Twelve Steps to Normal(56)

“Oh.”

It’s odd, but the slight change of his drink option feels like a betrayal. I tell myself it’s all in my head. Jay’s welcome to order whatever he wants.

But still.

The fries are delivered, and I set the carton between us so we can share. We eat in silence for a few moments. When the breeze shifts, I catch a faint scent of the body spray he wore when we dated. Even though he’s changed so much since I left, I can’t help replaying the good moments over in my head. Our kisses in dark theaters. The thinking of you texts.

Jay shakes his empty milkshake cup, gesturing to a garbage can sitting a few feet away. “Think I can make this into the trash?”

“You’re on the basketball team. I hope you can make it.”

He grins. “Rude.”

“How is that rude? That’s a fact.”

Jay aims, then glances over at me. “How about a little support?”

“Does your ego need it? Is that you, Breck?”

“Oh, fuck off.” He flings the cup perfectly into the bin with a satisfying thud. “Nothing but net.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Two points.”

“That’s clearly three.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

He scoots closer to me, an easy smile spreading across his lips. Then his hand is on my bare knee, and my heart jumps in my throat.

Jay’s eyes lock with mine. “You look nice tonight.”

I want to tell myself it’s an innocent compliment, but when his hand ever so slowly creeps higher up my thigh, I know it’s not.

My smile disappears as I immediately shift both of my legs away from him. Because even though there are spurts of moments where being with Jay feels so natural, he’s with Whitney. Whitney, who is part of the reason I agreed to come here in the first place. And what does this say about Jay, who’s clearly trying to make a move on me while he’s with Whitney?

“No.” There’s firmness in my tone. “I don’t think—”

Next to the carton of fries, Jay’s phone chimes with a text. Because I’m both nosy and curious, I glance down, which is how my eyes read: hey, if you’re coming, bring beer. From Jennifer. The same Jennifer that was at Breck’s party, I’m sure.

Jay doesn’t waste time texting back. “Winsor Lake,” he explains, obviously aware I read it. “Got a fake ID last weekend. They want me to come party. And bring more booze.”

“A true hero,” I say, but even I hear the joke fall flat.

“Something like that,” he mumbles.

A pang of annoyance stabs me in the chest. Why? Why have I been pining after someone who’s clearly chosen to hang out with me, his ex-girlfriend, behind his actual girlfriend’s back? Someone who he’d then ditch out to pick up beer for a party? Maybe that’s who Jay has become. The one who’s always searching for the next best thing.

“I should go, anyway.” I can’t shake away the weirdness that’s been slowly encroaching on me. “Thanks for the fries.”

“Oh—uh, no problem.” I feel him watching me as I hop off the table. “Um, hey?”

I turn back to him, wondering if he’s going to say he’d rather stay here with me, that spending time together sounds way better than some party at the lake. Because that’s the Jay I know. The guy who’d pick me over boozing it up in the woods.

Instead, he tosses me my car keys. “Can’t really go anywhere without those, right?”

“Right.” I force my lips into a tight smile. “Have a good one.”

An uneasiness sits in the center of my chest as I walk away. I can’t quite explain it. It’s not until I brush my teeth and slide into bed that I’m able to pinpoint my feelings a little more clearly: Maybe it’s impossible to reconnect with someone who’s not who they used to be.





TWENTY


I DO NOT, IN FACT, remember to wear my spirit color on Monday.

It’s first day of Spirit Week, but I’m not in a peppy mood. It’s another reminder that homecoming is a few days away. I’ll be dateless, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels like it.

The theme today is Class Colors. Juniors were encouraged to wear green, but my black Earth Club shirt with a minimally green recycling sign paired with my plain jeans did not impress Raegan, who sat down at lunch looking like a leprechaun threw up all over her.

“You could have made a bigger effort!” she huffed. “The winning class gets to exempt a final at the end of the year, you know.”

I did know. I just didn’t care.

I’m still slightly annoyed by my interaction with Jay on Friday. At lunch, Whitney didn’t seem fazed when he talked about winning four rounds of beer pong at the Winsor Lake party, nor when he reenacted how Breck projectile vomited in the back of Hudson King’s pickup. I gave up finishing my ham sandwich after that story, but I couldn’t quite shake missing the Jay I thought I knew freshman year.

Coach Vasquez pulls me aside after Wavettes practice. She tells me if I can’t bring my Algebra II grade up to a C, I’ll be suspended from performing at our next game. I should feel motivated to work harder, but a tiny part of me wouldn’t be disappointed if I were kicked off the team.

The thought takes me by surprise. Wasn’t this one of the things I desperately wanted? To bring me closer to Raegan and Whitney?