If I'm Being Honest(28)

“It was not force, Bright,” she says, grinning. “It was gentle coercion.” Her eyes gather a glint of inquisitiveness. “I didn’t mean here in the first place. I meant why haven’t you left yet? Don’t you have popular-girl things to do?”

“No,” I say shortly, chafing at the reminder of what I do have waiting for me when I get home. From the way Paige’s grin catches, I know she hears the frustration in my voice.

“It looked like you were photographing the graffiti on Café Casablanca when I drove up,” she says, inspecting her fabrics. I hear the hint of hesitation in her voice.

I nod, appreciating the change of subject. “I like the way the lettering interacts with the typography of the café. It’s a good juxtaposition,” I say, finding myself elaborating. “It’s for a website I’m working on.”

Paige glances up. She studies me for a moment. “Huh.”

“What?” I feel a flare of indignation. If Paige thinks I’m too dumb or too “basic” for web design—

“It’s just not what I would have guessed,” she says.

I hear a door open, and Grant comes out of the bathroom, now dressed acceptably in jeans and a hoodie. His eyes instantly dart to the register. He takes a couple of steps and then pauses, looking torn, like he’s searching for something to say.

“Well, I told you you didn’t know anything about popular girls,” I tell Paige.

I watch Grant, whose face brightens. He eagerly takes a half step before he halts abruptly. The excitement in his expression fades, and he retreats to the chairs near Abby and Charlie. He broods as he folds the costume in his lap and doesn’t laugh along with whatever conversation Charlie and Abby are having.

And an idea begins to form in my head.

I owe Grant for ruining his relationship with Hannah. He deserves a place on my amends list no less than Paige and Brendan, and I can’t cross Paige off my list until I’ve repaired things with her brother.

I thread the handles of my bag over my arm.

“You going home?” Paige asks, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” I say. I glance back and find Hannah behind the counter, working too hard to keep her eyes off Grant. “Good luck on the, um, Rocky Horror.”

“Thanks, Bright.”

I’m parked a few blocks away, on a residential street near a high school, and the entire way I start sketching the edges of my new project. I don’t care if I have to fight with my mom or ignore her in shared resentment. I know what I have to do next, and I’m going to need time to plan.

I’m going to right two wrongs at once.

I’m going to get Grant and Hannah back together.





Fourteen



FRIDAY CLASS DRAGS BY. I WATCH THE minute hand shift on the clock over the whiteboard and force myself to focus on Grant. English will be over in twenty minutes, and then I have lunch to implement the first part of my plan. I have everything figured out. I emailed Paige last night and learned that Grant’s spent lunches this week in the library researching for an essay. She wanted to know why I wanted to know—I didn’t write back.

When I got home yesterday, I went directly to my room. I avoided my mom the rest of the night. Which was exactly what I’d planned. I had work to do.

Instead of revising my UPenn essay per Paige’s peer-review comments, I edited my amends list. Brendan remains impossible. I added Grant and Hannah and my plan for repairing their relationship. Following the complete failure of my attempts with Brendan, I know better than to expect it’ll go flawlessly. But I have to try.

When Kowalski finally dismisses us after rambling seven whole minutes into lunch about the Taming of the Shrew term paper we have due before winter break in December, I run down the stairs, painfully aware of how little time I have left. I’ve prepared a whole pitch for Grant, and if I don’t—

I round the corner and hit the brakes hard enough I almost fall over. In front of the entrance to the library, Andrew’s talking to a group of guys from the soccer team. He hasn’t noticed me. I watch him leaning on the locker, looking more confident than I remember ever seeing him.

I know I need to talk to Grant. But in this moment, I’m caught, watching. Remembering. We were in middle school the first time Andrew ever came over to my apartment. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt three sizes too big, and he laughed nervously at whatever I said. I thought we’d have nothing in common, but after a year of tortured silences while we worked on homework in my room, he noticed my running shoes.

Things started to change after that. We would run together as the sun was setting, and our silences weren’t tortured anymore. They were comfortable. I got used to the sound of his even breaths, the rhythm of his shoes and mine on the pavement. We ran what felt like every street, every hill, miles in every direction. And I remember the day I noticed he would always run one step behind me so he could watch me. Once when I tripped on a curb, his hand was on my elbow before I could fall.

I almost kissed him right then and there.

But I couldn’t be certain he and I would work out. I knew who he was, but I didn’t know who he wanted to be. With the whole Grant Wells pileup in my rearview mirror, I wasn’t ready to commit to a guy I couldn’t be confident would commit to his own life. Commit to his goals, commit to me.