Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(17)

He’s standing close to me, his gaze so intent on mine that it almost feels like the next step is for him to lean down and brush his lips against mine. He hasn’t touched me since I told him not to, but I’m so physically aware of him right now that my skin prickles. It itches for what could come next.

I don’t buy lottery tickets. I can do math, and I know the only thing you’re purchasing is the right to scrape false hopes off a card with a nickel. You fool yourself into believing that the universe is on your side, that even though everything else is going down in flames, help will come like magic.

Spending time with Blake is dangerous. It’s irresponsible. And I know that the more time I spend with him, the more I’ll want to believe in the impossible.

But this time, the irresponsible choice has a hell of a lot of dollar signs attached to it.

I let out a breath. If you’re ever forced to buy a lottery ticket, you have to set rules. You can only purchase one. You can’t tell yourself that you’ll spend anything you win on more. If you lose, you can’t say you’ll get one more, just one more. It’s the one more that will do you in every time—never the single ticket itself. And so before this starts, I know I need to make sure that I never let myself believe in one more.

“One last thing.” I swallow. “When this is over, it’s over. No strings. No entanglements. We’re not friends. We’re not Facebook friends. We’re not anything.”

I watch his eyes as I speak. They don’t flicker, not one bit. Not with disappointment, not with hope.

“Subject to reevaluation,” he says finally, “if—”

I can’t let myself leave that door open. Through it will come hope, fear, and worry. But there is no hope. None. “Subject to nothing.” I stare up at him and set my hands on my hips.

“What if—”

“I can’t afford ifs.” I look at him. “It’s that or I walk.”

For a while, he watches me. Then he rubs his forehead.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “You have your conditions. When this is done, it’s done.”

5.

BLAKE

The light next to my dad’s icon in the video chat app on my watch is green. This means he’s not on the phone or in another chat. It doesn’t mean he’s not busy. He’s always busy.

I tap to call him anyway.

And here’s the thing about my dad: If he can conceivably answer when I call, he will. Every time, no matter what time it is. Seven months ago, when I was trying to prove I was a bad ass, I entered a fifty-two-mile long race in Spain. I ended up dropping halfway through with a stress fracture. When I called my dad, he heard the word “fracture” and was on a jet as soon as he could get FAA clearance to take off.

So it’s not a surprise when he picks up as soon as I ring. There’s a flurry of gray and green pixels on my watch, resolving themselves swiftly into my dad’s face. His eyebrows, thick and bushy, draw down.

“Blake,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Everything okay?”

“Great,” I say. It’s not a lie for once. Even though the rest of this conversation will be nothing but a string of falsehoods, that at least is not a lie. It’s weird, but he’s not just my father. He’s also one of my best friends. I don’t like lying to him, and I hate feeling like I have no other option.

We look at each other, our last conversation still separating us. I don’t think that grim line will leave his forehead until I tell him I’m leaving school and coming back for good.

I’m going to make it all better. I just have to get outside my head, get a rest from Cyclone, and put myself back together again. I’m going to fix everything, I promise him silently.

I almost believe it this time.

“Do you have time for lunch this weekend?” I ask.

He tilts his head to the side. “Late. 2:30 at Sakshi’s work for you?”

“Sure.”

He looks away, tapping, no doubt inputting this into his calendar.

“Is it okay if I bring my girlfriend?”

He blinks. His eyebrows rise, and then he turns his head back to me. “Really?”

He’s not surprised that I’m seeing someone. I’ve told him about women before. I just haven’t been cruel enough to introduce any of them to Dad since I took Sheila to the prom in high school.

“Really.” I cross the fingers of my other hand behind my back.

“Sure,” he says after a pause that’s far too long to be natural.

“Her name’s Tina.”

I hear him tapping a keyboard on his end.

“Tina Chen,” I tell him.

“Fine. Bring her.” He doesn’t say he’s looking forward to meeting her.

“Dad, don’t be a dick to Tina.”

He looks up and gives me a little smile. “Give me credit, Blake. I’m not always a dick.”

This is not a promise, and we both know it. There’s a reason I’ve never introduced anyone to him since Sheila, and it wasn’t because he was too nice.

I shake my head. “Fine,” I tell him. “Be that way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re actually going to like her.”

Dad snorts in disbelief. “Really.” It’s not a question.