If I'm Being Honest(6)

They’d be perfect for a website I’m working on. I take a picture on my phone.

The terrace is full of my classmates, everyone holding red plastic cups. While I’m walking toward the railing, a couple water polo guys call my name.

“Want a drink?” Kyle Cretton calls, flashing me a flask in his sport coat.

I wrinkle my nose. Even if every other girl out here is drooling over the water polo captain, I’m interested in nothing involving Kyle Cretton and his hidden booze. Perfect abs and a Speedo are all well and good, but Kyle’s no different from every guy I’ve rejected. He’s content to ditch class for doughnuts and spend every Friday plying underclassmen with drinks. He’s not interesting. He’s not driven. He’s not worth the effort or the risk.

“With you?” I call back. “Definitely not.”

Kyle cringes, and with hollers of “Burn” and “Damn, dude,” the other guys jostle him. Bored, I continue past them.

I find Andrew leaning on the balcony overlooking the skyline, the only person out here not sneaking drinks or ogling drunk girls. His posture’s rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s in his still-creased short-sleeve Beaumont soccer polo, and the bright green stands out against his skin. I pause a moment, drinking in his appearance. The way the fabric outlines his muscular shoulders. The close shave of his fade, his hair contoured tightly around his ears. The perfect amount of stubble on his jaw.

“Andrew Richmond,” I say, walking up next to him. Confidence looks good on me.

When he hears my voice, he visibly relaxes a little. His lips curl into a faint grin, his eyes remaining on the view.

I drape myself over the railing, facing the terrace. “Enjoying the party?” I ask.

He turns to me, his eyebrows knitting together. He looks like he’s not certain if he’s dreaming or I’m crazy. “What are you doing?” He’s not being critical. His voice holds genuine curiosity.

“Talking to the newest starter on the Beaumont varsity soccer team, I thought.” I notice the way his chest puffs up with pride, but some of the light leaves his eyes. A cloud passes in front of the moon, casting us in shadow.

“Yeah, you just . . .” he starts haltingly. “You don’t usually talk to me.”

“What?” I lean in, our shoulders close to touching. “We hang out.”

“But not, you know”—he throws his head in the direction of the club—“not at school stuff.”

Guiltily, I know he’s not entirely wrong. When Andrew first came to Beaumont in the middle of sixth grade, he and his family knew no one. His mom and mine became fast friends, bonded over a shared love of The Bachelor, which they watch together religiously. Andrew’s mom, Deb, brought him with her when we were both in sixth grade, hoping he’d make a friend. By the time we were too old for forced hangouts, he’d become her designated driver.

As a result, Andrew and I have spent a good amount of time together across high school, doing homework, watching TV, or just talking. We run together every now and then.

I didn’t really notice Andrew when we first hung out, other than his occasional humor. He never had a sense of himself. With his uncertain fashion sense, his mediocre grades, and his tendency not to talk in groups, he never knew who he was. I didn’t consider him romantically because he was too adrift to risk tying myself to. If I was going to commit to someone, I wanted him to be worth the worry, worth the part of me I was going to give to him. It was a lesson I’d learned from my unfortunate first relationship, in which I went to obscene lengths to get a guy without bothering to wonder whether he was worth the effort. He wasn’t. We broke up almost immediately.

Then Andrew filled out. He didn’t care about organized sports, but his long legs and lithe frame had become perfect for dribbling a ball down a field.

I noticed. I noticed potential.

A year of hints, and Andrew finally committed to a training regimen and took the initiative to try out for the team a few weeks ago.

I place a hand on his arm, which is goose-bumped even in the warm Hollywood night. His eyes follow, narrowing in on where my fingers rest on the bend of his elbow. “Now that you’re on the team, I think our social circles will be . . . intersecting.” I give him a meaningful look.

He has to swallow before he can speak again. I’m not surprised his mouth is a little dry. When he looks up, he’s recovered his cool. “Intersecting?” he says evenly. His pupils engulf his dark eyes. “What do you mean, exactly?”

I hear a shriek behind us. Andrew and I both look in time to see a girl furiously wiping the amber stain down the front of her dress, while a couple water polo guys laugh behind her. Idiots.

It’s time I take this somewhere more private.

“Follow me and I’ll show you,” I whisper in Andrew’s ear.

I withdraw quickly. Feeling his gaze burning into my back, I head inside, his footsteps behind me.

Andrew being on varsity soccer isn’t why I like him. He’s not like the guys I refuse to date. He’s smart, and he’s unfailingly kind, and he’s proven himself driven and talented. I can imagine having something real with him in a way I never could before. Him making the team was just the final necessary piece.

I lead him past the crowd toward the VIP booths in the back. They’re curtained off with a velvet rope in front, which I’m guessing means we’re not supposed to go inside. But nobody’s watching, we’re far from the dance floor, and the club is rented out. It’ll be fine. I undo the velvet rope and slip inside the curtains. It’s empty, and I turn and wait.