Tease(62)

“Where’s Emma?” I ask Dylan, but quietly, so the other two can’t hear me. I keep my expression blank, or I try to—but just in case, I lift the beer can and take a long drink. It’s cold and sharp and I instantly feel a rush of warmth all the way to my knees. Beer and Dylan’s smile, his body next to mine on the couch . . . dangerous combo.

He frowns and shakes his head a little. “She’s . . . I don’t know. She said she’s grounded or something.”

I hesitate, wondering if she’s grounded because of what Brielle and I did, what we said to her mom. With a jolt I realize that Dylan might know everything already—didn’t Emma’s parents call Jacob’s? But why would he still invite us over? God, Brielle didn’t explain anything to me. I have to just play it cool.

“Don’t you believe her?” I ask, taking a big gulp of beer.

“Sure, I guess. But she wouldn’t tell me why.”

I nod sympathetically, relief flooding me even faster than the buzz from the beer does.

Dylan’s frown deepens. “Come on, you don’t care about me and Emma,” he says. “You hate her.”

For some reason, his words slice right through me. If I were trying to act like a wounded puppy, I couldn’t come close—but there are tears in my eyes suddenly, and I have to clear my throat before I can say, “She stole my boyfriend.”

Dylan just looks at me for a second. He looks at me like he never really saw me before, but then he turns back to his beer, taking a long gulp. He stands up, and I think he’s going to walk away, but when he’s on his feet he turns back to me and holds out a hand.

“You want to get out of here?”

Holy crap. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.



We’re in the back of Dylan’s car and it’s old times again, it’s like it should be. It’s better than old times too, because I’m not scared. I know him, I trust him. He needs me.

I’m the one moving things along—I take off my own shirt, and I don’t go limp when he starts tugging at the waist of my jeans. I don’t care that we didn’t even move the car off the street near Jacob’s house. The other houses are far apart and there are so many trees, it feels all wooded and private. And I want to be here so badly—I want to be close to him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Before, I don’t know—I think I just wanted to have a boyfriend or feel like he liked me. But now that I know what it’s like to have him and lose him, I can’t let go. I won’t let go.

But Dylan pushes away. I’m lying across the backseat and he lifts himself up, looking down at me.

“This isn’t—I don’t think we—”

“It’s okay,” I say in a rush. “I’m okay.”

A look crosses his face that I can’t really read. I don’t want to read it—if it’s second thoughts, I don’t want to hear them.

I pull him back to me and we keep kissing. And then I’m having sex again, for the second time in my life, with this perfect, perfect guy. He’s perfect and he likes me. He didn’t really leave. He’s back. We’re back.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move right away, and I wrap my arms around him. He’s still wearing his sweater but I don’t mind. It’s cute. It’s warm. Then when we both sit up and rearrange ourselves. I feel like laughing. I feel better than I have in a hundred years.

But when I look over at Dylan, his eyes are down. And he goes, “I’m sorry. I guess I just . . . I don’t know.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I’m stuck again. What’s happening? What does he want to hear?

“It’s . . . okay,” I finally manage, though I don’t even know what I mean. Why is he apologizing?

He shakes his head. “Emma really is a nice person,” he tells me. The sound of her name feels like a punch to the gut, but I sit silently and wait for him to say more. “It’s just so hard . . . She’s had such a hard time. Not just at Elmwood or with you guys or whatever.”

I want to point out that Dylan wasn’t a big Emma defender himself, back before Valentine’s Day, but I guess he wasn’t as mean as Jacob or Tyler. He didn’t really do anything at all.

I clear my throat. If we have to talk about this, fine. He’s going to break up with her, obviously. So maybe I can feel a little sorry for Emma Putnam, just this once.

“I heard she sees a therapist,” I say.

“Yeah, she does. But not like that,” he adds, and now he’s looking at me, his eyes pleading for me to understand, even though I obviously don’t. “At her old school it was just really hard, and her parents thought it would be good to move to Elmwood. Or her mom did, I mean—I don’t know, it seems like her stepdad is really a jerk.”

I can’t help but snort at that. “Yeah, okay. I’ll take a jerky stepdad who buys me a freaking Audi any day,” I say. And I would. I don’t understand how half the kids at Elmwood walk around like they’re suffering so much. I haven’t even seen my real dad since the world’s crappiest day-after-Christmas visit last year. He brought the boys some sports equipment and then he handed me an unwrapped Taylor Swift CD. I just stared at it, unable to even begin explaining what a ridiculous excuse for a “gift” it was.