Tease(69)

But before he could, I said, “Can we start over?”

He started to answer me but I couldn’t stop talking. “I’m really sorry about everything, before. I just think Emma is—I just think she’s using you. But if you want me to be nicer to her, I can do that. I just miss you so much.”

I stopped, biting my lip, trying to swallow down the giant knot in my stomach.

“I’m sorry, too . . . ,” he said, but then he stopped.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “You don’t have to—I mean, never mind, it’s fine. I had a really nice time today. Thanks for driving me home.” I managed to smile at him again before I bolted out of the car and into the house.

I close my eyes now, blocking out the laptop screen in front of me and the rest of the memory of tonight, with my mom bitching about me not calling and all the crap around the house I’ll have to do tomorrow. I keep my eyes closed until I’ve picked up my phone yet again. It’s still open to the text I got an hour after Dylan drove away.

i had a nice time too. talk to you tmrw.

And yet again, my stomach tightens and then flips over happily, nervously. I turn back to my computer one last time and see I have a new email.

Emma Putnam is following you on Twitter!

What . . . the . . .

God, she’s pathetic. Is she stalking me now? I guess after Brielle’s posts today, Emma is—what? I don’t even know. I link through and I’m about to just deny her—I’m not really on Twitter that much, but this is creepy—but first I decide to check her feed, just to see.

And that’s when I see that maybe Emma isn’t actually on Twitter that much, either. Maybe not at all. I mean, not the real Emma.

Her photo is of a pig. And the posts are all the photos Brielle took today, with captions like “The guy I stole prefers nice girls.” They’re all tagged #EmmaPutnamisaSLUT.

Yikes. I know Brielle is trying to have my back. But this . . . this is bad timing. Dylan’s going to think it was me, or at least that I knew about it. And Brielle might think it’s funny, but maybe it’s not anymore. Maybe it’s just making everything worse.

My chat window pops open. Of course it’s Brie.

#emmaputnamisaslut, bitches!!!

I shake my head and type back, You can’t. Dylan will think it was me.

thbbbbbt. yr no fun.

And then she’s offline again—she just hangs up on me. I glance back over at Twitter and see a new Emma post pop up.

I don’t have any friends boo hoo cuz

#EmmaPutnamisaSLUT.

This is not good.

I close the computer and put it down on the floor next to my bed, hoping that Brie will stop soon and this will all just go away. For now, I’m going to sleep. I’m going to dream about Dylan, and about my life, which is finally back on track.





October


“ORDER UP! EXTRA chips!”

“That’s me, that’s me!”

“Okay, now, here you are . . . Let me just get your salsa . . .”

“Nooo! Not on pancakes!”

“No? You don’t take salsa with your extra chips?”

“They’re extra chocolate chips!”

“Oh, I see. Well, if that’s really what you want . . .”

“Daa-aad!”

Alex shrieks and giggles like he’s gone back in time five years. I roll my eyes, but it’s okay, because no one can see me—I’m still in the hall, out of sight, not in the kitchen with everyone. It’s nice to hear Alex laughing, but without even being able to see them, it’s painful to witness Dad doing that thing where he pretends to be all fatherly. It’s hard even to listen to.

I can also hear that he’s turned back to the stove. The pan sizzles with more butter and the spatula scrapes, and then I hear him say, “Tomcat, you’re a salsa man, right? Puts hair on the chest!”

Alex laughs even harder at this, but Tommy just says, “No, I’ll take just plain chocolate chips, too.”

He sounds a little weary. Like me. I want Tommy to like his dad—our dad—but a part of me is glad that I’m not the only one who sees what a fake he can be, how not enough this all is. Besides, it’s way too early to deal with all of it. And it’s Saturday—it’s supposed to be our day off. Or, I mean, it’s supposed to be the boys’ day off. I’m already practically vibrating with nerves about my own plans for the morning, which include an extra fun trip to Natalie’s office.

Another scoop of batter hits the pan, making the butter hiss, and my stomach drops a little lower. I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee or something. I don’t think I can go in there without throwing up on everybody.

“Doug, you know where the fields are, right?”

At the sound of my mom’s voice, I jump. I thought she was still upstairs, or out—anywhere but having a cozy pancake breakfast with Dad. Her tone is suspiciously friendly.

“Of course. Been there a million times. Right, guys?”

“Yep!” Alex says, his words muffled by a mouthful of food, I’m guessing. I don’t hear Tommy answer. It’s not like he has to—just like with our rides to school, he’s perfected the art of letting his little brother talk for him. Kind of like I figured out a long time ago, when these little visits from Dad first started to make me upset instead of happy.