Hopeless(31)

As irritated and as angry as I am, I can’t help but be relieved that as soon as his lips meet mine, my irritation subsides, thanks to the numbness that takes over. For that reason alone, I continue to let him kiss me. He backs me against the car and runs his hands in my hair, then kisses down my jaw and to my neck. I lean my head against the car and bring my wrist up behind him to check the time on my watch. Karen’s going out of town for work, so I need to go to the grocery store to get enough sugar to last me all weekend. I don’t know how long he plans on feeling me up, but ice cream is really starting to sound tempting right about now. I roll my eyes and drop my arm. All at once, my heart rate triples and my stomach flips and I get all of the feelings a girl is supposed to get when a hot guys lips are all over her. Only I’m not having the reaction to the hot guy whose lips are all over me. I’m having the reaction to the hot guy glaring at me from across the parking lot.

Holder is standing next to his car with his elbow on the top of his doorframe, watching us. I immediately shove Grayson off of me and turn around to get in my car.

“So we’re on for tomorrow night?” he asks.

I climb inside the car and crank it, then look up at him. “No. We’re done.”

I pull the door shut and back out of the parking lot, not sure if I’m angry, embarrassed or infatuated. How does he do that? How the hell does he incite these kinds of feelings from me from clear across a parking lot? I think I’m in need of an intervention.





“Is Jack going with you?” I open the car door for Karen so she can throw the last of her luggage into the backseat.

“Yeah, he’s coming. We’ll be home….I’ll be home on Sunday,” she says, correcting herself. It pains her to count Jack as a “we.” I hate that she feels that way because I really like Jack and I know he loves Karen, so I don’t understand what her hang-up is at all. She’s had a couple of boyfriends in the past twelve years, but as soon as it starts getting serious for the guy, she runs.

Karen shuts the backdoor and turns to me. “You know I trust you, but please…”

“Don’t get pregnant,” I interrupt. “I know, I know. You’ve been saying that every time you leave for the past two years. I’m not getting pregnant, Mom. Only terribly high and cracked out.”

She laughs and hugs me. “Good girl. And wasted. Don’t forget to get really wasted.”

“I won’t forget, I promise. And I’m renting a TV for the weekend so I can sit around and eat ice-cream and watch trash on cable.”

She pulls back and glares at me. “Now that’s not funny.”

I laugh and hug her again. “Have fun. I hope you sell lots of herbal thingies and soaps and tinctures and whatever else it is you do at these things.”

“Love you. If you need me, you know you can use Six’s house phone.”

I roll my eyes at the same instructions she gives me every time she leaves. “See ya,” I say. She gets in the car and pulls out of the driveway, leaving me parent-free for the weekend. To most teenagers, this would be the point at which they pull out their phones and post an invite to the most kick-ass party of the year. Not me. Nope. Instead, I go inside and decide to bake cookies, because that’s the most rebellious thing I can come up with.



I love to bake, but I don’t claim to be very good at it. I usually end up with more flour and chocolate on my face and hair than in the actual end product. Tonight’s no exception. I’ve already made a batch of chocolate chip cookies, a batch of brownies and something I’m not sure what it was supposed to be. I’m working on pouring the flour into the mixture for a homemade German chocolate cake when the doorbell rings.

I’m pretty sure I should know what to do in situations like this. Doorbells ring all the time, right? Not mine. I stare at the door, not sure what I’m expecting it to do. When it rings for a second time, I put down the measuring cup and wipe my hair out of my eyes, then walk to the front door. When I open it, I’m not even surprised to see Holder. Okay, I’m surprised. But not really.

“Hey,” I say. I can’t think of anything else to say. Even if I could think of something else to say, I probably wouldn’t be able to say it since I can’t freaking breathe! He’s standing on the top step of my entryway, hands hanging loosely in the pockets of his jeans. His hair still needs a trim, but when he brings his hand up and pushes it out of his eyes, the thought of him trimming that hair is suddenly the worst idea in the world.