The Best Laid Plans(54)

“I think with Dean, I felt—” I start to say, but Andrew pulls away from me, his forehead wrinkled.

“What about Dean now?” He runs a hand over his face and sits up, leaning away from me on the bed.

“I was just going to say,” I feel my voice waver with emotion, “I’m not as nervous as I was with Dean. I mean, I’m still nervous obviously, but Dean was like . . . another level. You’re different.” I laugh awkwardly, expecting him to laugh too, but he doesn’t.

“Could you . . . just . . .” He turns back to me. “It really sucks you’re talking about another guy right now.”

“We’re doing this because of another guy though. I can’t not think about him.” My voice feels unsteady. “I mean, Dean’s the whole point, isn’t he?”

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. But you keep bringing him up, and it’s really hard to get . . . I can’t just turn myself on and off like a light switch. It’s more complicated than that.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “You’re really messing with my head.”

“Oh,” I say, flustered. I hadn’t thought of it that way, hadn’t thought this could be anything but easy for him. Why is Andrew having a hard time? Is it because it’s me? I feel a lurching horror at the thought. I lean up too, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. “You could pretend I’m Cecilia or Abby or something,” I say softly. “If that makes it easier for you.”

“I don’t want you to be—” he starts, but I keep going.

“I don’t want to be doing this either, Drew. I just thought it made sense. And you agreed, right?” I feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I realize then I’m still naked from the top up and I cover myself with the blanket. “I know I’m not as hot as the girls you usually—”

“You’re completely misinterpreting everything I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” I ask, letting out an irritated sigh. He’s silent for a while, just looking at me, the expression in his eyes unreadable. He runs a hand through his hair and then wipes his face as if in exhaustion, and takes a deep breath.

“I’m . . .” he starts, then pauses again.

“What, Drew? If you don’t want to do this, then just say it.”

He sighs. “I don’t think we should do this.”

I feel something inside of me crumple.

“Okay. I’m sorry I asked.”

I feel like I’ve been dumped in a bucket of cold water—all the warm, cozy feelings wash out of me, replaced by something icy and hard. I don’t know how I let myself get so carried away. I shouldn’t have asked Andrew for help in the first place—that much is obvious now—but besides that, how did I let myself start to enjoy it? This wasn’t supposed to be fun; it was business. It was just practice. The biggest mistake was letting myself feel warm and cozy at all.

“I want to, Keely,” he says, his voice pained. “It’s not that. It’s just, you’re making this . . .” He drums his fingers on his bare leg and I look away. “I thought I could deal with you using me. But I can’t.”

I pale at his words. “I’m not . . .” I begin, stumbling over the words. “I’m not using you.”

My phone rings from somewhere on the bed. I don’t want to answer it, don’t know how I could talk to anyone right now. He fishes around in the blankets for it and then sighs, handing it to me.

“Speaking of James Dean,” he says, reading the words on the screen, his voice tight. I take the phone out of his hand, but I can’t answer it. How could I possibly talk to Dean right now, sitting on Andrew’s bed? My shirt is still somewhere on the floor, mixed in with his—and it suddenly hits me how messed up this whole thing is. Would Dean be mad if he knew? Or worse, would he not even care? I imagine the situation in reverse—Dean with a half-naked girl in his bed—and feel an unpleasant swoop in my stomach. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? There have been lots of naked girls in Dean’s bed and that’s why I’m here.

“You can answer it,” Andrew says. He reaches down to grab his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. The phone is still ringing.

I shake my head.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m gonna go.” He turns to the door.

“Wait, this is your room,” I say. He shrugs, and then turns around and shuffles through the door, closing it quietly behind him. I put the phone down on the bed and watch it vibrating, waiting for the ringing to stop. I wrap the comforter tighter around myself.

After a few minutes, I force myself to get up and pull on my clothes. All I want to do is to curl up in my bed and sleep—to be alone in my own room. But I can’t leave things like this between us. I have to go downstairs and talk to him, even though I don’t know what to say. I just want us to be friends again—to put this whole humiliating ordeal behind us. I steel myself and leave the room, padding quietly down the familiar stairs into the kitchen. He’s not there. I peer into the living room and the dining room and see that he’s gone. And then I see that his truck isn’t in the driveway. So I pull on my shoes and coat and start the dark walk home.





TWENTY