just to name a few: I love how you suck at goodbyes and feelings and emotions, because I do, too. I love how you always scoop from the strawberry and vanilla side of the ice cream because you know how much I love the chocolate, even though you love it, too. I love how you aren’t weird and awkward, despite the fact that you’ve been severely cut off from socialization to the point where you make the Amish look trendy.
But most of all, I love that you don’t judge me. I love that in the past four years, you’ve never once questioned me about my choices (as poor as they may be) or the guys I’ve been with or the fact that I don’t believe in commitment. I would say that it’s simple for you not to judge me, because you’re a dirty slut, too. But we both know you’re not. So thank you for being a non-judgmental friend. Thank you for never being condescending or treating me like you’re better than me (even though we both know you are.) As much as I can laugh about the things people say about us behind our backs, it kills me that they say these things about you, too. For that, I’m sorry. But not too sorry, because I know if you were given the choice to either be my slutty best friend or be the girl with the good reputation, you’d screw every guy in the world. Because you love me that much. And I’d let you, because I love you that much.
And one more thing I love about you, then I’ll shut up because I’m only six feet away writing this letter right now and it’s really hard to not climb out my window and come squeeze you.
I love your indifference. I love how you really just don’t give a shit what people think. I love how you are focused on your future and everyone else can kiss your ass. I love how, when I told you I was leaving for Italy after talking you into enrolling at my school, you just smiled and shrugged your shoulders even though it would have torn most best friends apart. I left you hanging to follow my dream, and you didn’t let it eat you up. You didn’t even give me crap about it.
I love how (last one, I swear) when we watched The Forces of Nature and Sandra Bullock walked away in the end and I was screaming at the TV for such an ugly ending, you just shrugged your shoulders and said, “It’s real, Six. You can’t get mad at a real ending. Some of them are ugly. It’s the fake happily ever afters that should piss you off.”
I’ll never forget that, because you were right. And I know you weren’t trying to teach me a lesson, but you did. Not everything is going to go my way and not everyone gets a happily ever after. Life is real and sometimes it’s ugly and you just have to learn how to cope. I’m going to accept it with a dose of your indifference, and move on.
So, anyway. Enough about that. I just want you to know that I’ll miss you and this new very best friend ever in the whole wide world at school better back off when I get home in six months. I hope you realize how amazing you are, but in case you don’t, I’m going to text you every single day to remind you. Prepare to be bombarded for the next six months with endless annoying texts of nothing but positive affirmations about Sky.
I love you,
6
I fold the letter up and smile, but I don’t cry. She wouldn’t expect me to cry over it, no matter how much she might have just made me want to. I reach over to the nightstand and take the cell phone she gave me out of the drawer. I already have two missed text messages.
Have I told you lately how awesome you are? Missing you.
It’s day two, you better text me back. I need to tell you about Lorenzo. Also, you’re sickeningly smart.
I smile and text her back. It takes me about five tries before I figure it out. I’m almost eighteen and this is the first text I’ve ever sent? This has to be one for Guinness.
I can get used to these daily positive affirmations. Make sure to remind me of how beautiful I am, and how I have the most impeccable taste in music, and how I’m the fastest runner in the world. (Just a few ideas to get you started.) I miss you, too. And I can’t wait to hear about Lorenzo, you slut.
Friday, August, 31st, 2012 11:20 a.m.
The next few days at school are the same as the first two. Full of drama. My locker seems to have become the hub for sticky notes and nasty letters, none of which I ever see actually being placed on or in my locker. I really don’t get what people gain out of doing things like this if they don’t even own up to it. Like the note that was stuck to my locker this morning. All it said was, “Whore.”
Really? Where’s the creativity in that? They couldn’t back it up with an interesting story? Maybe a few details of my indiscretion? If I have to read this shit every day, the least they could do is make it interesting. If I was going to stoop so low as to leave an unfounded note on someone’s locker, I’d at least have the courtesy of entertaining whoever reads it in the process. I’d write something interesting like, “I saw you in bed with my boyfriend last night. I really don’t appreciate you getting massage oil on my cucumbers. Whore.”
