If I'm Being Honest(68)
Andrew winces. His eyes grow confused, as if he can’t understand how such a short word can have such power. Because of course he can’t. “I—” he says and swallows. “Yeah. I did. I apologize for that, Cameron. It was wrong of me. You were horrible to Paige that night,” he reminds me, not that I need reminding. “But I know you’re not really that person. I needed time to forgive you for what happened with Paige. I respect how you apologized and were cool to Paige’s brother. I never needed you to change who you are, though. I wanted you before everything with Paige, and I want you now.”
It’s exactly what I wanted to hear. It’s everything I wanted to hear. And it’s not enough.
“I don’t think you do, Andrew,” I say decisively. “I don’t blame you, but I can’t be the girl you want. I’m going to say the wrong things sometimes. I’ll apologize when I do, but it’s going to happen. I know there are people out there who are gentler, or more open-minded, or have more discretion than me—wonderful people. You want one of them.”
It’s unbelievably freeing to admit. I’m really, genuinely over Andrew. Not just Andrew himself but the idea of him, of the relationship I’ve worked toward and worried about and driven myself crazy for. I’ve defined myself for my entire life by my goals, my accomplishments. Recognizing there’s nothing to this goal other than proving I don’t let my dreams pass me by, I feel weightless.
Andrew opens his mouth, but I’m not finished yet. This isn’t only about what he wants.
“I’m not the girl for you, and you’re not the guy for me.” I nearly smile as I say it.
Andrew closes his mouth, his rebuttal forgotten. I watch his expression shift from apprehension to acceptance and then agreement. He nods, his eyes on mine, and whatever this thing was between us is finally ended.
I could stay, could try to mend the frayed edges of our friendship. I walk to the door instead. There’s no need to draw this out. If he thinks I’m rude for walking out, fine. I don’t care what Andrew thinks. Not anymore.
I open the door and pause. “You already know nice girls,” I say from the doorway. “Girls you have real friendships with.”
He looks puzzled. I push down the urge to put my opinion gently. I won’t be doing that any longer.
“Andrew, don’t be an idiot,” I tell him. “There’s one girl we both know who’s nothing but accepting. She’s kind and generous, and she would never do anything to make someone feel bad. You actually talk to her, too, which, by the way, is what people do when they care about someone.” His confused expression only deepens. I don’t restrain the frustration from my tone. “You tell her about what’s worrying you on the team. You get lunch with her after pep rallies?”
He jolts a little, realizing who I mean.
“Bye, Andrew,” I say and walk out the door.
Outside, I roll my eyes with weeks’ worth of pent-up sarcasm.
Thirty-Two
I’VE AVOIDED BRENDAN FOR THE ENTIRE WEEK. For one thing, I definitely don’t want to hear him detailing his plans with whatever sophomore cheerleader asked him out, and furthermore I’m nervous he’ll realize the kiss was for real, and he’ll be horrified. It hurt enough he assumed the kiss was a stunt. I couldn’t take outright rejection.
But today is Friday, the day I agreed to go to Grand Central Market with him. Which means I can’t avoid him any longer.
Unless I can come up with an excuse. I finish my sit-ups for the cross-country workout—frustratingly, not a run. I really needed the wind on my face and the pavement under my feet to help me come up with what I’m going to tell Brendan. I get up, grabbing my water bottle, and head for the locker room. I could fake food poisoning, I guess. Or an assignment I forgot. He’d understand.
I round the corner, and there he is, leaning on the wall next to the locker room. For a moment, I forget my excuses, and I’m only watching him exchange nods with a couple people passing by. Worse, he looks good. Objectively, there’s nothing new about him. He’s still too tall, with curly hair that’s a little too long. But kissing him has made me painfully aware of all the really obvious ways in which he’s hot. His, dare I say, chiseled jaw and warm eyes. His nonchalant posture, as if he doesn’t care about impressing anyone. His smile, open and genuine.
Just more reasons I can’t go through with this.
With a deep breath, I walk up to him, thinking of my excuse. “Hey, you ready?” he says before I can speak.
He glances up, and our eyes meet.
The excuse dries up on my tongue. I’m voiceless with the realization of how much I hated not talking to him. “Yeah,” I say, finding words. “Just give me ten minutes to clean up. I apologize in advance if I stink.”
Brendan grins. “I mean, it’s every guy’s nightmare to be one-on-one with a sweaty Cameron Bright.”
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, walking past him. I’d thought he was flirting with me when he said things like that. Now I know he’s not.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I’m showered and we’re halfway to downtown. We’re in my car, and Brendan’s reading me directions from his phone in the passenger seat. I’m trying my hardest to not be awkward, to pretend there’s not this new place in my heart for him. Brendan’s certainly not acting differently. I just have to force myself not to look at, think about, or remember the feel of his lips.