Wrong About the Guy(69)

“I did,” I said.

He laughed. “No, you didn’t. You were good-natured enough to tolerate it, that’s all. Which is actually pretty impressive. Most people would have been resentful.”

“I liked that you cared whether or not I was a decent human being.”

“You are a decent human being,” he said. “You just forget to be when you’re around Aaron.”

“Stop blaming him for my defects!”

“It’s how I see it.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I’m defective all on my own. Anyway, if you were worried I’d hate you for criticizing me, you could have thrown in a compliment now and then. Why didn’t you ever say anything nice to me?”

“Too dangerous. I didn’t want you to guess how I felt. It wasn’t safe to look at you too much. Or smile at you too much. Or praise you too much—”

“Let’s be honest,” I said. “You were never in danger of that.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, and I liked the mischief in his glance.

“So you were nicer to Heather so no one would notice how much you liked me?”

“More or less.”

“Then you’re just like Aaron,” I said triumphantly. “He paid attention to me so no one would notice how much he liked Crystal.”

He shifted away, withdrawing his hand from mine. “That was completely different.”

“Don’t get mad just because I’m right.”

“You’re not right and I’m not mad.” He fingered the end of his spoon, then looked up again. “But I’ll admit I don’t like being compared to that *.”

“That * is one of my best friends,” I said. “You have to learn to like him.”

“The sad thing is that I like him better now that I know he had an affair with his stepmother than I did when I thought he was having a perfectly appropriate relationship with you.”

“Wow,” I said. “You totally lack any moral compass. Which may not be a bad thing.” I snuck my hand under the table and touched his leg. “If we’re not going to eat our yogurt, can’t we just go to your place?”

He rubbed his temple, like his head hurt. “God knows I want to.”

“So?”

“I just want to be careful. Go slowly.”

“You’ve already ravished my virgin lips,” I said. “It’s too late to think twice.”

“Your lips weren’t virginal. I saw Aaron kiss you, remember?”

“Doesn’t count. Neither of us meant it.”

“Are you going to say that about every kiss you’ve ever had?”

“There haven’t been any others,” I said. “Seriously.”

“Oh, God,” he said, and rubbed his temple harder.

“That doesn’t make me any younger,” I pointed out. “Just more discriminating.”

“I guess.”

He was going to rub all the way through to his brain pretty soon. I leaned in, trailing my fingers along the top of his thigh, and said, “Come on. I want to be somewhere alone with you. Are you really going to refuse? Why would you do that?”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Then he grabbed the hand that was on his leg and crushed it in his. He said in a low voice, “Half of me wants to take you home and do all sorts of indecent things to you. And the other half wants to beat myself up for even thinking about you like that.”

“Let the first half win for now,” I suggested. “The second half can come riding in on a white horse later. Or just mind his own damn business.”

“I pick B.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Wait until you’ve eliminated some of the other answers. Narrow your choices down first and explain to me how you know the answer is B.”

“Because it’s right,” he said.


I basically tackled him as soon as we walked through the door of his apartment. I knew if I hesitated even for a second, he’d get all doubty again. (That needs to be a real word, by the way. It’s very useful.) It was a good strategy, even if we almost tripped trying to make it to the sofa without letting go of each other. Actually, that was kind of fun. We laughed, our lips shaking and sliding against each other, and then got serious again.

He never did get around to beating himself up, although he did occasionally stop kissing me long enough to say, “You sure this is okay?” until I told him I’d beat him up if he didn’t shut up and stop worrying.

What was funny was how little had really changed between us, even though everything had changed. We were still teasing each other; I was still playing the cocky, overconfident girl; and he was still rolling his eyes at me with a mixture of frustration and barely tolerant affection. I used to see it as sort of a fraternal thing, but now . . .

“Not fraternal at all,” I said out loud when we were curled up together on his sofa.

“Excuse me?” he said, pushing himself up on his elbow to look at me.

“Nothing. But I’m curious: How long have you been . . . you know . . . adoring me from afar?”

“Who said anything about adoration?”

“Just answer the question.”