Rock Bottom Girl(38)

I liked him. I really did. He was a great guy. But…

“I don’t have anything to compare it to,” I reminded her.

“Trust me,” Vicky said, jabbing the plastic spoon at me. “You’d know if it was good.”

“Ugh, I feel like an ungrateful ass. So the chemistry isn’t really there for me. Is that a good enough reason to break up with him? And is being moderately more popular a good enough reason to not break up with him?”

“You got yourself a real conundrum there,” she told me. “Bottom line, are you happy?”

“No, but—”

“No buts. There’s your answer.”

I knew she was right, but it didn’t alleviate the guilt I felt for not being more grateful that the guy picked me from obscurity and had done all the right boyfriend-y things. Travis Hostetter was a great guy. He just wasn’t my great guy. He’d make some lucky girl an amazing boyfriend if I could lady up and release him back into the wild.

I felt eyes on me and looked up to see Travis waving to me from the bench.

I raised a hand back and cursed myself for not swooning. The feelings I had toward the blond Adonis in his heroically grass-stained socks were friendly, not lusty. And that made me defective.

“You ready to go back?” Vicky asked, jutting her chin in the direction of our rowdy circle of friends. Together, we were an island of misfits in the middle of the shark-infested waters of high school.

“I think I’m gonna grab a hot chocolate,” I told her. I didn’t actually want the gritty, powdery crap. But I did want to be alone with my thoughts.

“Okay,” Vicky said. “I’ll see you back on the bleachers.” She meandered off, eating her soup while she walked. I headed back toward the concession stand and then veered off behind the bleachers. Here I was separated from the action, the people, the lights. Here I was all alone even with a few hundred people crowding the stands, lining up at the restrooms, and stuffing their faces with fake orange cheese nachos at the concession stand.

“Hey there, Mars.”

I recognized the voice before I turned around.

There, leaning against one of the bleacher supports all James Dean-y, was Jake freaking Weston.

My heart gave a little pitter-pat somersault in my chest.

“Hey, Jake,” I said lamely. I was in a committed relationship. I shouldn’t be having a physical reaction to the very non-Travis guy before me.

He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans. A flannel shirt was tied around his waist. And he had a chain peeking out of his pocket. His hair was a little longer than fashionable. Like he was too cool to care about things like haircuts and grooming.

“Thought you’d be watching your boyfriend play,” he said with that sexy rebel smirk.

Jake had worked his way through an impressive portion of the female sex in our class and last year’s graduating class. Rumor had it a substitute teacher had her eye on him.

“Just needed some air,” I said. Well, that was a stupid thing to say. We were outside. There was nothing but air out here.

“You know what I think?” he asked.

I shook my head. I should have walked away, but my feet were moving toward him as if he were using some kind of Star Trek tractor beam on me. It was the facial hair, I decided. It drew me in like a platter of chocolate-covered donuts.

I’d known of him for a few years since he’d transferred to Culpepper from New Jersey in the middle of our sophomore year. We were in the same class in a very small school. But he remained an enigma in a way the guys I had gone to kindergarten with couldn’t.

He walked different. Talked different. Carried himself different.

“What do you think?” I asked, stopping a careful two feet away.

Jake pushed away from the support and took a step into my space. He was taller than me. I liked that, too.

Nervous, I took a short step back and found a metal post pressing into my back.

He advanced on me slowly like a lion prowling toward a fat, sick gazelle. Jake rested a hand above me and leaned in. “I think you’re with the wrong guy, Mars.”

Yeah, I was imagining this. I was standing in line waiting for my brown sugar water from Sue Clempet, Booster Club president who wore not one but two crosses around her neck should anyone fail to notice the first one. I was not under the bleachers, breathing in the clean, naughty scent of the class rebel while my very nice boyfriend was probably scoring another goal on the field.

I blinked. Then I worked my mouth closed when my jaw started to hurt.

“Uh. What?” I asked.

He had really pretty lips. For a guy. They quirked up in one corner, amused by my gazelleness.

“I don’t think Travis is the guy for you,” Jake said, running a thumb over my jawline.

My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I worried they might crack and puncture a lung. That would not be cool. “What makes you say that?” I asked mechanically. I was a robot needing input.

“You’re the highlight of English class,” he said, rubbing that thumb over my lower lip. Danger! Danger! Warning bells clunked and clanged to life.

“Go on.”

He grinned, and my knees nearly buckled. This was what I was missing from Travis. This insane physical reaction. The sweaty palms. The ragged breathing. The dark pleasure of knowing I was about to make a huge, amazing mistake.