You and Everything After (Falling #2)(60)

“Dude, don’t touch my leg. What are you doing?” Nate yells kicking my hand away.

“Just checking to see if you’ve started shaving your legs. Your razors aren’t pink, are they?” I can barely finish the sentence without laughing. It’s that kind of laugh where I can’t breathe now, and I’m turning red and coughing. When he gives me the finger, it only makes me laugh harder.

“No, jackass. And this is important, so cut the crap,” he says, holding the loose ends of his tie again. He pulled it apart messing with it. Honestly, he should just wear a clip-on. That thought makes me chuckle.

“Important to whom? To Rowe? Because I was in that room an hour ago, and she was not a happy camper having Paige’s hands all over her face and head,” I tell him. Seeing Rowe get ready for tonight only made me like her more. She’s not fussy. I like that.

I pick on him for a few more minutes, just long enough to finally get his tie to stay in place, and I send him off, blowing him a kiss and reminding him to be home by curfew.

“Shithead!” he yells as the door closes behind him.

I pull my duffel bag into my lap and look through my prom package again—and for a second, I feel bad that it’s kind of pathetic. But Cass isn’t Rowe, and I’m not really trying to create some full-blown experience. I’m just trying to be sweet and romantic, and I kind of suck at that, so I feel pretty good about this attempt. Maybe, though…maybe the workout clothes should change.

Most of my nice things go with jeans, and jeans take me a while, so I send Cass a quick text and tell her I’ll be over in about twenty minutes. I wear the dark pullover shirt, gray and black stripes, because that’s the one I wore the night of the party when I first talked to Cass—the night she slayed every dude in the room at that video game and drank me under the table. How the hell did she end up with me?

Finally satisfied that I look good, but not like I’m trying too hard, I lock up our room and make my way to Cass’s. The door is open, so I knock lightly and move inside. Her back is to me, and she doesn’t see me at first. Before I can warn her that I’m coming, she runs her arm along her face and eyes.

Shit! She’s crying.

I freeze, then back pedal as quietly as I can, knocking at the door again, this time a little more loudly, and coughing on my entry just to be safe. She stands quickly, and she smiles. I know that move. I’ve f*cking patented that move. And I can just tell her world isn’t right. Her eyes are still puffy for Christ’s sake. But she’s pretending. Fronting—yeah, I’ve done fronting.

“Baby,” I say, setting the bag down on her bed and moving closer so I can hug her waist and pull her close.

“Don’t call me baby,” she half giggles and half cries, pulling the end of her sleeve into her palm and wiping tears away before they have a chance to fall. She can’t keep up the fa?ade—it must be bad, whatever it is.

“Wanna tell me about it?” I want her to tell me about it, so when she says it’s nothing at first, I’m actually sad. A girl is crying, and I want to help. I suck at this too, just like I suck at big romantic gestures—but I want to try.

“I’m good at listening,” I say, stopping short of begging her to open up about whatever made her upset.

“My parents,” she pauses, her lip slipping from its grip between her teeth and her breath heavy as she fights to stop her tears. “I’m sorry. I hate crying. It makes me mad. Makes me feel weak.”

“You’re not weak,” I say, pulling her hand away from her face to kiss it. “I cry.”

“You cry?” she asks.

“Well, no…not really…I mean, hello? Pathetic with a capital P!” She laughs, which was really my only goal.

“My parents…they don’t think I should play. Don’t think it’s good for me,” she says, and I can tell she’s heartbroken.

“Did you tell them to f*ck off?” I’m only half kidding, but I let her laugh and think I’m joking.

“No,” she says. “I can’t do that. My dad…he’s more okay with it than my mom. And I can usually get my way if I win him over and get him on my side. But this time...my mom won.”

“Does she have some dirt on your dad or something?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood because I can tell Cass is lost in these sad thoughts. She flashes a short smile at my joke, but it fades quickly.

“Something like that,” she says, taking one more deep breath and slipping from my hold to stand in front of me. “Okay, enough of that. Enough of them. What’s the plan for tonight? What’s this big idea you said you had?”

“Well,” I start, unzipping my duffel and pulling out the desktop disco lamp, which is met with a praising nod and laugh. I follow it with a few cheesy decorations and some pink balloons that honestly look like condoms when I blow them up. Cass helps me toss them around the room, kicking them and volleying them in the air for a few minutes. It’s such a simple game—we’re like children playing, but whatever had her heartsick is gone now, so we keep batting the condom balloons around until she collapses on the bed and sighs, her mouth still stretched in a smile as she watches a balloon float down to her face.

“We’re having a party?” she finally asks, smacking the balloon into my face.