If I'm Being Honest(64)
The mention of our plan hits me harder than I would’ve expected. Definitely not a date, then. I don’t know how I convinced myself otherwise. I want to cancel—except I can’t without explaining why.
“Yeah. Friday,” I repeat as if his words have echoed through me, leaving nothing behind.
* * *
In an hour, I’ve showered from my run after school and am working on my Shrew paper when there’s a knock on the front door. I hear my mom greet Deb, and I remember it’s Monday. I was going to run with Andrew today. I completely forgot, caught up in the drama with Elle and now the jarring conversation with Brendan.
Guiltily, I walk into the hallway, damp hair hanging over my shoulder. Andrew catches sight of me past his mom, who’s chatting excitedly with mine.
His eyes linger on my wet hair. “Guess we’re not running today,” he says, the dimple in his cheek dancing with amusement.
I reach for a witty reply and find nothing. “Yeah, sorry,” I say instead. “Do you want to do homework?”
The humor fades from his expression. “Sure.” His voice is light with what sounds like forced nonchalance.
I return to my room, feeling frustrated and off-kilter. He follows me, and for the next half an hour, we work halfheartedly on homework. In an effort to act normal and not like a totally distracted zombie, I ask him how his first game went. When we head to the dining table for dinner, the Chinese takeout my mom picked up down the street, I try for the thousandth time not to think of Brendan. It doesn’t work, and for the entire meal he, and the kiss, and the horrible phone call we just had play on repeat in my mind. I utter only a handful of words, and in an hour, Andrew and I are back in my room.
Picking up my copy of The Taming of the Shrew, I flip unenthusiastically to act 3. I really have to finish a draft of this essay.
“What are you writing about?” Andrew asks, nodding at the book in my hand.
I blink, fighting to remember exactly what I am writing about—to remember anything except Brendan’s hands on my hips, pulling me closer. “Katherine’s character arc,” I get out. “You?”
“I don’t know,” he replies thoughtfully. “Maybe the role of wealth in romance and marriage.”
I nod, not having anything more to say, and return to the play. Neither of us speaks for a few minutes. I will myself to focus on Kate resisting becoming Petruchio’s bride.
“Did you have fun at Rocky?” Andrew asks out of nowhere. “Paige told me she had a great time and that you brought Elle to do everybody’s makeup.”
It throws me that Andrew’s bothered to ask another question. I’m really not in a talkative mood, and usually Andrew isn’t either. I don’t understand what’s gotten into him, why he’s picked today to play twenty questions instead of doing our homework in peace.
“It was fun, yeah,” I say hesitantly, hoping he’ll take the hint.
“I think it’s really cool you went,” he says, not taking the hint. “I didn’t know you liked stuff like that. People at school pretty much refuse to try new things. I just think it’s awesome you’re different from them.”
“Um, thanks?” I guess it’s a compliment.
“Hey”—he closes his Calc book eagerly—“do you want to take a study break?” From the practiced way he asks, I get the feeling this has been his plan all night. “We could watch Sherlock?”
“No,” I say quickly. I definitely cannot watch an actor who bears a significant resemblance to a certain video game programmer I’m desperate not to think about tonight. Andrew’s eyes widen, and I realize how harshly I just refused. “I just can’t take a study break right now,” I add hurriedly. “I’m really behind. Next week?”
He nods, satisfied. I return to The Taming of the Shrew, my thoughts tilting precariously. What is wrong with me?
Weeks ago, I would have jumped at the chance to do literally anything with Andrew. Now, I’m a confused, preoccupied mess, while he’s going out of his way to be friendly. I have him right here, and yet I’m trapped in my own head, reliving Brendan’s kiss and its consequences. He’s messed everything up.
No, I’ve messed everything up.
Thirty-One
THE NEXT DAY, EVERYTHING’S DIFFERENT.
In the halls I catch glances in my direction and hear furtive whispers. There are a couple repeated words. Brendan, robotics room. When I pass a group of girls near my locker, they erupt in hushed giggles.
In Ethics, Morgan gives me only a timid look I don’t know how to interpret. I guess it’s better than the complete texting moratorium of yesterday. No luck with Elle, though. When I try to catch her eye in between classes in the morning, she determinedly ignores me. I have to bite my cheek to keep from saying her name out loud in the locker hall. I wonder if she’d ignore me then.
I know I hurt her yesterday, but under the remorse, I feel a new current of resentment. Why do I have to apologize first? She hurt me, too.
I’m outside English, following a few steps behind her, when I hear someone make an exaggerated smooching sound to my left. It’s undeniably meant for me. I’m ready to let it roll off me the way I have every other Brendan-related joke and whisper today—except this time, I catch Elle give a small smirk and chuckle derisively.