The Natural History of Us (The Fine Art of Pretending #2)(3)

A row over, my former nemesis lifts her hand. “What teammate?”

“Ah, glad you asked, Lauren.” Hitching her hip onto the desk, Coach pauses for a moment, letting the suspense build. From the look in her eye, this is going to be interesting. I find myself leaning forward, right along with the rest of the class, until she finally announces:

“Congratulations, kids! You’re all newlyweds.”

Gasps and confused laughter echo around me. Coach grins (See what I mean? Sadist), and immediately, Melissa and Lauren start whispering about who their husbands will be. A mystery evidently high on everyone’s minds since a male voice asks from the back, “Do we get to pick our wives?”

Without permission, my head swivels. My survival instincts always suck when it comes to him. Yeah, he wasn’t the one to ask the question, and I’ve made it a point never to look back there in almost nine months, but I know he’s there. Seated with the rest of the baseball team.

My gaze slides over Drew, our third baseman, and Brandon, our main pitcher. It hesitates over Carlos, the star shortstop and class clown, his hand in the air and a goofball grin on his face. Then it stops on Justin.

Whoosh! Cold flashes the back of my neck. A dull twinge builds behind my ribs, and time turns glacial as my heart seizes in my chest. It’s not hate or anger pooling in my gut—God, I wish it were. More like humiliation, hurt, and intense regret. Also a dash of loneliness and stupid longing.

How pathetic is that?

“Afraid not,” Coach replies and I force my attention back to the front, thankfully before he catches me gawking or I’d be adding embarrassment to the mix. “I’m aware there are several couples in this class, but the project will run the duration of the course. Unfortunately, that’s longer than most Fairfield relationships. I think partner assignments are best left to my handy-dandy computer.”

With that, she picks up the packets.

As she walks to the far end of the room, she nods at someone peeking through the glass window in the doorway. “Here,” she tells Madison in the front row. “Take a stack and hand them back. I have to step out for a moment so use this time to look the project over. All the details about group assignments are inside, including your spouse’s name on the last page.”

She walks out, the door closes behind her, and laughter breaks out all around.

That’s when it hits me.

Why it didn’t before, when everyone was whispering and wondering, I have no idea. I blame rodeo. Either way, as the packets make their turtle-like crawl across the room, and the horrific possibility turns more into a sick, twisted, certainty (because, let’s face it, that’s how my life rolls), all I can do is await my fate and think:

Surely, my luck can’t suck that badly… can it?

The question’s not even fully formed before I’m closing my eyes and chuckling.

Oh, silly girl. Of course it can.

I rock back and forth in my chair, the stiff plastic squeaking as old memories assault me, this time not of rodeo or my weak body, but a particular boy and his wicked grin. The way he teased me, the way he kissed me. The deep sound of his laugh and the haunted look in his eyes.

And the craptastic way I fell for him.

“Peyton.” Mi-Mi nudges my arm and I open my eyes. Attempting a smile, I take the packets from her hands and blindly toss five behind me before handing off all but one to my neighbor. “You all right?”

I nod stiffly. “Just a little nauseous.”

No truer words have ever passed my lips.

She accepts that with a shrug, and I begin to flip—papers, that is. Funny, I was so desperate to see who my partner is, curious to learn if the universe really hated me that much, but now that the packet is in my hands, and the truth is seconds away, it’s like I’m trudging through oil. The room disappears. Lauren’s snide giggles float away. My world shrinks until all that’s left is the sound of my choppy breaths and the page deciding how my senior year will end: stress-free or in epic misery.

I shake out my hand and exhale, psyching myself up for the big reveal. Then, slowly, fearfully, I turn the final sheet and peer at the bottom of the page.

And begin laughing hysterically.

Oh, I feel Mi-Mi’s stare. Sense Lauren’s judgment. If Coach were still here, she’d no doubt be offering up a pass for the nurse. But no pills and no amount of lying down is gonna stop this crazy train from derailing, because right there, typed in black permanent ink on the final row of the spreadsheet is my name. Paired with the boy who irrevocably broke my heart...

Justin Carter.





JUSTIN

FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCES 1:45 P.M.





“When Gabi hears I’m married to Lauren, she’s gonna go ape shit.”

Carlos groans and I tear my gaze away from a near hysterical Peyton. My best friend flips his pencil in his hand and feigns stabbing himself in the chest. “Think Coach Stasi will let me switch partners?”

It takes a second to process what he’s asking. Peyton’s laugh is still ringing in my ears. But I’m a born bull-shitter, so I smirk and say, “Tell her that’s what she gets for not taking FACS with the rest of us.” Then I steal another glance up front.

I haven’t heard it in years, but Peyton’s laugh is normally musical. Like, if sunshine, rainbows, and flying unicorns had a sound, her laugh would be it. Or, at least what it is supposed to be, not that hard, cynical, pain-edged shriek she just gave. It’s so wrong, so off, that I physically wrap my hand around the desktop just to keep from going over to her.