The Natural History of Us (The Fine Art of Pretending #2)(10)

“Tell Abuelita I’ll be there,” I say, returning my gaze to the back of Peyton’s head. “And that I’ll be bringing a girl even she can’t complain about.” From the corner of my eye, I see him stare at me in confusion. “I’m bringing my wife.”

Carlos’s mouth opens in a mix of shock and doubt and I don’t blame him. I saw Peyton’s reaction, too. But I have three whole weeks between now and then, and a plan taking shape in my mind.

Peyton may think she hates me, but that’s only because she doesn’t know the total truth. Soon, that’ll change—but I can’t rush it. I have to start small. Ease into it. Use these dates and outings to show her how much I’ve changed since I was fifteen and screwed everything up.

But I will do it.

“Mark my words, Carlos,” I say, feeling excited about a girl for the first time in a very long time. But then, that’s because it’s not just any girl; it’s my girl. She just doesn’t know it yet. “I’m gonna be the best damn husband in this entire class.”

He looks at me uncertainly, but that doesn’t faze me. I won’t let it. I know I don’t deserve it. Hell, I never deserved her. But I’m not letting anything stop me. Not this time. Thanks to Coach Stasi, I’m going to remind Peyton of all the reasons she fell for me in the first place.

And then I’m going to make her do it again.





TUESDAY, MAY 13TH


3 Weeks until Graduation

?Senior Year





PEYTON

CARMELA’S RESTAURANT 4:35 P.M.





You know what would rock? A delete button for life. A magical way to erase memories and unwanted feelings. The tingles, the lingering hope. The little things you never thought you’d miss, like simply talking to the boy you once loved, or not talking because you didn’t need to. You already know all there is to know. Breakups are crappy any way you slice it, but the worst part, even worse than seeing the boy who once owned your heart now happy with someone else, is going from speaking every day, hanging out, and sharing all aspects of your life, to nothing.

Zip, zilch, nada, thanks for playing.

“Remember that night the mariachi band dragged you onstage?” Justin flashes the lopsided grin that still haunts my dreams as he slides across the cushioned bench. “You shook a mean maraca.”

Sitting down, I squeeze my eyes shut as the night in question floods my mind, along with a dozen others. Of course I remember it. And, of course, the hostess would choose to seat us in the same booth we sat in that night, our three-month anniversary. I’m at the point where I expect the universe to mess with me now.

“Stop.” I lift my hands and shake my head, needing it all just to stop. Taking a deep breath, I crack open my eyes and resort to begging. “Please, whatever it is you’re trying to do, can you just… not? This is hard enough without your walks down memory lane, okay?”

I’ve decided that I must have royally screwed someone over in a past life to deserve this twisted brand of torture. Tonight’s game plan? Experiencing the “joys of newlywed dining.”

When your groom happens to be your ex? Not so joyous.

I keep blinking, waiting to wake up to my Bob Marley alarm and have it still be Monday. I’ll walk into FACS, ignore Lauren altogether, and this time, Coach will stick to the normal lesson plan.

So far, all that hoping has gone about as well as Gabi Avila’s covert spy mission.

The girl’s blue-black mane is speckled with bright, candy-apple-red chunks—her fashion sense rivals that of Lady Gaga—and she’s wearing thick, dark sunglasses indoors, yet she somehow expects to hide from Carlos and Lauren behind a peeling menu. She’s almost as deranged as I am for agreeing to come out here tonight.

“Look,” I say, gaze still glued to the latest “Gablos” drama explosion, “Can we please just stick to the list of questions Coach gave us? That’s why we’re here, not for whatever weird game you’re trying to play.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Hmm. That went over a bit too easily. Shifting my eyes back across the table, I watch as Justin’s smile softens. I pretend the sight does nothing to my stomach.

“Peyton.” He lifts a hand as if to cover mine, but, at my raised eyebrow, brings it back to his lap. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

I snort, a totally attractive sound, I know. But hey, it’s not as if I’m trying to impress him.

That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

“Moving on.”

Yanking out the sheet detailing tonight’s assignment, I scan the list of questions, eager to get this horrific show on the road. Maybe if I’m lucky, we’ll fly through the suckers and be done before the waitress even appears.

Some of these I already know the answers to, like what are your feelings on marriage? What with Justin cheating on me, his never-ending stream of women, and the heartless stunts his dad and stepmom have pulled through the years, I think it’s safe to say his stance is a hard “no” on that one.

“What do you think are the components of a satisfying, successful marriage?” I ask instead, setting the paper down so he won’t see how badly my hands are shaking.

I avoided the blatantly obvious question, but this one is every bit as pointless. Based on our prior history, it’s almost a given he’ll say there’s no such thing as a successful marriage. Which makes it surprising when he replies: