She Drives Me Crazy(59)

“Iconic,” Thora says.

“He’s a try-hard,” Danielle says.

I point at Danielle. “That’s what Irene thinks. She hates that part because she thinks it’s a cop-out. That John Cusack, like, indulged in this cheesy gesture because he wanted to wallow in his feels. She says he should have made an effort to talk things out with Ione Skye instead.”

Thora and Daphne frown, pondering this perspective.

“She’s right,” Danielle says simply.

“I don’t want those hard conversations,” I admit. “I’d rather stand outside her bedroom window and blast a love song.”

“That definitely sounds more romantic,” Daphne says, tapping her fingers against her chin, “but which one would mean more to Irene?”

I know the answer in my bones. “Ugh. The tough conversation.”

“You’ve had hard conversations before,” Danielle says. “You and Irene are always straight with each other. I mean, in a gay way.”

Thora snorts and kicks her foot against Danielle’s hip.

“You talk to her like you never talked to Tally,” Danielle continues. “You’re … you know … you.”

I nod. “Yeah. And I wasn’t me when I was with Tally.”

“Right. Look, remember when people started turning out for our games and I freaked out and you said I couldn’t have it both ways? Either I stopped caring that we weren’t getting attention, or I learned how to play with attention on me? You were right, so now I’m gonna return the favor. This isn’t you. The fake dating scheme, the messing with Tally’s head, the sneaking around Candlehawk? Not even close to the real Scottie. The real you is authentic and genuine and grounded. She cares about people. Not the idea of them, but the people themselves.”

We fall silent until Daphne turns to me. “No offense, but your best friend is smarter than you.”

“Not offended.” I smile and reach for my phone. “Hey, did Charlotte show anybody else the picture?”

“No,” Danielle answers. “I mean, everyone put the pieces together that you were out with Tally and did something to upset Irene, so…”

“Yeah. Definitely sounds bad.” I cringe. “Does the whole school hate me?”

Danielle shrugs. “They might?” She stares pointedly at me. “But I don’t think you should worry about that right now.”

I sigh. “Right. Authenticity. I’m just not sure I like the authentic me right now. She’s a damn mess.”

Thora sighs and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Look, Scots,” she says gently, “if you’re going to heal, you have to stop avoiding the hard shit. Trust that you can handle the bad parts of yourself. Trust that Irene can, too.”

I bite my lip. “But what if she doesn’t want to?”

“She’ll want to,” Danielle says. “If you trust me on anything, trust me on that.”



* * *



When I call Irene the next day, I’m not sure she’ll answer.

She does.

And when I ask if we can talk, she says yes. I grab my keys and hustle out the door.

When I pull into her driveway, she’s in the garage, shivering in a maroon hoodie with the collar cut loose, her glasses on, her hair in a messy topknot. My heart pounds beneath my denim jacket.

I take off my shoes when we enter the house. Mary the dog pads over and nuzzles into my thigh. A boy with Irene’s eyes, maybe eleven or twelve years old, looks over from the wraparound couch.

“This is my brother,” Irene says, gesturing toward him. “Mathew, we’re going upstairs. Don’t bother us.”

Mathew scrunches his nose. “Are you two banging?”

Irene ignores him and hurries up the stairs. I follow her, trying to decode her body language. She doesn’t seem angry, but it’s like she’s put up a wall between us. She’s back to being untouchable.

Her room is just as I’d imagine it to be: clean, organized, effortlessly cool. The dark wallpaper suits her. The framed photographs are surprisingly old. I pick up a gold 4 x 6 frame showing young Irene with an older Indian couple.

“Are these your grandparents? Is this Kerala?”

“Good memory,” she says flatly. She clambers onto the bed, stretches one leg out in front of her.

I hover uncertainly. “Can I—?”

She gestures wordlessly.

I seat myself across from her and stare into those dark, expressive eyes. My heart is in my throat. I want so badly to get this right.

“I could say sorry again, but I don’t think that’s what you want to hear,” I begin. “I could make some sweeping declaration of love, but you deserve more than a boom box outside your window. Because you’re right: that would serve me, not you.”

She watches me intently. “So what do I deserve?”

“A million things.” I look into her eyes, trying to show my sincerity. “But from me, you deserve honesty. I haven’t wanted to be real with you about how messy and broken and confused I feel. I tried to keep you away by telling myself you were the popular girl who didn’t care about me. But you do care about me. You care about a lot of things. You have a big heart and you’re funny and headstrong. You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.”