I laugh and it feels odd, laughing out loud at my own thoughts. I look around and no one is left in the hallway but me. Rather than rip the sticky notes off of my locker like I probably should, I take out my pen and make them a little more creative. You’re welcome, passersby.
Breckin sets his tray down across from mine. We’ve been getting our own trays now, since he seems to think I want nothing but salad. He smiles at me like he’s got a secret that he knows I want. If it’s another rumor, I’ll pass.
“How were track tryouts yesterday?” he asks.
I shrug. “I didn’t go.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
He laughs. “Because I like to clarify things with you before I believe them. Why didn’t you go?”
I shrug again.
“What’s with the shoulder shrugs? You have a nervous tic?”
I shrug. “I just don’t feel like being a part of a team with anyone here. It’s lost its appeal.”
He frowns. “First of all, track is one of the most individual sports you can join. Second, I thought you said extracurricular activities were the reason you were here.”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I say. “Maybe I feel like I need to witness a good dose of human nature at its worst before I enter the real world. It’ll be less of a shock.”
He points a celery stick at me and cocks his eyebrow. “This is true. A gradual introduction to the perils of society will help cushion the blow. We can’t release you alone into the wild when you’ve been pampered in a zoo your whole life.”
“Nice analogy.”
He winks at me and bites his stick of celery. “Speaking of analogies. What’s up with your locker? It was covered in sexual analogies and metaphors today.”
I laugh. “You like that? Took me a while, but I was feeling creative.”
He nods. “I especially liked the one that said ‘You’re such a slut, you screwed Breckin the Mormon.’”
I shake my head. “Now that one I can’t lay claim to. That was an original. But they’re fun, aren’t they? Now that they’ve been dirtied up?”
“Well,” he says. “They were fun. They aren’t there anymore. I saw Holder ripping them off your locker just now.”
I snap my gaze back up to his and he’s grinning mischievously again. I guess this is the secret he was having trouble holding in.
“That’s strange.” I’m curious why Holder would bother to do such a thing. We haven’t been running together since we spoke last. In fact, we don’t even interact at all. He sits across the room now in first period and I don’t see him at all the rest of the day, aside from lunch. Even then, he sits on the other side of the cafeteria with his friends. I thought after coming to an impasse, we’d successfully moved on to mutual avoidance, but I guess I was wrong.
“Can I ask you something?” Breckin says.
I shrug again, mostly just to irritate him.
“Are the rumors about him true? About his temper? And his sister?”
I try not to appear taken aback by his comment, but it’s the first I’ve heard anything about a sister. “I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve spent enough time with him to know he scares me enough to not want to spend more time with him.”
I really want to ask him about the sister comment, but I can’t help which situations my stubbornness rears its ugly head in. For some reason, probing for information about Dean Holder is one of those situations.
“Hey,” a voice from behind me says. I immediately know it isn’t Holder’s, because I’m indifferent to the voice. About the time I turn around, Grayson swings his leg over the seat bench next to me and sits. “You busy after school?”
I dip my celery stick into a blob of ranch dressing and take a bite. “Probably.”
Grayson shakes his head. “That’s not a good enough answer. I’ll meet you at your car after last period.”
He’s up and gone before I can object. Breckin smirks at me.
I just shrug.
I have no idea what Grayson wants to talk about, but if he’s thinking he’s coming over tomorrow night, he needs a lobotomy. I’m so ready to just swear off guys for the rest of the year. Especially if it means not having Six to eat ice cream with after they go home. Ice cream was the only appealing part to making out with the guys.
At least he’s true to form. He’s waiting at my car, leaning up against my driver’s side door when I reach the parking lot. “Hey, Princess,” he says. I don’t know if it’s the sound of his voice or the fact that he just gave me a nickname, but his words make me cringe. I walk up to him and lean against the car next to him.
“Don’t call me princess again. Ever.”
