Bright Before Sunrise(39)

“I guess I’m not most guys.” I yank the keys out of the ignition. “Of course she’s hot.”

I’m out of the car and halfway to the restaurant before I wonder if Bright meant it as a compliment not a criticism.

“I figure we’ll get a pie. What do you want on it?” I ask when it’s our turn at the counter after a silent wait in line.

“Whatever you want is fine.”

“Seriously?” It’s the iPod all over again.

She nods. I roll my eyes and lean across the counter. “I’d like a medium pie with jalape?os, olives, pineapple, and mushrooms.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, but she presses her lips together and doesn’t say a word. I grin and snag a table in the back. She joins me, carrying a pitcher of water and two cups of ice. I’m so busy gloating, I forgot drinks. And napkins, which she has pinned under her arm.

“They don’t have chocolate milk. I checked.” Her mischievous grin is a hell of a lot more appealing than Evy’s, and probably much rarer. As she pours water into the scratched red plastic cups, her smile fades to seriousness. “I don’t really drink. Alcohol, that is. I mean, I do sometimes, but only if I’m with Amelia or people I know really well.”

“That’s fine. No one’s going to force you to do keg stands or anything.” Because I’m clearly the type of guy who’d bring her to a party where she’d be roofied. Is that what she thinks? Or is she worried I’ll get tanked and she’ll need to babysit me and drive me home? Maybe I’ll let her. It might be nice to lose some of tonight in the bottom of a Solo cup.

“What do I need to know about this party?” she asks.

“What do you mean? It’s a party.” She’s winding a straw wrapper over her fingers, and I can’t look away from the contrast of white paper, green glitter, and tan skin.

“Who will be there? Is it, like, for a club or something?” Her words are slow, like she’s choosing them individually. It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s trying not to imply.

“A lot of people will be there. It’s a regular party—not some antisocial group like you’re imagining.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were. You don’t know everything, Bright, and Cross Pointe isn’t the whole world. Maybe I haven’t been Mr. Social there because I don’t need more friends than I already have.” She flinches at my angry words, and I’m glad. Happy to see her hands curl in her lap and her eyes hidden by her hair when she lowers her head.

A guy brings us pizza and paper plates. Normally they just call your name from the counter when it’s done and ring you up when you go get it.

“What about the check?” I ask.

From halfway across the restaurant the guy calls, “She already paid. Enjoy.”

I pull out my wallet without looking at her. I won’t be her charity case.

Soft fingers on mine, freezing my hand. God, what does she do to have skin like that? It’s probably from never having worked a day in her life.

“Jonah, it’s fine,” she says. “Your stepdad way overpaid me and—”

“I’m paying next time,” I say. Then realize there won’t be a next time. After this party, Bright’s never going to talk to me again. My throat is suddenly tight—I pull my hand away from hers and take a sip of water. This was my goal—to get her to leave me alone. If she’d listened when I told her that at school, it would’ve saved us both a lot of time.

“Sure.” She smiles at me, all toothpaste-ad perfection. “So, let’s try this creative combination of yours. Is it a favorite?”

Of course she’d rub that in. Of course she’d make a point of paying for pizza I ordered to piss her off. She’s probably trying to make me feel like a jerk. Or like more of a jerk. Well, mission accomplished, Bright. The piece I sling on a plate and thrust toward her is the one with the most toppings. Not that I’m petty or anything.

I help myself to a slice and watch with satisfaction as she nibbles around the pineapple, takes a cautious bite of jalape?o, then spits it out in a napkin. I swallow a mouthful and my laughter.

She tosses the napkin—and her plate—in the trash can as she walks back up to the counter. “You said whatever toppings I wanted,” I call after her, smugly taking a large bite of mushroom and pineapple.

She doesn’t turn around, but I do, because someone’s calling my name.

“Prentiss! See, told you it’s Jonah.”

It’s Mike Balaski and Zeke Manzano, two guys I know from Hamilton. They’re standing in the doorway, letting in bugs and letting out the AC.

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

“How’ve you been?”

They ask about Carly—so clearly the news hasn’t spread that far. I dodge the question and ask if they’re going to Jeff’s party.

“Maybe later. We’re picking up the girls from work and hitting the last show of Shriek 3.” Mike’s grinning like a fool, but I can’t remember whom Carly said he was dating.

“Tell them I say hi,” I bluff.

I don’t hear Brighton approach but notice when their eyes drift past me and widen in approval. She announces her arrival with: “You’ll want to bring a drink—it’s long.”