Wrong About the Guy(26)

“You kept asking me about Skyler! Exact same thing.”

He shrugged and looked up. “You got all of the questions right.”

“Of course I did. And I already know that Carson’s a girl. First of all, most Carsons are girls, and second of all, she wrote ‘Can’t wait,’ and no boy would ever write that to another boy, even if they were both gay and in love.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“You took my phone away,” I said. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you read? As riveting as that might be—”

“Reflect on your flaws,” he said. “Resolve to be a better person.”

“It’s not possible. I’m already perfect.”

“Are you though?”

“How about Carson?” I said. “Is she a good person? Or a flawed one?” I was only teasing, but my curiosity was genuine. If George was in love, I wanted to know about it. I felt a little proprietary after all the time we’d spent together this summer, like I should get a chance to review and approve anyone he dated. Besides, talking about his personal life was a lot more interesting than studying for the SATs. “Do we like her?”

“She’s a goddess among women,” he said. “If I give you back your phone, will you stop talking long enough for me to actually read your essay?”

“If you give me back my phone, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the afternoon,” I said. “Maybe even the rest of the decade.”

“You get ten minutes with it.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and handed it to me, then bent over the screen again.

I sent a couple of texts and checked my Instagram feed. Aaron had posted a selfie with Mia. She was tiny and adorable in his well-muscled arms.

“Okay, done,” George said, looking up. “Why are you smiling?”

I showed him the photo.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s talk about your essay.” He swung the laptop around and hitched his chair closer to mine so we could both see the screen. “So you got the format right—everything’s there, from the introduction to the conclusion. And it’s a good length—you got a lot of words down on the page. You even made some decent points. It’s just the way you supported them that I’m not sure about. You’re a little glib.”

“Glib?” I repeated.

“Slick. Easy.”

“I know what glib means. I’m just hurt you think of me that way.”

“Look at this.” He pointed to a sentence. “You’re essentially making fun of the topic.”

“Just trying to keep it entertaining for my reader. I wouldn’t want to bore him.”

“I want you to take this seriously.”

“I did! I mean, for the most part. Come on! It’s a perfectly fine essay and you know it.”

“It’s not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “What’s this book you reference here? The Smith Saga? I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because I made it up.” I grinned. “Smith is Heather’s last name. A little homage to my best friend.”


He groaned. “I should have guessed. That quotation is too perfect. You can’t do that on the actual test. It’s dishonest.”

“The teacher who ran the SAT workshop at school said we could. She said that the readers don’t have time to check all the references so we should just make some up if we can’t think of anything.”

“That’s a really bad idea,” he said. “If she’s wrong and someone does look it up, you’re going to be docked a ton.”

“Says you.”

He shoved the laptop away. “If you’re not even going to listen to anything I say—”

“Relax.” I touched his arm. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I promise I won’t do that on the real test.”

“Good.” He moved his arm away. “I want to help you do well on this. But you have to actually work with me a little bit.”

“I will. I’m going to be a good student for the rest of the evening, okay? We can even do the most miserable math problems and I won’t complain.”

“Thank you.” He held his hand out, palm up. “May I put your cell phone away again?”

“Only if you’ll put yours away, too. I want your undivided attention.”

“Deal.” He took the two phones and left them on the counter side by side.


It was easier to dodge work and get us off track when Heather was around, which she was for our Sunday session. Heather was always willing to talk about something—anything—other than what we were supposed to be doing, and while George had no problem telling me to shut up and get back to work, he wasn’t so blunt with her. In fact, he was nicer to her than he was to me in general—gentle when she got frustrated, patient when she was slow, quick to reassure her and build up her confidence. When she got an answer wrong, he always found something encouraging to say about it—like that she was on the right path or had “some good ideas.” When I got something wrong, he just told me to be more careful and to try harder.

After he snapped at me for not paying attention, I called him on it. “Why are you so much nicer to her than to me?”