He laughs and slides in front of me, gripping my waist in his hands. “Fine. How about beautiful?”
“How about you just call me Sky?”
“Why do you have to be so angry all the time?” He reaches up to my face and holds my cheeks in his hands, then kisses me. Sadly, I let him. Mostly because I feel like he’s earned it for putting up with me for an entire month. He doesn’t deserve a whole lot of return favors, though, so I pull my face away after just a few seconds.
“What do you want?”
He snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. “You.” He starts kissing my neck, so I push against him and he backs away. “What?”
“Can you not take a hint? I told you I’m not sleeping with you, Grayson. I’m not trying to play games or get you to chase me like other sick, twisted girls do. You want more and I don’t, so I think we just need to accept that we’re at an impasse and move on.”
He stares at me, then sighs and pulls me against him, hugging me. “I don’t need more, Sky. It’s fine the way it is. I won’t push it again. I just like coming to your house and I want to come over tomorrow night.” He tries to flash me that panty-dropping grin. “Now stop being mad at me and come here.” He pulls my face to his and kisses me again.
As irritated and as angry as I am, I can’t help but be relieved that as soon as his lips meet mine, my irritation subsides, thanks to the numbness that takes over. For that reason alone, I continue to let him kiss me. He backs me against the car and runs his hands in my hair, then kisses down my jaw and to my neck. I lean my head against the car and bring my wrist up behind him to check the time on my watch. Karen’s going out of town for work, so I need to go to the grocery store to get enough sugar to last me all weekend. I don’t know how long he plans on feeling me up, but ice cream is really starting to sound tempting right about now. I roll my eyes and drop my arm. All at once, my heart rate triples and my stomach flips and I get all of the feelings a girl is supposed to get when a hot guys lips are all over her. Only I’m not having the reaction to the hot guy whose lips are all over me. I’m having the reaction to the hot guy glaring at me from across the parking lot.
Holder is standing next to his car with his elbow on the top of his doorframe, watching us. I immediately shove Grayson off of me and turn around to get in my car.
“So we’re on for tomorrow night?” he asks.
I climb inside the car and crank it, then look up at him. “No. We’re done.”
I pull the door shut and back out of the parking lot, not sure if I’m angry, embarrassed or infatuated. How does he do that? How the hell does he incite these kinds of feelings from me from clear across a parking lot? I think I’m in need of an intervention.
Friday, August 31st, 2012 4:50 p.m.
“Is Jack going with you?” I open the car door for Karen so she can throw the last of her luggage into the backseat.
“Yeah, he’s coming. We’ll be home….I’ll be home on Sunday,” she says, correcting herself. It pains her to count Jack as a “we.” I hate that she feels that way because I really like Jack and I know he loves Karen, so I don’t understand what her hang-up is at all. She’s had a couple of boyfriends in the past twelve years, but as soon as it starts getting serious for the guy, she runs.
Karen shuts the backdoor and turns to me. “You know I trust you, but please…”
“Don’t get pregnant,” I interrupt. “I know, I know. You’ve been saying that every time you leave for the past two years. I’m not getting pregnant, Mom. Only terribly high and cracked out.”
She laughs and hugs me. “Good girl. And wasted. Don’t forget to get really wasted.”
“I won’t forget, I promise. And I’m renting a TV for the weekend so I can sit around and eat ice-cream and watch trash on cable.”
She pulls back and glares at me. “Now that’s not funny.”
I laugh and hug her again. “Have fun. I hope you sell lots of herbal thingies and soaps and tinctures and whatever else it is you do at these things.”
“Love you. If you need me, you know you can use Six’s house phone.”
I roll my eyes at the same instructions she gives me every time she leaves. “See ya,” I say. She gets in the car and pulls out of the driveway, leaving me parent-free for the weekend. To most teenagers, this would be the point at which they pull out their phones and post an invite to the most kick-ass party of the year. Not me. Nope. Instead, I go inside and decide to bake cookies, because that’s the most rebellious thing I can come up with.
