One Small Thing(66)

His expression turns bleak. “It’s hard to live with myself, so, yeah, I tolerate the stuff at school because it feels right. Because I don’t want to go back to prison, but I feel guilty about that, too. Maybe the punishment should be endless.”

“And that’s going to bring her back?”

“Nothing’s going to bring her back. That’s the point,” he insists, but this time he doesn’t move away.

I poke him in the chest again. “Are you ever going to let me forgive you?”

“I...”

I take a different tack. “If you’re so desperate to make it right for Rachel, don’t you think she’d want me to be happy?”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“I’m trying to make you understand that what happened with Rachel was an accident. I’ve forgiven you. Your response is to walk away and leave me.” My finger stabs him in the chest for a third time.

He captures it, probably trying to prevent me from drilling a hole through his sweatshirt. “There are a dozen other guys at Darling who would be better for you than me.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then closes it.

“Ha,” I declare. I close the distance between us and loop my arms around his waist. “There’s no one out there that would listen to me like you do.”

He relaxes a tad and wraps his arms around me. “You have low standards, doll.”

“Not really. You were my first and I’m a senior, so I’d say I have high standards. You have a low opinion of yourself.”

“Is this where you tell me to climb down off the cross?”

“Do I need to?”

He exhales heavily. “No.”

We stand there for a long time next to the Palmers’ shed. Finally, I let him go. “I need to go in,” I say reluctantly.

“Yes.” He makes no move to leave.

I walk backward, afraid that he’ll retreat into his guilt-ridden shell if I take my eyes off of him.

“What’s your small thing for today?” I ask as I cross the neighbors’ lawn to my own.

“You.”





26

On a Friday morning, I find a wildflower in my locker. An ear-to-ear grin spreads across my face, but I keep my back turned so nobody walking down the hall can see how giddy I am.

“Who’s that from?” Scarlett demands, peeking over my shoulder.

I roll the single stem between my fingers. “I picked it at the bus stop,” I lie, because whatever is going on between Chase and me has to remain a secret for it to survive.

Scar makes a sympathetic face. “That sucks you still haven’t gotten your car back. You seem okay about it, though. Like you’re smiling more these days.”

I tap the bloom against my cheek. “I’m trying to focus on the good instead of the bad.”

This one small thing concept of Chase’s isn’t bad. It’s been two weeks since the fire alarm incident. My car hasn’t been returned, but my door has. I’m not sure why, but it was put back up the day after I broke down in the yard with Chase. The alarms are still on the doors and windows, but I’m hopeful that as long as I toe the line, those will come off soon.

As for being grounded, it doesn’t matter much, since Chase sneaks into my backyard almost every night. I have no desire to go out. Scarlett’s always busy with Jeff—they’re officially together now—and Chase is the only person I want to see anyway. He’s the one I want to snuggle up with on a blanket in the dark and talk to.

Sadly, talking is the extent of it. I’m dying for more, but Chase is stubborn. He still insists we’re just “friends.”

Because friends leave flowers in each other’s lockers.

Ha.

“Cute top,” I say, redirecting the conversation. Scarlett’s wearing a sheer rose-colored shirt over a camisole. Two rhinestones dot the tips of an overlarge collar. She’s paired it with a slim gray skirt and gray flats.

Scar beams. “It’s Chanel,” she squeals.

“Shut up. For real?”

“Yes.” She lifts the corner of the shirt so I can see the tiny gold square with the interlocking Cs. “I bought it off an online consignment shop. I was so worried it was going to sell to someone else before I had enough money saved up and then I was worried it wouldn’t fit. I got it on Sat—”

“Where have you been?” Jeff interrupts.

Startled, Scar drops her shirt and spins around to face her angry boyfriend. “Um, talking to Beth.”

“I told you to wait at the front door for me.” His hand falls on her shirt at the nape of her neck. The delicate fabric wrinkles around the edges of his palm.

“I—I—I just came to say hi to Beth,” she stammers.

I glance from his hand to her face, pale and unhappy. The dynamic here is weird. Scar’s acting guilty—like talking to me is somehow inappropriate.

“Don’t,” he replies flatly. “If I tell you to be somewhere, be there. I waited out there for ten minutes, looking like a fool. If you don’t want to be with me, then be up-front about it instead of leaving me hanging. That’s rude.”

“Come on, Jeff. We were just talking.” I eye his hand. It doesn’t look right on her neck, and it’s not just because the green-and-black plaid of his shirt clashes with the rose of hers. It’s that his hand looks punishing instead of playful.