The Natural History of Us (The Fine Art of Pretending #2)(4)

As if she’d want me there anyway.

Carlos shoots me a sideways look. “Kid, how in the hell do you score so many women?” Then he snorts and shakes his head. “Never mind, I answered my own question. You, my friend, know ‘Casuals.’ Let me instruct you in the ways of ‘Commitments.’” He leans across the aisle like he’s about to impart some sort of top-secret intel and says, “If I followed your advice, Gabi would cut off my nuts and lock them in her camera case.”

“And you wonder why I don’t do relationships,” I reply with a half-smile, but even I hear that my delivery is off. His smirk falls and he squints in my direction, but I turn my head. The last thing I need is more questions.

A dull ache twinges behind my ribcage and as I fight to keep from staring a hole into the back of Peyton’s head, my gaze lands on Aly. She nods at something Brandon says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. I release a breath. It’s probably weird to admit since we went out earlier this year, but seeing her with him, happy and smiling, eases the pressure in my chest.

Aly and I weren’t right together. She’s had a thing for Taylor since freshman year, and as history shows, I suck at commitment. But our blink-and-you-miss-it relationship was the closest I’ve come to wanting one in years, and ever since we broke up, there’s been this itch under my skin. An annoying sixth sense that something is wrong or missing, and nothing I do—not girls, school, or even baseball—feels the same anymore.

Which sucks, since baseball and girls are the only things I’m actually good at.

Carlos’s cell buzzes on his desk and I glance over as he drops his head into his hands.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Hurricane Gabi is making landfall.”

“Someone tip her off about Lauren?” I ask, grabbing a pen. In the corner of my packet, I start sketching a baseball diamond. I’m not Brandon so I can’t draw for shit, but it beats the hell out of sitting here psychoanalyzing what’s wrong with me.

He nods wearily and I snicker. How people spread shit before Facebook and texts I don’t know, but in this case, technology is my friend.

Count on good old Carlos to remind me why I don’t do commitment. I swear, he and Gabi invent stuff to bitch about. They’re constantly fighting over nothing and spend most of the time driving each other insane. I’m no expert, but that shit ain’t normal.

“Carlos, look at me.” He lifts his head from his hand and I clasp his shoulder. “Tell me the truth… she’s already got you by the balls, doesn’t she?” His eyes narrow and I grin. “Blink once for yes and I’ll go get help.”

His good-natured smile returns as he knocks away my hand and flips me off, which is good since I am kidding. Well, mostly anyway.

“What about you, huh?” He picks up the packet and starts turning pages. “What lucky lady got stuck with your punk ass for the next month?”

Since I don’t really give a shit I shrug and lean back to study the stained ceiling tiles… until I hear him say, “Huh.”

I glance over. “Is that a good huh or a bad huh?”

He rocks his head back and forth as he replies, “Guess it depends on how you look at it.”

I sit up straight and grab the paper from his hand, searching for my name. The fact that I can feel him watching makes me nervous. I’ve hooked up with half the girls in this class (half the school, really), but none have ended that badly. For the most part, they know the score before it even starts—that’s the beauty of dating “Casuals.” The only semi-weirdness I ever had was with Aly and that’s long over. She and Brandon are way too whipped on each other to care about me.

As I near the bottom of the page, Carlos asks, “You two used to hang out, right?” and I do a double-take when I reach the final row.

“Did y’all have a falling out or something?”

“Or… something,” I mumble, swallowing hard.

Justin Carter and Peyton Williams.

This at least explains that hysterical laugh.

Slowly, I lift my eyes toward the front of the class. As if she can feel my stare, Peyton turns in her seat, and when her wide blue-gray eyes lock on mine, I completely forget how to breathe.

Guilt, longing, and that damn stupid question—what if—hits me square in the chest. You’d think seeing her after three years would get easier. It hasn’t. I’ve just gotten a hell of a lot better at hiding the fallout. Pretending I don’t occasionally search her out in the halls, checking to see if she’s all right. Wondering what she’s thinking, what she’s doing, and acting like it doesn’t make my whole damn day when I catch her smiling. I used to be the reason for Peyton’s smiles.

Now, I’d be thrilled if she didn’t glare at me like I was dog shit stuck to her shoe.

“Damn, dude.” Carlos whistles under his breath after she spins back around. “That girl is not a fan of yours.” He laughs under his breath, ending on a cough when I glare at him. “What in the hell did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I say, wishing that were true. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

But it wasn’t small, and it damn sure wasn’t a misunderstanding. Whether it was the truth or not, Peyton saw exactly what I wanted her to see that day. She believed what I thought she had to believe in order to protect her. To protect me. The same thing I’ve regretted every day since.