I love to bake, but I don’t claim to be very good at it. I usually end up with more flour and chocolate on my face and hair than in the actual end product. Tonight’s no exception. I’ve already made a batch of chocolate chip cookies, a batch of brownies and something I’m not sure what it was supposed to be. I’m working on pouring the flour into the mixture for a homemade German chocolate cake when the doorbell rings.
I’m pretty sure I should know what to do in situations like this. Doorbells ring all the time, right? Not mine. I stare at the door, not sure what I’m expecting it to do. When it rings for a second time, I put down the measuring cup and wipe my hair out of my eyes, then walk to the front door. When I open it, I’m not even surprised to see Holder. Okay, I’m surprised. But not really.
“Hey,” I say. I can’t think of anything else to say. Even if I could think of something else to say, I probably wouldn’t be able to say it since I can’t freaking breathe! He’s standing on the top step of my entryway, hands hanging loosely in the pockets of his jeans. His hair still needs a trim, but when he brings his hand up and pushes it out of his eyes, the thought of him trimming that hair is suddenly the worst idea in the world.
“Hi.” He’s smiling awkwardly and he looks nervous and it’s terribly attractive. He’s in a good mood. For now, anyway. Who knows when he’ll get pissed off and feel like arguing again.
“Um,” I say, uneasily. I know the next step is to invite him in, but that’s only if I’m actually wanting him inside my house, and to be honest, the jury is still out on that one.
“You busy?” he asks.
I glance back into the kitchen at the inconceivable mess I’ve made. “Sort of.” It’s not a lie. I’m sort of incredibly busy.
He looks away and nods, then points behind him to his car. “Yeah. I guess I’ll…go.” He takes a step back off the top step.
“No,” I say, much too quickly and a decibel too loudly. It’s an almost desperate no, and I cringe from embarrassment. As much as I don’t know why he’s here or why he even keeps bothering, my curiosity gets the best of me. I step aside and open the door further. “You can come in, but you might be put to work.”
He hesitates, then ascends the step again. He walks inside and I shut the door behind us. Before it can get any more awkward, I walk into the kitchen and pick up the measuring cup and get right back to work like there isn’t some random, temperamental, hot guy standing in my house.
“You prepping for a bake sale?” He makes his way around the bar and eyes the plethora of desserts covering my counter.
“My mom’s out of town for the weekend. She’s anti-sugar, so I kind of go crazy when she’s not here.”
He laughs and picks up a cookie, but looks at me first for permission.
“Help yourself,” I say. “But be warned, just because I like to bake doesn’t mean I’m good at it.” I sift the last of the flour and pour it into the mixing bowl.
“So you get the house to yourself and you spend Friday night baking? Typical teenager,” he says mockingly.
“What can I say?” I shrug. “I’m a rebel.”
He turns around and opens a cabinet, eyeing the contents, then shuts it. He steps to the left and opens another cabinet, then takes out a glass. “Got any milk?” he asks while heading to the refrigerator. I pause from stirring and watch as he pulls the milk out and pours himself a glass like he’s right at home. He takes a drink and turns around to catch me staring at him, then he grins. “You shouldn’t offer cookies without milk, you know. You’re a pretty pathetic hostess.” He grabs another cookie and walks himself and the milk to the bar and takes a seat.
“I try to save my hospitality for invited guests,” I say, turning back to the counter.
“Ouch.”
I turn the mixer on, creating an excuse to not have to talk to him for three minutes on medium to high speed. I try to remember what I look like, without noticeably searching for a reflective surface. I’m pretty sure I’ve got flour everywhere. I know my hair is being held up with a pencil and my sweatpants are being worn for the fourth evening in a row. Unwashed. I try to nonchalantly wipe away any visible traces of flour, but I’m aware it’s a lost cause. Oh well, there’s no way I could look any worse right now than when I was laid out on the couch with gravel embedded into my cheek.
