Not So Nice Guy(23)
“Calm down!? CALM DOWN?!”
His eyes slice over to mine and he raises a brow. Right. If we passed by a mirror, I’m sure my reflection would horrify me. My hair is probably standing on end, light-socket chic. My eyes are shadowed and wide. I’m minutes away from getting stuffed into a padded room.
“Last night was probably hard for you,” he continues.
Yes, phone sex was such a trying experience. I’m fatigued just thinking about it.
“And I know you want to pretend like it didn’t happen so we can go back to normal…”
Yes, yes. I cross my fingers and toes hoping he’s about to say what I think he is.
“As friends.”
Right.
As Chandler would say, That would be perfection.
“But—”
“Samantha! Hey Sam! Wait up!”
We both turn in sync to find Logan jogging down the hall in our direction.
“Hey,” he says, coming to a stop and propping his hands on his hips when he reaches us. He’s not even breathing hard. If I tried to jog down the hall, I’d have a cramp in my side.
“Oh, hey Logan. What’s up?”
“Not much. Sup Ian.”
Ian’s grunt is aggressive. I frown and try to catch his eye, but Logan speaks up first.
“I was wondering if you’d had the chance to read my little…poem yet?”
My face scrunches in confusion. “Poem?”
He grins, and he’s not the ogre I thought he was. He has nice arms, a kind smile, hair that’s been trimmed recently. “Yeah, I included it with a teddy bear…for the choir fundraiser thing?”
I’ve only received a couple red roses, no bears. Ian has the monopoly on those.
“Sorry Logan, I didn’t get any poem.”
“Sam, we should get going,” Ian interjects. “We’ll be late for next period.”
Logan shrugs good-naturedly. “It probably got lost with all the others. You’ve got quite a few admirers this year from what I hear.”
What in the world is he talking about?
“Oh…um, huh.”
Does he realize I’m spending tomorrow alone? Chaperoning a high school dance? I’d win a Most likely to cry herself to sleep on Valentine’s Day contest handily.
“I won’t let that deter me though.” He grins. “Did you do something different with your hair today? Looks great.”
I reach up and touch the loose, wavy strands, taken aback by the sweet compliment.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be Logan?”
He laughs, clearly mistaking Ian’s question for politeness. “This is my off period. Anyway, Sam, if you’re free—”
His voice trails off as he meets Ian’s eyes. Something there warns him to quit while he’s ahead.
“Free?” I push.
“Tomorrow.”
“She’s not,” Ian says sharply.
I grimace. “I’m supposed to volunteer at the carnival in the morning and then I have to chaperone the school dance.”
He rocks back on his heels. “Oh, gotcha.”
My heart is crumbling for him. He had the courage to ask me out in front of Ian and I don’t want to turn him down outright. “But maybe on Sund—”
Ian wraps his arm around my shoulders and redirects me down the hall. “Say goodbye now, Logan.”
“Oh. Uh…bye. Wait!” Ian doesn’t wait. “Okay! I’ll talk to you later, Sam. Maybe we can try to work something out another time?!”
I’m not given a chance to reply because Ian turns a corner and takes me with him.
When we’re out of earshot from Logan, I wiggle out of Ian’s hold.
“What the hell was that?”
He shakes his head and directs me into my classroom. For the second time today, he closes the door behind him. We’re alone and he’s pacing like a caged lion. I feel the need to flee. I want to crack a window and stick my head out and heave in gulps of air. The rain would pelt my face, but it’d be worth it.
Instead, I walk to my desk, uncap my Gatorade, and take a long swig. When I swallow, I remember something.
“Do you think he really sent a bear and it just got lost in transit?”
Silence.
“Ian?”
“Possibly. You know how those choir kids are.”
No, actually I don’t. Is he suggesting they’re criminals? They spend their time binge-watching Glee and singing acapella versions of Taylor Swift. They’re harmless.
“It seems all of your bears arrived on time,” I point out.
“Huh.”
He hasn’t stopped pacing.
“You’re being weird. What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
He turns in my direction and props his hands on his hips. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It’s his Superman pose, and today, in his pressed white shirt rolled to his elbows and his black slacks, he could easily pass for Mr. Kent.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll laugh when I tell you.”
That means I definitely won’t.
“Tell me what?”
His eyes narrow, focused out the window behind my head. His features have taken on a stern edge as he replies, “I paid off one of the choir kids to intercept your gifts and deliver them to me instead of you.”