Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(13)

It’s not that I don’t like Trev. In fact, it’s the opposite: he’s basically a caricature of a perfect father who was put on this earth to taunt me with what I don’t have. He and Bradley are best buds!!! And they go fishing!!! And Trev loves and admires his wife!!! Back when Brad and I were friends, the hardest part of our relationship was not drowning in mortifying jealousy every five seconds.

I know that’s childish and ridiculous and pathetic. I’m just feeling sensitive because my wrist hurts. I put my dark feelings carefully away and say: “Tell your dad I said thanks.” Now that I’m being mature, I could probably choke down a cupcake (or two, I deserve it), but eating dinner one-handed was a bit of an adventure and I’m not about to make a mess in front of Bradley. So, I put the box aside.

He nods. “I brought this too.” He pulls my philosophy book out of his bag. “Your, um, leaflet’s in there.”

I press my lips tightly together.

“How’s your arm?” he asks.

“Screwed.”

He has the absolute gall to look upset. “That’s not a real answer, Celine, come on.”

“Fine, it’s fractured. Happy?”

“Of course I’m not happy!” he says hotly, his face sort of crumpling. For so long, he’s only looked at me with smugness or irritation, but now he’s giving actual human expressions that change every five minutes and it’s—

I don’t know. It must be the fading painkillers that are making my internal organs jump around like this.

“You don’t think I did it on purpose, do you?” he demands. “You know I didn’t. Right? Celine. Do you?”

I’d almost forgotten the way he talks nonstop when he’s nervous. “Shut up. You’re giving me a headache.”

His jaw tenses. “You do. You think I did.”

Christ, what is he, a mind reader?! “I don’t know, Bradley. You had a perfectly good grip on me and then you pulled away—what, completely by accident?” Disbelief drips from my words like candlewax, but at the same time, I’m not certain what I believe. His eyes are pure kicked puppy right now, and surely he’s not that good an actor.

Instead of arguing, though, he just says, “Why didn’t you tell your mum?”

“Why didn’t you tell yours?” I toss back.

He grimaces. “Don’t want them to fall out, do I?”

“They wouldn’t fall out. They’d both be on my side and you’d be grounded for a century.”

For some reason, he grins. It’s so bright, I see dark spots like I’ve been staring into the sun. “Why didn’t you tell, then?” Before I can stammer out a reply, he almost murders me by adding, “Look, Celine, I’m sorry.”

I choke. “Pardon?”

“It’s shit, I know it’s shit, I realize we’re not friends or anything, but I didn’t mean…I didn’t want to hurt you. Of course I didn’t want to hurt you.”

I absorb this tangle of words with my mouth hanging wide open. Seriously. A passing bird could build a nest in here.

Bradley’s still talking, so disturbingly earnest it’s like his current body has been taken over by his twelve-year-old self. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I know I owe you. God, I fractured your wrist.” He props his elbows on my bed and looks down at the leaf-printed duvet, his dark eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. I should spray him with water like a misbehaving cat but I’m too busy having conniptions.

“Are you possessed? You are, aren’t you?”

He looks up with a frown. “What?”

“Something’s off. I don’t trust this at all. Quick, list your allergies.” It’s a trick question; he doesn’t have any. I squint at him, searching for evidence of ectoplasm.

All I can see is the faintest hint of stubble (stubble! How old is he, forty-five?) on his jaw, and familiar irritation as he rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest, Celine.”

Thank God. I pull back. “For a second there, I thought you were a victim of Monarch mind control.”

“God, you do my head in,” he mutters.

“That’s the spirit.”

Bradley huffs. “I read your leaflet, by the way.”

“Of course you did.” He’s just as nosy as our mothers. Honestly, I’m the only person in both our families who knows how to mind my own bloody business.

“How are you getting to the meeting on Thursday?”

“How do you know I’m going at all?”

He arches an eyebrow, looks at the picture of Katharine Breakspeare on my Steps to Success board, and remains silent.

I bite out, “I’m taking the bus.”

“With your arm in a cast?”

What, is he here to gloat, or something? “Yes, with my arm in a cast, Bradley. I can’t just take it off.” Mum works late on Thursdays, and Giselle has to cover an evening shift because she ditched today—the bus is all I’ve got.

Unlike Bradley, who has a car. Bradley, who has his license. Bradley, who rises to his feet, sighs and says, “People might bump into you. I’ll drive you.”

Aaaand I’m choking again. This can’t be healthy. “You’ll what?” I rasp.