“Friends?” he asks.
“Friends,” I say. “Of course.” It sounds heavy coming out of my mouth, a ring of finality to it.
After he leaves, I turn off the light, pull out my bed, and climb in still wearing my clothes. I lie there, but thinking about his mouth on mine makes me start tingling again. I want to hate him. I want to feel nothing but disgust and fury. Instead, my body warms at the memory of his touch, his strong hands on my waist, making me feel something I’ve never felt before, as if I’m tiny and delicate andworthy.
I hate myself for it, but I want to kiss him again.
Fuck. I have to kiss him again.
I push the thought away.
Lindsey. I should think about Lindsey.
Will Chase tell her? I wonder if they’ll break up. I wonder if he’ll ever talk to me again.
For a minute, I let myself think about him asking me out, about dating Chase London. Is Meghan right? Would that be more than I’m ready for, more than I can handle? Then I push those thoughts away, too. I had a few weeks of typical, boy-crazy teenage fantasizing. Now it’s over.
I don’t belong with Chase or with his circle of popularity. One look at me, and it’s obvious. Lindsey and Elaine and Daria have this air of perfect poise about them, as if they aren’t real people at all, but pages torn from a magazine. They strut around in heels and spend hours on their makeup. I wear Converse and jeans and sometimes mascara.
They could as easily trip or have a bad hair day as a picture in a magazine. Even if they aren’t as beautiful as models, they have that flawless look about them. I could never pull that off, no matter how much I want to. Not just for Chase, but for them. To be one of them, to have friends, to belong for more than one lunch break, more than an hour under the stars on the bank of a lake under the cover of darkness.
eight
Now Playing:
“I Stay Away”—Alice in Chains
I lay awake all night, replaying that kiss over and over, sometimes angry and sometimes sad. It seemed like I was so close, and then everything went wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped him. Maybe he should have stopped me. Maybe it should never have happened to begin with. I spend Sunday scouring social media for anything I can find, but I don’t want to be obvious and follow anyone in case he’s told them, and they hate me.
I’m too humiliated to look at anyone on Monday. I should have known he’d have a girlfriend. It’s not like he hid it. He came to the mall with her and brought her to the place I work. Was he trying to rub it in my face? Did he know all along that I like him, and he was trying to let me know gently that he was taken, and I was too blinded by obsession to realize what it meant? He said everyone knows. Which means I’m the sucker who didn’t.
I can’t help but feel like people are staring at me as I walk into school. I’m dreading Lit, but nervous excitement builds inside me at the same time. As I walk into class, my blood surges out of my heart all at once, leaving me lightheaded. I nearly collapse in relief when the bell rings and Chase is absent.
All through class, I wonder if he’s avoiding me. This immense sadness crushes down on the glint of hope that remains. Did he go to the library so he wouldn’t have to see me? Could I face him if he were here? I’m suspended in uncertainty, longing, and regret.
At lunch, I plod into the cafeteria, forcing my eyes away from Chase’s side of the room. I go to my table and sit down next to David. Today, it’s a relief to be invisible, to blend in and disappear.
“Hey, David,” I say, opening my sandwich.
“I thought you sat withthemnow.”
“No,” I say, my throat tightening with the truth of my words. “I’m just doing a project with that guy.”
He scoffs. “I thought you got kidnapped by the mod-squad.”
“Nope. Still here,” I say, trying to laugh but not quite managing.
“Good. They’re all a bunch of frauds,” he says, watching me from the corner of his eye to gauge my reaction. I can’t help but compare the furtive way he darts glances at me, almost rat-like, to the way Chase looks. A sidelong look from Chase is languid and sexy, like he belongs where he is and where he is belongs to him. It’s not fake or manufactured. He just has a natural masculine presence that dominates, not in a flashy way, but in a way that says people will obey without question because he expects it.
Or he might give me a different kind of look—flirtatious, suggestive even, or sly when he knows he’s getting away with something. Never furtive, darting glances like David’s.
But fuck Chase London.
I don’t need his sexy glances, his lying eyes. David is a fine friend. He’s enough for an invisible girl. I don’t need cheating bastards in my life, even if they set my blood on fire and make me weak with wanting.Especiallythen.
Suddenly there he is, as if I’ve conjured him into reality just by thinking of him.
“What are you doing here?” Chase asks, half accusatory, half apologetic.