I turn the mixer off and depress the button to free the mixing blades. I bring one to my mouth and lick it, and walk the other one to where he’s seated. “Want one? It’s German chocolate.”
He takes it out of my hand and smiles. “How hospitable of you.”
“Shut up and lick it or I’m keeping it for myself.” I walk to the cabinet and grab my own cup, but pour myself a glass of water instead. “You want some water or do you want to continue pretending you can stomach that vegan shit?”
He laughs and crinkles up his nose, then pushes his cup across the bar toward me. “I was trying to be nice, but I can’t take another sip of whatever the hell this is. Yes, water. Please.”
I laugh and rinse out his cup, then slide him the glass of water. I take a seat in the chair across from him and eye him while I bite into a brownie. I’m waiting for him to explain why he’s here, but he doesn’t. He just sits across from me and watches me eat. I don’t ask him why he’s here because I sort of like the quiet between us. It works better when we both shut up, since all of our conversations tend to end in arguments.
Holder stands up and walks into the living room without an explanation. He looks around curiously, his attention being stolen by the photographs on the walls. He walks closer to them and slowly scans each picture. I lean back in my chair and watch him be nosey.
He’s never in much of a hurry and seems so assured in every movement he makes. It’s like all of his thoughts and actions are meticulously planned out days in advance. I can just picture him in his bedroom, writing down the words he plans to use the following day, because he’s so selective with them.
“Your mom seems really young,” he says.
“She is young.”
“You don’t look like her. Do you look like your dad?” He turns and faces me.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t remember what he looks like.”
He turns back to the pictures and runs his finger across one of them.
“Is your dad dead?” He’s so blunt about it, I’m almost certain he knows my dad isn’t dead or he wouldn’t have asked it like that. So carelessly.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since I was three.”
He walks back toward the kitchen and takes a seat in front of me again. “That’s all I get? No story?”
“Oh, there’s a story. I just don’t want to tell it.”
He smiles at me again, but it’s a wary smile when accompanied by the quizzical look in his eyes. “Your cookies were good,” he says, skillfully changing the subject. “You shouldn’t downplay your baking abilities.”
Something beeps and I jump up from my seat and run to the oven. I open it, but the cake isn’t even close to being done. When I turn around, Holder is holding up my cell phone. “You got a text,” he laughs. “Your cake is fine.”
I throw the oven mitt on the counter, then walk back to my seat. He’s scrolling through the texts on my phone without a shred of respect for privacy. I really don’t care, though, so I just let him.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to have a phone,” he says. “Or was that a really pathetic excuse to avoid giving me your number?”
“I’m not allowed. My best friend gave it to me the other day. It can’t do anything but text.”
He turns the screen around to face me. “What the hell kind of texts are these?” He turns the phone around and reads one.
“Sky, you are beautiful. You are possibly the most exquisite creature in the universe and if anyone tells you otherwise, I’ll cut a bitch.” He arches an eyebrow and looks up at me, then back down to the phone. “Oh, God. They’re all like this. Please tell me you don’t text these to yourself for daily motivation.”
I laugh and reach across the bar and snatch the phone out of his hand. “Stop. You’re ruining the fun of it.”
He leans his head back and laughs. “Oh my God, you do? Those are all from you?”
“No!” I say, defensively. “They’re from Six. She’s my best friend and she’s halfway around the world and she misses me. She wants me to not be sad, so she sends me nice texts every day. I think it’s sweet.”
“Oh, you do not. You think it’s annoying and you probably don’t even read them.”
How does he know that?
I set the phone down and cross my arms over my chest. “She means well,” I say, still not admitting that the texts are annoying the living hell out of me.
“They’ll ruin you. Those texts will inflate your ego so much, you’ll explode.” He grabs the phone and pulls his own phone out of his pocket. He scrolls through the screens on both phones and punches some numbers on his phone. “We need to rectify this situation before you start suffering from delusions of grandeur.” He hands me back my phone and types something into his own phone, then puts it in his pocket. My phone sounds off, indicating a new text message. I look down at the screen and laugh.
