The Best Laid Plans(56)

The doorbell rings downstairs and I jump.

“Who are you getting pizza with?” she asks, turning to leave the room.

“Wait!” I say, my tone more panicked than I intended. “It’s no one. I’ll get it.” I brush past her and run down the stairs. I can’t believe I didn’t think about my parents being here when I gave him my address.

But when I open the front door, it’s not James Dean on the other side.

It’s Andrew.

His hair is wet from the shower and he’s in his favorite T-shirt, the one with WORLD’S OKAYEST GUITAR PLAYER written on the front. I feel paralyzed when I see him, and immediately the events of last night flash through my head—his naked chest, the look in his eyes when he took off my shirt, my bra, my pants. I can still feel him on top of me, can still feel the memory of his lips on mine.

I realize I’ve been staring and I try to find my voice.

“Hi.” It comes out as a squeak.

“Can I come in?”

My mom comes up behind me. “Andrew! Of course you can come in. You know you never have to ask.” She ushers him through the door, and we all walk into the den. Andrew and I take a seat on either end of the couch—as far away from each other as possible. My mom stands at the door, watching us.

“Mom, can we have a sec?” I ask.

“Of course. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” She leaves the room, turning once to study us before she’s gone.

“Hey,” he says when we’re alone.

“Hey,” I say.

And then we both say it at the same time, our voices overlapping: “I’m sorry.”

It feels good once it’s out. Like I can finally breathe.

“Things aren’t going to be weird between us, right?” I ask, fiddling with my hands, staring down at my fingers. I can barely look at him. Of course things are going to be weird. “You’re my best friend. I hope I didn’t ruin that.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, from the other end of the couch.

“Good.” I wish I believed him. “Okay, well.”

“Well.”

The silence hangs heavy over us like a thundercloud about to break. He picks up his phone and begins texting, the tip of his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth.

“Who are you texting?” I ask. “It looks important.” I feel like I’m trying too hard to sound natural and easygoing; trying not to pry—which is ridiculous, because it’s not like I’m his girlfriend or something. The Keely from a few days ago would have grabbed his phone out of his hands or read over his shoulder. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get the Keely from a few days ago back. That girl is gone.

He looks up at me and shrugs. “Just a girl.”

“Another girl, eh?” I say, trying to smile. Everything feels off.

“Yeah, another girl,” he says back, his tone clipped. “Is that allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed. That’s not what I meant.”

I want to scream with frustration. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

There’s a crunch of tires coming up the gravel driveway and then a honk sounds from outside. We both jump. James Dean. I completely forgot he was coming. No no no no no.

“Who is that?” He stands up.

“I have to go,” I say, standing up too. “I’m really sorry. It’s just—I didn’t know you were coming over, so I made plans. You can stay here if you want. I’m not trying to kick you out. I just . . . have to go.” I practically run out of the room and over to the front door. Andrew follows me.

“It’s James Dean, isn’t it?”

I wince and shut my eyes. “Yes.” There’s another honk outside, longer this time. “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not totally sure what I’m apologizing for.

“I want to meet him,” Andrew says.

“What?”

“I think I deserve to meet him after all this. See what all the fuss is about.”

“Andrew, no.” I know they’ll have to meet eventually at prom, but I don’t want to push the experience any sooner. Especially when last night is so fresh in my mind.

“If he doesn’t have the common decency to at least walk up and ring the doorbell . . .” he grumbles, heading to the door. I scamper after him.

“Andrew, wait!”

He whips the door open. And there’s James Dean perched on a motorcycle in the middle of the driveway, looking like a cutout from a magazine. I guess I expected he’d borrow Cody’s car again, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He looks great on the bike—I’m just not sure how I feel about riding it. But I can’t be a coward. The Keely I am for him—the Keely I’ve created—would jump at the chance to ride a motorcycle, just like she enjoys drinking whiskey. And there’s a bit of a thrill in being that girl, the one who doesn’t worry about everything that could go wrong. I don’t want to let Dean down, but I don’t want to let her down either. I want to be a Gryffindor too.

He raises a hand to greet me and gets off the bike, cocking his head to the side when he sees Andrew.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Andrew says, extending an arm to shake. “Andrew.”