Bright Before Sunrise(69)

Eleven hours ago I’d dismissed it as cute. Now it means more. Peter isn’t one of Amelia’s fads or phases. They’re all in. And that’s what I want. That moment. That relationship. That trust. That.

The longing feels like someone has grabbed my insides and twisted. I want what Amelia and Peter have, but does Jonah fit in that picture? Do I want it with him?

I think the answer is yes and that terrifies me.

Based on how he reacted back there, his answer is no. His feelings were passion, not permanent. He’s probably thinking I was a silly mistake, a stupid footnote on his bad night.

“Home?” There is nothing of the hoarse desire in his voice anymore; it’s straight exhaustion with a sigh for punctuation.

“Yes, please.”





39

Jonah

2:46 A.M.


IT’S TIME TO BEGIN


I hate that kid in his shiny new Mustang. I’m less sure about the girl in the sequin tank top he had riding shotgun, but I’m willing to hate her too. I’m prepared to hate everyone at CPHS for the deer-in-headlights look on Brighton’s face when she was caught kissing me.

I bet she’ll micromanage the whole episode into a joke or a misunderstanding. You thought we were kissing? Oh, no. Not at all. I was: insert-suitable-activity-for-an-empty-parking-lot-at-three-a.m.

I can’t think of anything that fits that category, but I’m sure she’ll come up with a way to spin it. This night has been a holiday from reality, and we’ve reached the part where vacation ends and real life floods in.

After a drive that’s too long, too short, and way too silent, we’re in her driveway. The digits glowing on my dashboard are only a few hours before I usually wake up for school. She twists her hair into a knot and then lets it all drop around her shoulders, looking up and meeting my eyes for a millisecond.

I refuse to be the one who says good-bye first. I won’t make this easy on her by acting like I’m okay with what just went down and offering her an awkward hug. What is she thinking, head lowered, fidgeting with the hem of her dress? That she needs to let me down gently, that I’ll be heartbroken? She doesn’t seem to be in any big hurry to leave the car.

I hate that I don’t want her to.

“You can call me Bright,” she whispers. “If you’d like.”

“What?” I touch her shoulder to get her attention. The offer was spoken to her knees, and I want to see her face. Or maybe I just want an excuse to touch her.

“It sounds … natural coming from you. I don’t mind. And we should probably exchange numbers. I can’t believe I don’t even have your phone number.”

Her words are uncertain. It’s the tone you use for a question, or when you’re questioning why you’re saying what you’re saying.

“Brighton …”

“My cell’s off. Here, give me yours and I’ll add my number.”

I dig it out of my pocket and hand it to her.

“Now you text me and I’ll have your number. That’s how this should work.” Her voice falters and she droops. “Right?”

“There isn’t any ‘should.’ What do you want, Brighton?” She won’t look at me, and suddenly I’m angry. If she doesn’t want this—me—then that’s fine. I’m fine. “I’m not going to be your stray dog—you feel good because you took me in and made a project of me.”

“What?”

“You didn’t care if people in Hamilton saw us together, but I saw your face in the school parking lot—you didn’t want people here to see you with me.”

“That’s completely ridiculous.” She wears her frustration like a tight necklace. It makes her voice tense and her words clipped. “What did you want from me, Jonah? I was embarrassed.”

“So, I’m an embarrassment. Just what every guy wants a beautiful girl to say about him.” I reach across her to open the door. “Thank you and good night.”

“Wait! Not embarrassed by you, by the situation. I’m not really a PDA person—and I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.” I catch a flicker of anger in her gray eyes before she sits up straight and asks, “What was I supposed to say to all her questions? Is there a we? Am I single? You really want to have this conversation now? Fine, my turn. Answer this, what am I to you: rebound or revenge?” She covers her open mouth, like she can stop the words she’s already spoken.

“Neither. You’re more than that. I don’t know what yet … but it’s more than that.” I press my fingers to my forehead, hoping to push back the doubts and questions.

“Me either. So I froze. I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings.” Small fingers pry my hands from my head and entwine them. “And just so you know, you were the one who stepped away from me. I may not make out for an audience, but I never would’ve let go of your hand.”

I squeeze her fingers, back in mine. I’m not letting go first this time.

She rewards me with a smile, looks up at me through her eyelashes and asks, “We’re good right now, right?”

It’s the hope in her voice that almost breaks mine when I reply.

“Yes.”

“That’s a start. We’ll get some sleep and then tomorrow—”