Your cookies suck ass. And you’re really not that pretty.
“Better?” he says, teasingly. “Did the ego deflate enough?”
I laugh and set the phone down on the counter, then stand up. “You know just the right things to say to a girl.” I walk to the living room and turn around. “Want a tour of the house?”
He stands up and follows me while I point out boring facts and knick-knacks and rooms and pictures, but of course he’s slowly soaking it all in, never in a rush. He has to stop and inspect every tiny thing, never speaking a single word the whole time.
When we finally get to my bedroom, I swing open the door. “My room,” I say, flashing my Vanna White pose. “Feel free to look around, but being as though there aren’t any people eighteen or older here, stay off the bed. I’m not allowed to get pregnant this weekend.”
He pauses as he’s passing through the doorway and tilts his head toward me. “Only this weekend? You plan on getting knocked up next weekend, instead?”
I follow him into my bedroom. “Nah. I’ll probably wait a few more weeks.”
He inspects the room, slowly turning around until he’s facing me again. “I’m eighteen.”
I cock my head to the side, confused as to why he pointed out that random fact. “Yay for you?”
He cuts his eyes to the bed, then back to me. “You said to stay off your bed because I’m not eighteen. I’m just pointing out that I am.”
I don’t like the way my lungs just constricted when he looked at my bed. “Oh. Well then, I meant nineteen.”
He spins around, then walks slowly to the open window. He bends down and sticks his head out of it, then pulls back inside. “So this is the infamous window, huh?”
He doesn’t look at me, which is probably a good thing because if looks could kill he’d be dead. Why the hell did he have to go and say something like that? I was actually enjoying his company for a change. He turns back to me and his playful expression is gone, replaced by a challenging one that I’ve seen too many times before.
I sigh. “What do you want, Holder?” He either needs to get his point across about why he’s here, or he needs to leave. He folds his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes at me.
“Did I say something wrong, Sky? Or untrue? Unfounded, maybe?” It’s obvious in his taunting remarks that he knows exactly what he was insinuating with the window comment. I’m not in the mood to play his games; I have cakes that need baking. And eating.
I walk to the door and hold it open. “You know exactly what you said and you got the reaction you wanted. Happy? You can go now.”
He doesn’t. He drops his arms and turns around, then walks to my nightstand. He picks up the book Breckin gave me and inspects it as though the last thirty seconds never even occurred.
“Holder, I’m asking you as nicely as I’m going to ask you. Please leave.”
He lays the book down gently, then proceeds to lay down on the bed. He literally lays down on my bed. He’s on my damn bed.
I roll my eyes and walk over to where he is, then reach down and pull his legs off my bed. If I have to physically remove him from the house, I’ll do it. When I grab his wrists and lift upward, he pulls me to him in a move that happens faster than my mind can even comprehend. He flips me over until I’m on my back and he’s holding my arms to the mattress. It happens so unexpectedly; I don’t even have time to fight him. And looking up at him right now, half of me doesn’t even want to fight him. I don’t know if I should scream for help or rip off my clothes.
He releases my arms and brings one of his hands to my face. He brushes his thumb across my nose and laughs. “Flour,” he says, wiping it away. “It’s been bugging me.” He sits up against my headboard and brings his feet back onto the bed. I’m still flat on the mattress, staring up at the stars, actually feeling something other than nothing for the first time ever while looking at them.
I can’t even move, because I’m sort of afraid he’s crazy. I mean literally, clinically insane. It’s the only logical explanation for his personality. And the fact that I still find him so incredibly attractive can only mean one thing. I’m insane, too.
“I didn’t know he was gay.”
Yep, he’s crazy.
I turn my head toward him, but say nothing. What the hell do you say to a crazy person who literally refuses to leave your house, then starts spouting off random shit?
“I beat him up because he was an a*shole. I had no idea he was gay.”
His elbows are resting on his knees and he’s looking right at me, waiting for a reaction. Or a response. Neither of which he’s getting for a few seconds, because I need to process this.
