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Something weird was going on inside of me.
At first, I hated Cole. Now, I didn’t hate him so much. What did it all mean? I was so confused and, oddly enough, lonely. I couldn’t talk about my problems to Jasmine or Ariel, less I give away the fact that Jake and me were not real. So, the only person that I had to talk to was myself, and I had no answers.
Cole sat on a scratched, wooden chair in study hall, waiting for me. I remembered yesterday at my house. How close we were. How his lips had nearly touched mine. Little shivers of anticipation ran through me.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
I cleared my throat and walked forward. I couldn’t think about Cole like that. He’d said it himself. I was his brother’s girlfriend. Cole and I were off limits. Wrong. Dangerous. A fuse that, if ignited, could change everything forever.
I had to keep my heart far, far away from Cole Winsted or else.
He looked at me as I sat down, his eyes hooded, his mouth in a tight line. Had he gotten in to another fight with his brother?
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Jake’s just being a douche.”
“You, too, huh?”
“Yeah. No one misses being hit by the Jake train. That’s what we say at home, anyway.”
“Appropriate.”
I let out a breath. I could do this. I could be friends with Cole. Friends and nothing else.
We began reviewing parts of the house in French.
Living Room. Salon.
Door. Porte.
Kitchen. Cuisine.
Window. Fenêtre.
All this talk about French houses had me thinking what Cole’s house was like. His father was some sort of drug lord, right? Did they live in a mansion somewhere? A penthouse? A normal sized house?
What was his father like? I imagined him to be some big, muscly, bald guy with a scar running down his cheek. At least, that’s how Russian drug lords were portrayed in movies. Was he like that? Was he a mean dad? Was he around at all? What about his mom? She was the reason why Cole spoke French. Were they close?
“French!”
I looked up in horror, realizing that I had spaced out again.
“Sorry,” I said, refocusing on my book.
“What?” he asked.
I looked up at him again.
“What?”
“Why are you zoning out on me?” He dropped his pencil on the scarred table and bridged his fingers. One teasing eyebrow raised high on his forehead. “Am I that boring?”
“Truthfully?”
“Yes.”
I let out a breath.
“I might have fallen in to a slight coma,” I replied. “I can’t help it. Your voice is like Benadryl.”
“It cures allergies?”
“No. It puts me to sleep.”
He snorted.
“I guess you like me better when I’m not speaking.”
His eyes tipped up at the ends.
Was he teasing me about our almost kiss yesterday? My cheeks turned hot.
“Right now, I’d prefer you non-existent.”
He laughed out loud then. I bit the inside of the cheek to keep my laughter inside.
How could he be so cavalier about our almost kiss? It’d been fluttering around in the back of my brain ever since. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. Maybe he went around almost kissing girls all the time.
I tried to remember if Cole was a player. Had I seen him with other girls?
“Stop thinking, French. You’re killing me.”
“What? I’m not thinking.”
“You are. I get it. Lots of girls dream about me.”
I threw my pencil at him. It bounced off his shoulder. The same shoulder that now shook up and down with laughter.
This time, I laughed out loud, too.
“You’re an odd duck, French, I gotta tell you. You get all red in the face when somebody even mentions kissing.” He leaned forward. “Are you a kissing virgin?”
My cheeks were hot before. Now they were on fire.
“No. I’m not a,” I lowered my voice, “kissing virgin. I’ve kissed lots of boys.”
“Oh yeah? Name one. Besides my brother, I mean, which, by the way, I still think was not consensual.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I have my reasons. Now spill. One guy.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Okay. Fine. Ralph Mooch.”
His gaze fuzzed as he tried to place the name.
“No one here,” I said.
He shoulders visibly relaxed.
“He was back in North Carolina, and his retainer fell out when he tried to stick his tongue down my throat.”
He grimaced.
“That is, quite possibly, the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Everyone knows that you’re supposed to take your retainer out before you kiss a girl.”
I made a face. “So, you’re an expert then?”
I wanted to take the question back as soon as I said it. I didn’t want to know the girls that Cole had kissed. The very thought of it sent my stomach into knots.
“Well, I’m not a novice, if that’s what you want to know.”
“And how many girls has Mr. Not a Novice kissed?”
“Two.”
Two? Somehow, I thought the number would be higher. Not that I knew Cole so well. Still, he seemed like the kind of boy that girls would want to kiss.
“Okay. I gave you a name. You give me one.”
“Trudy McClentoch.”
My eyes bulged “The Calculator?”
Cole nodded. We called Trudy ‘The Calculator’ because she was a math genius. I was sure that she did square roots in her sleep. This year alone, she’d gotten her picture on the MATH WHIZ board every month. That board was reserved for kids who got a 100% on every math test. If Trudy did half as well in her other classes as she did in math, she would be valedictorian for sure.
“Does that surprise you?” he asked.
I shrugged. A little.
I pictured Trudy. Tall and skinny. She wore the school uniform every day, though it wasn’t required once you became a Junior. Navy skirt, white shirt, school jacket, high socks, and black shoes. Every. Single. Day. She was okay looking. Not beautiful. Not ugly. Just okay.
“I guess I imagined you with someone more like-”
“Like Dana?” he asked. “Blonde, busty, and brick headed? No thanks. Jake looks at what’s on the outside. I prefer to sink a little bit deeper.”
His eyes held mine, and I shivered. Although we were in a library full of kids, somehow, us, at this scratched up table with gum beneath it, felt intimate. Like it was just me and him.
I leaned back and crossed my arms, trying to shake Cole from my head.
“And did Trudy get to see the great Winsted mansion?”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“No girl gets to see Winsted mansion. Not now, anyway. My mom is, kind of-”
“Particular? Judgy?”
“Dying,” he blurted out. “My mom is dying.”
My spirts dropped, empathy for Cole pulsing within me. Sadness radiated from Cole’s eyes, infusing in to mine. I placed a hand over his and squeezed.
“I’m so sorry.”
He gave me a small smile.
“Thanks.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is she-”
“Cancer.”
My mouth formed an O, and I shuffled in my seat.
“I know how hard it is.”
“I know.”
“If you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me.” I squeezed his hand again. “Remember. Text. Call. Smoke signals. Whatever.”
He smiled. A genuine, bright smile.
“Yeah. I remember.”
We sat at the table, our hands clasped, our eyes glowing with emotions that neither one of us understood.
Something changed between us. There was some spark there. A sense of our lives racing, out of control, down an uncertain course. I hoped that the course ended someplace good, but I feared that it didn’t.
He cleared his throat, breaking the moment. His hand slid back from mine, leaving me cold. Lonely.
“We should probably finish up.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I placed my hands in my lap. They hummed, remembering the feel of his skin against mine. Tiny butterflies burst to life within my belly, eating me from the inside out. I moved my hand to my stomach, trying to quiet them.
It didn’t work.
I glanced at Cole, and saw him staring at me, an odd look on his face. It was less sad than before. Less angry. More ... I don’t know.
He gave me a smile.
I gave him one, too.
“All right, French. Conjugate the following verbs...”