If I'm Being Honest(67)

I feel my eyes widen. Images flit through my head. Arriving at the dance on Andrew’s arm, placing my head on his shoulder while the music plays.

I’ve fantasized about that night. I knew how I’d style my hair swept off my shoulder, knew what a figure Andrew would cut in the navy blazer he got for his sister’s graduation. I knew it would be perfect.

“Why now?” I ask suddenly.

Andrew blinks, obviously not expecting the question. “What do you mean?” He fidgets with the straps of his backpack. “I’m sorry if I should have planned something more romantic—”

I shake my head. “No. Why do you want to go with me now? What changed your mind about me?” His conversation last night, his unusual friendliness, I now realize, wasn’t friendliness at all. He was flirting, and I was too distracted to pick up on it. I study his features, trying to recall the way I obsessed about the dimple in his right cheek, the flecks of green in his eyes, the gentle arch of his brows.

His hands relax. “I know you’ve been trying to be nice to Paige. Then you got Grant and Hannah back together, and, well, I noticed. But when I heard what you did for Brendan yesterday I saw how committed you are—how hard you’re working.”

I have to hold in the laugh that bubbles in my throat. What perfect irony. Weeks of strategizing, and what ends up catching Andrew’s attention is the one act I didn’t do as part of my reinvention—the reinvention I just gave up. I’m marveling at every way in which that kiss backfired when I notice Andrew leaning in, his lips nearing mine.

I pull back, surprising myself. It’s so quick I don’t have time to think about what I’m giving up, what fantasies or long-formed plans.

Yet the moment I draw away, I know how right the choice was. I never considered how long it’s really been since I’ve fantasized about that perfect night with Andrew. A while, I guess.

I can tell the rejection surprises Andrew, too. His forehead creases, and his eyes narrow. “I thought you wanted this,” he says, his voice more baffled than vulnerable.

“I did,” I reply, searching my own feelings. I can’t deny Brendan’s changed things. But even without Brendan—because honestly, I’ve no reason to hope that will turn out—I can’t convince myself to want what I used to with Andrew. “It’s just . . .” I say finally, “I don’t think you like me. Only the girl you think I’ve become.”

I remember what Andrew said about The Taming of the Shrew in class. How it was a good thing Katherine was compelled to change. I had grabbed on to his words like driftwood from the shipwreck of my apology to Paige. But I know how wrong they are now. Katherine has a husband by the end of the play, and she’s better liked, but she’s not herself. She’s only who Petruchio tames her to be.

And in an unpredictable rush, I’m angry. I’m angry my plan worked. I’ve won Andrew, but he only wants me because I’ve twisted myself into a new shape. I can admit that because of Brendan—of how I could’ve felt for Brendan. I liked him in a real way, and I wanted him to like me in a real way, too. It’s exhilarating, and crushing.

With Andrew it wasn’t that. From the very beginning, for both of us, it was never real. Andrew’s the guy who worked on paper, who represented everything I thought I wanted. Everything I told myself I wanted. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from kissing Brendan—other than how nerdy junior boys can be unexpectedly proficient kissers—it’s that you can’t pick or predict the person you’ll fall for. You can’t figure it out with a list or a plan.

“If we were meant to be together, you wouldn’t have wanted me to change first,” I say, hearing a charge in my voice.

“Cameron, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, sounding urgent. “I’ve always liked you.”

“No, you haven’t,” I reply, not hesitating. The thoughts fit together in my head with perfect clarity. “You liked the idea of being with Cameron Bright. But when you had the chance, you realized you wanted someone else. Someone nicer. I’m not that person, Andrew,” I declare. “I’m done hiding my opinions and not being honest.”

Elle’s words ring in my ears. I haven’t forgiven her for the way she delivered them, but she wasn’t wrong. I’ve apologized and done things for people just to please Andrew. Of course he’d like me for that. But those things didn’t come from me. What he likes is only what I tailor-made for him, wrapped up in a pretty bow. In trying to be better than my mother, I’ve made exactly her mistakes. I’ve given away pieces of myself in desperation to be with a guy with whom it’ll never work out.

“You want me agreeable, and even-tempered, and . . . tamed,” I tell him. “I won’t be.”

“When did I ever say I want you tamed?” he interrupts me indignantly.

“Remember what you said about Kate in The Taming of the Shrew?” I go on. “You said it was a good thing she was tamed by the end of the play. You said she was a better person for it.”

Andrew’s watching me in undisguised surprise. “Yeah,” he says gradually. “I was talking about Kate. In Taming of the Shrew. A play.”

I falter, his words catching me off guard. He has a point, but . . . “You called me a bitch, remember?” I ask, grasping for the point.