I look back up at the stars and give myself time to analyze the situation. If he’s not crazy, then he’s definitely trying to make a point. But what point? He comes over here, uninvited, to defend his reputation and insult mine? What would be the point of even going forth with the effort? I’m just one person, what does my opinion matter?
Unless, of course, he likes me. The thought literally makes me smile and I feel dirty and wrong for hoping a lunatic likes me. I had it coming, though. I should have never let him in the house, knowing I’m alone. And now he knows I’ll be home all weekend alone. If I had to weigh tonight’s decisions, this would probably be so heavy it would break the dumb side of the scale. I foresee this ending in one of two ways. We’ll either come to a mutual understanding of one another, or he’s going to kill me and chop me up into tiny pieces and bake me into cookies. Either way, it makes me sad for all the dessert that isn’t being eaten right now.
“Cake!” I yell, jumping up off the bed. I run to the kitchen just in time to smell my latest disaster. I grab the oven mitt and pull the cake out, then throw it on the counter in disappointment. It’s not too badly burnt. I could probably salvage it by drowning it in icing.
I shut the oven and decide that I’m moving on to a new hobby. Maybe I’ll make jewelry. How hard could that be? I grab two more cookies and walk back to my bedroom and hand one of the cookies to Holder, then lay down on the bed next him.
“I guess the gay-bashing a*shole remark was really judgmental on my part then, huh? You aren’t really an ignorant homophobe who spent the last year in juvenile detention?”
He grins and scoots down on the bed next to me and looks up at the stars. “Nope. Not at all. I spent the entire last year living with my father in Austin. I don’t even know where the story about me being sent to juvi came into the picture.”
“Why don’t you defend yourself against the rumors if they aren’t true?”
He turns his head toward me on the pillow. “Why don’t you?”
I purse my lips together and nod. “Touché.”
We both sit quietly on the bed eating our cookies. Some of the things he’s said over the past few days are starting to make sense, and I begin to feel more and more like the people I despise. He told me outright that he would answer anything if I just asked, yet I chose to believe the rumors about him instead. No wonder he was so irritated with me. I was treating him just like everyone else treats me.
“The window comment from earlier?” I say. “You were just making a point about rumors? You really weren’t trying to be mean?”
“I’m not mean, Sky.”
“You’re intense. I’m right about that, at least.”
“I may be intense, but I’m not mean.”
“Well, I’m not a slut.”
“I’m not a gay bashing a*shole.”
“So we’re all clear?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I guess so.”
I inhale a deep breath, then exhale, preparing to do something I don’t do very often. Apologize. If I wasn’t so stubborn, I might even admit that my judgmental behavior this week was completely mortifying and he had every right in the world to be angry with me for being so ignorant. Instead, I keep the apology short and sweet.
“I’m sorry, Holder,” I say quietly
He sighs heavily. “I know, Sky. I know.”
And we sit like this in complete silence for what seems like forever but also doesn’t feel like near long enough. It’s getting late and I’m afraid he’s about to say he needs to leave because there’s nothing else to say, but I don’t want him to. It feels right, being here with him now. I don’t know why, but it just does.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, finally breaking the silence. I don’t respond, because it doesn’t feel like his statement is waiting for a response. He’s just taking one of his moments to prepare whatever it is he wants to ask me. He takes a breath, then rolls over onto his side to face me. He tucks his elbow under his head and I can feel him looking at me, but I keep staring at the stars. He’s way too close for me to look at him right now, and by the way my heart is already pounding against my chest, I’m afraid moving any closer will physically kill me. It doesn’t seem possible that lust can cause a heart to take this much of a beating. It’s worse than running.
“Why were you letting Grayson do what he was doing to you in the parking lot?”
I want to crawl under my covers and hide. I was hoping this wouldn’t come up. “I already told you. He’s not my boyfriend and he’s not the one who gave me the black eye.”
“I’m not asking because of any of that. I’m asking because I saw how you reacted. You were irritated with him. You even looked a little bored. I just want to know why you allow him to do those things if you clearly don’t want him touching you.”
