Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(59)

“The bow is tied differently, and it shouldn’t be lined in the middle of your body.” He combs a hand through his hair.

I try to fix it, but I’m not exactly sure what it’s supposed to look like. It’s not like Dalton Academy gave me a manual on how to tie bows. I fumble with it, unsure and nervous.

Garrison takes two steps towards me, so close that his forehead almost brushes with mine when I look up. “Can I touch you?” he asks, his hands hovering by my hips.

My whole body heats, blazing from a moment in time. I’m barely able to nod. And then he takes the waistband of my skirt and shifts it to the right, the bow now resting on my hip and the zipper on my other one. It’s not crazy to think the zipper was supposed to be in the back, is it?

He reties the bow, his knuckles brushing my waist more than once.

“Does the uniform matter a lot?” I ask.

“To most of the teachers, yeah. They’d make you stand up and retie the bow in the middle of the class.”

I imagine all the eyes on me, and I wince, glad to be saved from that. When he finishes the bow, he tucks the edge of my blouse into my skirt, the corner astray. “I think you’re good,” he says with a couple nods. “I can take that.” He gestures to my backpack.

I shake my head. “I’ll hold onto it.”

“Okay.” He checks his watch—a charcoal-tinted one that appears expensive by the plate-size and band. “We’ll make it on time.”

About a minute later, we’re in his Mustang and driving to Dalton Academy, back towards the ritzy neighborhoods and further away from Penn.

“My schedule is in the middle console if you want to compare,” he tells me.

I open the middle console, take out a folded piece of paper, and then retrieve the crumpled one from my backpack.

I notice three similarities, which is a lot more than I expected.

“And?” he asks, glancing between the road and me.

“We’re in the same British lit and Calculus class, and we have the same lunch period.” I gauge his reaction, but he never smiles much, not even now.

He asks, “Are you good at British lit?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of…” He gives me a look. “What does that mean exactly? Sort of. Is it more of a yes or more of a no for you?”

“I guess…a yes.”

He nods. “Good because I fucking suck at lit.”

“I’m bad at Calculus.”

He nearly smiles this time. “I’ll help you if you help me.”

I lean back. “You’re good at math?”

“I like numbers more than words,” he explains, “but I don’t mind reading—just not classics. I fall asleep every time I flip a page.” He fiddles with the windshield wipers as a sheet of rain suddenly falls from the sky.

“I like comic books mostly, but I pick up regular books from time to time.” I hug my backpack closer, my skirt riding up a little. I try to tug that down. “Should I be worried…?”

He glances at me again, like he’d rather focus on me than the road, but the rain really steals his attention. “About what?”

“The people at Dalton. I know Loren called the cops on your…friends, and I’m just wondering if they’re bitter towards him still.”

Garrison tries to hide his expression, but I see him cringe.

“Oh God,” I mutter, realizing it’s bad.

“It’s not just about that. Some of the guys there had brothers who went to school with Loren, and they hated him. That hate has passed down through siblings.”

“Why’d they hate him?”

Garrison shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s probably just stupid shit, back and forth vandalism. My oldest brother killed a deer after hunting with his friends, and he put the head in some guy’s pickup as a joke.” He emphasizes the last word with more distaste.

My face contorts. People actually do that? “And they know I’m Loren’s cousin?”

“Hey,” he says, “if you’re that worried, I can just tell some people you’re with me.”

I stiffen.

“Not like, with me, with me.”

“So…you’ll tell everyone that you’re my friend?”

He shakes his head. “No, I have a lot of friends…” He stops short. “Or I used to. Anyway, that won’t mean much to someone.” He glances at me again. “I can just tell everyone you’re my girl, and they’ll probably back off.”

“Your girl?” My brows jump.

He licks his lips and actually laughs into a small smile. “It’s ambiguous. Not a girlfriend, but not just a friend. I don’t own you or anything. It just lies somewhere between those two.”

My shoulders loosen a little as I contemplate this. “It reminds me of the movie.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from smiling. My Girl. A movie about best friends.

“What movie?” he asks.

“My Girl…you’ve never seen it?”

He shakes his head, and then he asks, “Are you okay with this? I can try to think of something else if you’re not.”

I contemplate it a little more. “So if someone asks you about me, you’ll say to them…?”