If I'm Being Honest(7)

Only moments later, Andrew rushes in. He looks at me. And I look at him. I walk forward, and his eyes widen when I run both hands up his chest. Whatever he was expecting from tonight, it wasn’t this. In the next instant I’m kissing him, and, finally understanding where we’re going with this, he wraps his arms around my waist. He has a natural talent for this, I find myself realizing.

I draw him by the hand toward the couch and recline on the pillows. “I really like you, Andrew,” I whisper, pulling him down to me.

“Funny.” He pauses short of my lips. “I always got the opposite impression. We’ve been friends for years, and you’ve never—”

I cut him off with a long kiss. “I am now,” I say, pushing down the frustration in my voice. “Isn’t that enough? We could talk about it more, or we could . . .” I trail my hand down to his waistband.

He kisses me this time. There’s no trace of hesitation in the way his mouth meets mine. Nothing but the momentum of months of wanting this, momentum I know he feels with me. I pull off his polo, exploring the stretch of skin I find underneath. He runs a hand through my hair, down my chest, and breathes, “You’re so beautiful.”

It’s perfect. It really is.

Until there’s a crash behind Andrew, and something heavy falls onto him. He’s rocked forward, his forehead ramming into my nose. My eyes water before I even feel the pain burst through my face.

“What the hell?” I yell, standing up sharply and pulling my dress up over my now-braless chest. Andrew looks similarly stunned. When my eyes recover from the flash of light of the curtains parting, I realize there’s now a third person in this booth.

Paige Rosenfeld.

“Are you drunk or just severely stupid?” I snap. If she looked horrible before, she’s an abject mess now. Her too-heavy mascara runs in gunky black spiderwebs down her cheeks, and when she hauls herself off the edge of the couch, I notice honest-to-god snot on the front of her dress.

I hear my dad’s voice in my head. Pathetic.

“Sorry,” Paige says with a violent sniffle. “I didn’t think someone would be shameless enough to be screwing in a club with only a flimsy curtain hiding them.”

I narrow my eyes. Paige isn’t as drunk as she seemed. What right does she have to say I’m shameless when she was flinging herself at Jeff in front of everyone? “Jealousy looks bad on you,” I sneer. “I guess it didn’t work out with Jeff, huh? Why don’t you find someone as pathetic as you are to hook up with?” I’m staring Paige down, but in the corner of my vision I catch Andrew’s eyebrows go up. It’s possible my resentment over her scathing review of my essay is seeping into my frustration over her intrusion. I don’t care, though.

Fresh tears well in Paige’s eyes. “I’ve wondered . . .” she says, her voice shaking, “I guess you really are as awful on the inside as you act.” She strides past the curtains without giving her tears the chance to fall.

I roll my shoulders, shrugging off the insult. Reclining on the couch, I place a hand on the cushion to invite Andrew. “Where were we?”

He doesn’t move. His lips slip into a quizzical frown. “You want to go back to making out after that?”

I still, working out what he’s just said. “I know she spoiled the mood,” I say, struggling to keep my voice light. “But I’ve waited too long for this to let Paige Rosenfeld ruin it.” I sit up, hugging my dress to my chest.

Impossibly, his eyes never leave mine. “She was obviously upset. You didn’t have to insult her.” His voice is gentle, but not without a critical edge.

“Excuse me,” I say. I’m honestly in disbelief we’re still discussing Paige. “She insulted me first. Remember? But really, the insult isn’t even the point. I don’t have much sympathy for girls like Paige.” I know I’m not exactly helping the mood, but this is what I’m feeling, and I’m not going to push it down. “Reduced to tears because it didn’t work out with some douchebag she barely knows? Please. It is pathetic.”

I burn with defeated expectation when Andrew pulls on his shirt. “You know,” he says, “you’re really beautiful, and sometimes when it’s just the two of us, I feel like you might be worth it. But the truth is”—he pauses at the entrance—“you’re a bitch, Cameron Bright.”

The curtain flutters closed behind him. I sit in silence.

I’m a little shocked how harshly the insult stings. I’ve never been called that word by someone I care about, someone whose words have the power to hurt.

I’m not going to cry, though. Crying is pathetic. It won’t help.

It never does.





Four



I’M WOKEN UP THE NEXT MORNING BY my phone ringing, ruining my usual Saturday morning plans of sleeping in. I glance over to check the name on the screen—Elle. With a twinge of guilt, I hit mute, and she goes to voicemail. I hope she enjoyed her night with Jason. But I’m not ready to hear the gory details right now.

Get up. Run. Deal with Mom.

The list is enough to get me out of bed.

I’m hurt by where Andrew and I left things, by what he called me. The thought chews the corner of my mind while I make my bed. What I said to Paige sounded bad—honestly, I could have been a little nicer. Andrew knows me, though. He’ll come around.