Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(61)

“I am so—”

“And everyone thinks you have your shit together.” I swallow thickly. “But you just do what you want and everyone gives you a free pass. And you don’t even care who you hurt.”

Abby’s face falls. “You think I don’t care?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“I mean, yeah, I’m not perfect.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “Okay? I’m completely fucking this up. I’m not like you. I don’t have it all figured out. I have no clue what I’m doing, and I’m just really scared right now.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. That I’ll get this wrong. That you’ll hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Or that I’ll hurt you. I don’t want to do that.”

Time seems to freeze. For a moment, we just look at each other. I feel breathless and unsteady.

“Look, I’m fine,” I say finally. “Okay? You’ll figure this out. You’ve got this. I’m happy for you. You don’t owe me anything.” I exhale, shrugging.

“That’s not—”

“Everything’s fine. We’re friends. I’ll see you at prom.”

“Okay,” she says softly.

I don’t bother replying. I leave without looking back.





29


“WE’RE GOING TO GET THIS. I swear to God.” Mom stares at the screen of her phone and then catches my eye in the mirror. “I watched the tutorial like fifty times.”

“I’m sure you did.” I smile faintly.

“It’s just not working. Why do I suck at this?”

“You don’t suck.” There’s this little loop of hair hanging awkwardly over my ear, so I give it a tug. And now there’s one straight chunk of hair stringing down like a massive sideburn. Welp.

Mom groans.

I’ve spent the last hour in her bedroom, letting her knock herself out with every hair appliance ever invented. I’m still in pajamas, and Garrett’s not coming for another five hours. But Mom’s obsessively checking the time on her phone, like he might bust in at any moment.

“Okay. Starting over.” She combs her fingers through my hair, retrieving approximately ten thousand bobby pins. Then she spritzes it with water and brushes it straight again. “I swear to God . . .”

For my part, I’m numb. I just can’t muster any fucks to give. I get that prom’s supposed to be a huge deal—but for what? Why the effort? I honestly don’t care about impressing my date. And maybe some stupid tiny part of me wants to impress someone—but if that someone is off-limits, then what’s the point?

Mom licks her lips. “Let me blow-dry you again.”

“Go for it.”

She goes for it.

It’s funny—I never even thought I’d go to prom, and here I am doing the whole routine that goes with it. We’re taking pictures at Simon’s house and then riding an actual limo to some fancy-pants restaurant in Alpharetta. It’s just a real suburban high school wet dream.

Mom turns off the dryer. “I hate that you’re fighting with Morgan and Anna,” she says, out of nowhere.

“Why?”

“I just don’t like that there’s tension. I want you to have that perfect night.”

“That’s a myth.”

“What’s a myth?”

“The perfect prom night.”

Mom laughs. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like a teen movie cliché. You have the choreographed group dance number and the weird pining eye contact, and then the big smoochy kiss.”

“That sounds like a great prom,” Mom says.

“It’s a joke.”

“God, Leah.” She trails her hands through my hair and loops a strand of it around her finger. “How did you get so cynical?”

“I can’t help it. I’m a Slytherin.”

And I’m the worst kind of Slytherin. I’m the kind who’s so stupidly in love with a Gryffindor, she can’t even function. I’m the Draco from some shitty Drarry fic that the author abandoned after four chapters.

“Well, my prom was beautiful,” Mom says. “It was one of the most romantic nights of my life.”

“Weren’t you pregnant?”

“So? It was still wonderful.” She smiles. “Did you know I had an ultrasound the day before my prom?”

“That’s . . . cool?”

“It was cool! It was the big one, too. That’s when I found out your gender.”

“Gender is a social construction.”

“I know, I know.” She pokes my cheek. “I don’t know. I was just so excited about it. I didn’t even care what sex you were. I just wanted to know everything about you.”

I snort. “That sounds about right.”

“I just perfectly remember lying there on the table, seeing you on the little monitor. You were so . . .”

“Fetal?”

“Yes.” She grins. “But also—I don’t know. You were just such a little trouper in there. I remember being so moved by that. Here I was, with all this stuff going on—school and prom and your dad, but you just kept doing your thing. Growing and growing. You were unstoppable.”