His words throw me for a loop and I’m suddenly feeling claustrophobic and sweaty. I don’t feel comfortable talking about this. It makes me uneasy how he reads me so well, yet I can’t read him for anything.
“My lack of interest was that obvious?” I ask.
“Yep. And from fifty yards away. I’m just surprised he didn’t take the hint.”
This time I turn to face him without thinking, and tuck my elbow under my head. “I know, right? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve turned him down but he just doesn’t stop. It’s really pathetic. And unattractive.”
“Then why do you let him do it?” he says, eyeing me sharply. We’re in a compromising position right now, facing each other on the same bed. The way he’s staring at me and dropping his eyes to my lips prompts me to roll onto my back again. I don’t know if he feels the same, but he rolls onto his back, too.
“It’s complicated.”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “I was just curious. It’s really not my business.”
I tuck my hands behind my head and look up at the stars that I’ve counted more times than I can count. I’ve been in this bed with Holder longer than I’ve probably been in this bed with any boy, and it occurs to me that I haven’t felt the need to count a single star.
“Have you ever had a serious girlfriend?”
“Yep,” he says. “But I hope you aren’t about to ask for details, because I don’t go there.”
I shake my head. “That’s not why I’m asking.” I pause for a few seconds, wanting to word things the right way. “When you kissed her, what did you feel?”
He pauses for a moment, probably thinking this is a trick question. “You want honesty, right?” he asks.
“That’s all I ever want.”
I can see him smile out of the corner of my eyes. “Alright then. I guess I felt…horny.”
I try to appear unaffected, hearing that word come out of his mouth, but...wow. I cross my legs, hoping it’ll help minimize the hot flashes racing through me. “So you get the butterflies and the sweaty palms and the rapid heartbeat and all that?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Not with every girl I’ve been with, but most of them.”
I angle my head in his direction, trying not to analyze the way that sentence came out. He turns his head toward me and grins.
“There weren’t that many.” He smiles and his dimple is even cuter close up. For a moment, I get lost in it. “What’s your point?”
I bring my eyes back to his, briefly, then face the ceiling again. “My point is that I don’t. I don’t feel any of that. When I make out with guys, I don’t feel anything at all. Just numbness. So sometimes I let Grayson do what he does to me, not because I enjoy it, but because I like not feeling anything at all.” He doesn’t respond and his silence makes me uncomfortable. I can’t help but wonder if he’s mentally labeling me as crazy. “I know it doesn’t make sense, and no, I’m not a lesbian. I’ve just never been attracted to anyone before you and I don’t know why.”
As soon as I say it, he darts his head toward me at the same second I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my arm over my face. I can’t believe I just admitted, out loud, that I’m attracted to him. I could die right now and it wouldn’t be soon enough.
I feel the bed shift and he encompasses my wrist with his hand and removes my arm from over my eyes. I reluctantly open them and he’s propped up on his hand, smiling at me. “You’re attracted to me?”
“Oh, God,” I groan. “That’s the last thing you need for your ego.”
“That’s probably true,” he laughs. “Better hurry up and insult me before my ego gets as big as yours.”
“You need a hair cut,” I blurt out. “Really bad. It gets in your eyes and you squint and you’re constantly moving it out of the way like you’re Justin Bieber and it’s really distracting.”
He fingers his hair with his hand and frowns, then falls back onto the bed. “Man. That really hurt. It seems like you’ve thought that one out for a while.”
“Just since Monday,” I admit.
“You met me on Monday. So technically, you’ve been thinking about how much you hate my hair since the moment we met?”
“Not every moment.”
He’s quiet for a minute, then grins again. “I can’t believe you think I’m hot.”
“Shut up.”
“You probably faked passing out the other day, just so you could be carried in my hot, sweaty, manly arms.”
“Shut up.”
“I’ll bet you fantasize about me at night, right here in this bed.”
“Shut up, Holder.”
“You probably even…”