Bright Before Sunrise(38)

Her eyes are still too big, still remind me of a doll’s, but they look pointed instead of round; sexy in a subtle way—though the look she projects is much too innocent.

But Brighton isn’t someone you easily look away from either. If I’m honest with myself, she’s beautiful. Beautiful. Not that Carly isn’t. Carly and Brighton side by side would be something to see. Carly’s head would barely reach Bright’s shoulder, yet Carly projects so much larger a presence, while Brighton blends in. Or tries to.

Right now, she doesn’t look vanilla at all. The guys will drool for her; the girls will hate on her. Carly will have a fit of jealousy.

God, what am I doing?

She carefully slides a flip-flop over her bandaged foot, wincing a little as she lets go of the strap. She’s left the ring off. Good. I want her to stand out, but not because she’s flaunting a daddy’s-girl status symbol.

“I just need to grab my purse and we can go.”

Evy holds it out with a smug smile. “I’ll fill Mom in when she gets home, but we won’t wait up. You two have fun … but not too much. And don’t get into trouble. Mom keeps a bail fund for me—for you, she only has college money.”

When Mom gets home. I don’t think Dad has been mentioned all night. Who would’ve thought Brighton’s parents would be divorced? I bet they have one of those still-best-friends divorces and Bright’s got a second car, a second fan club at her dad’s house. Perfection times two.

“Let’s go,” I say. Let’s get this over with.

She stays silent as we back out of her driveway, not even picking up the iPod. Her answer to “Which way back to Main Street?” is so quiet she has to repeat it. So quiet that I can hear her stomach when it growls.

“Hungry?”

“A little,” she admits.

“We can stop and get something on the way.” Of course, now that we’re on the highway, there’s nowhere to stop till we get to Hamilton. I have no clue why she’s gone incommunicado. Or what she likes to eat. She’s staring out the window and absently rolling the hem of her dress with green fingernails. My eyes keep shifting from the road to her legs to the back of her neck.

“Are you going to tell everyone in Cross Pointe I was in your room?” she asks quietly. She’s still facing away from me, but instead of fidgeting with her dress, her nails are hidden against the palms of her hands.

“I hadn’t planned on it. Why? Are you embarrassed to have people know you know me?”

“Hardly. If you remember, I’ve been trying to get to know you at school for months.” She takes a deep breath, then continues, “It’s just that you said that in front of Evy, just to embarrass me and make me come.”

“How else was I going to get you in this car?”

“You didn’t need to.” She turns away from the window and shoots a quick glance at me. “I was already going to say yes.”

“Oh.” I know I should apologize, but I can’t make myself do it.

“Just so you know, I’m holding you to showing up at the book event on Sunday.” That smile again. The slightly lopsided real one. It makes this whole idiotic idea seem more idiotic. Me, bringing Brighton Cross Pointe Waterford to a party. Her wanting to come with me.

Yeah, right.

“What’s Carly like?” she asks.

I don’t want to talk about Carly.

But she’s staring at me, rolling that hemline, exposing and re-covering the same inch of thigh.

“Carly—” I clear my throat, “she’s …”

Manipulative.

“Charismatic. And she’s …”

Reckless.

“Fearless, like this one time she talked a cop out of a ticket after she got caught waving to me from Maya’s sunroof. And she’s the one to watch out for every year during the neighborhood Thanksgiving football game—she’s short, but she’ll throw mud or trip anyone that gets between her and the end zone. She’s also …”

Judgmental, always right, an emotional seesaw.

“Compassionate. She loves animals. Never would be crazy about her, all dogs are. She’s a vegetarian too. Throws a fit if I eat meat in front of her and won’t let me kiss her until I’ve brushed my teeth.”

I swallow twice, but I still can’t continue. My mind is stuck in a loop of not anymore; never again.

“And she’s real. Carly is who she is—she doesn’t care what other people think about her. She’s not defined by the clubs she belongs to. She says what she means and doesn’t hide behind what she thinks other people want to hear.”

Bright’s gaze is heavy on my face, like it’s weighted with her comprehension of my less-than-subtle insults. I need a break from that level of scrutiny. I know she can’t read my thoughts, but I can’t meet her eyes without feeling guilty.

“Pizza?” I ask. I’m already parking in front of the doesn’t-look-like-much, but-just-taste-their-sauce place the team used to stop at every Friday after practice. It’s open late and not much else is besides fast food. I bet Brighton doesn’t eat things that start with Mc.

“You didn’t say a single thing about what she looked like. Most guys would start with ‘she’s hot’ and then go on to list the ways.”