Brinley
October 19th, before
“So, tomorrow night?” Roman asks, tugging on a lock of my hair and smiling.
I take a sip of my mocha. “I still need to ask my mom, but if she says yes . . .” I smile. I’m trying to convince myself it’d be nice to go out with Roman again. It would go a long way to getting Mom off my back, and maybe it would help me get over Marston.
Until Roman decided to be a dick at my birthday party, I really liked him. He apologized the next day, and if it hadn’t been for Marston, we probably would’ve gotten back together. But instead of throwing myself into Roman’s arms when he said how awful he felt, I accepted his apology and went about my day.
I was too preoccupied with the first boy who kissed me to give much thought to the guy who missed his chance. But since Mom found us in my room, Marston has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with me. Meanwhile, for the past week, Roman has been waiting at my locker with a mocha every morning and after swim practice to walk me home every evening.
Isn’t it healthier to spend my time and energy on a guy who’s interested in me in return?
“If she says yes, then what?” Roman prods, inching closer. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Then I’ll go to the drive-in with you.”
The first bell rings, and he grins and pulls away. “I promise she’ll say yes. I’ll make sure of it.” He smacks my butt lightly then walks away toward his first-hour class. “See you after practice.”
I wave goodbye, but his words echo in my head. “I’ll make sure of it.” That probably means his parents are going to talk to my parents about this potential date. That shouldn’t annoy me—that’s the way things work in my family—but it does. I want to date boys who are sweet, regardless of what my parents think of their social standing. Boys who like me despite my family’s influence and not because of it.
I grab the books for my first two classes from my locker and slam it shut. When I spin around to head to first hour, Marston is standing in my way—shocking, since it seems like I can look for him all week and barely catch a glimpse of him, but now that I’m determined to move on, here he is.
“The drive-in?” he asks. The hallways are clearing out as everyone tries to get to their seats before the tardy bell.
“Hey, Marston.”
His scowl might have intimidated me if I didn’t know he was such a nice guy deep down. “Why doesn’t he just come right out and ask you to give it up to him in the back of his car?”
I bristle. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.” He lifts one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Do what you want. I’m just surprised that you’re dating him after what he did to you on your birthday.”
“He apologized. He was upset about a fight he’d had with his parents and took it out on me.”
“A good sign that he’s a dick.”
“He’s not . . .” I shake my head. “I’m not doing this with you. You kiss me and then avoid me for weeks. You don’t get to weigh in on who I do or don’t date.”
I stomp off to class, but I barely hear a word in my first three classes. At lunch, I’m too sick to my stomach to eat, and I don’t even know why. Is it because of what Marston said about Roman? It doesn’t matter what Marston thinks about the guys I date. But the feeling follows me through the rest of my day, and instead of getting a snack between the final bell and swim practice, I tell the coach I’m not feeling well. I would head home and hide in my room, but Dad’s working at his home office today, and he’ll chew my ass out if he realizes I’m missing practice, so I linger. I chat with a few friends in the parking lot, declining half a dozen offers for a ride home. Only when everyone’s cleared out do I start walking—the long way.
When I pass the marching band supply shed, someone grabs my arm and pulls me inside, away from the view of the cars merging onto the road. Marston has the same scowl from this morning on his handsome face as he kicks the door closed. The shed is crowded with old props and plywood scraps, and the only light filters in from high, dusty windows.
“What the heck, Marston?” My objection comes out too weak. It’s the objection of a girl who knows it’s bullshit to be treated like this but who’s so desperate for the attention that she doesn’t really mind. I am pathetic.
“We need to talk,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Normal people do that in less creepy places. Maybe over coffee or, oh, I don’t know, when they’re already hanging out together at the lake. Not in the supply shed.”
“I can’t exactly have this conversation anywhere it might get back to your parents that you’re talking to a delinquent, can I?”
Guilt punches me in the gut. He did hear Mom that day in my room. “Marston . . .” What can I say? She didn’t mean it? She absolutely did.
He leans his head back, frustration all over his face. “What do you want me to do, Brinley? Watch you date an asshole and pretend I don’t care?”
“It’s not like you want me,” I snap . . . and immediately realize my mistake. The right response would’ve been to defend Roman or to tell Marston he doesn’t get to have a say in who I date. Instead, I made it about us. Not that there really is an us.
I’m an idiot.
He swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” The words are so soft that I can barely hear them. Maybe he hoped I wouldn’t hear them at all.
“It does to me.” I step forward and lift a hand to the side of his face. He closes his eyes as if he’s been starved for my touch and he’s afraid this isn’t real. “I like you, Marston Rowe. I’m just trying to figure out if you like me too.” I wait with my palm pressed to his cheek, my body a breath from his. I wait for him to kiss me or push me away or tell me I’m a stupid girl.
Instead, he takes three deep breaths before finally opening his eyes, and when he looks at me, I see so much anguish in his expression that it makes my chest ache. “Roman is talking about how he’s going to sleep with you at the movies.”
“What? No way! How would you even know that?”
He blows out a breath. “I was using the weight room over the weekend when the football team showed up for conditioning. His friends were giving him a hard time for not being able to close the deal with you. He’s apparently decided he needs to get between your legs to protect his reputation.”
I drop my hand. I don’t want to believe it, but . . . well, I’m close enough to Smithy to know how the boys at this school talk, how they prove themselves.
“You deserve better.” He stares at me for a long time before ducking his head and turning to the door.
I step in front of him before he can reach for the handle. “I know.” I swallow and force myself to meet his eyes. “I know I deserve better.”
“Then . . .” He shakes his head. “Why?”
“I’m lonely. I know that sounds ridiculous, but if you knew what it was like to live with my dad, you—”
“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t sound ridiculous. It sounds human . . . to search for connection.” He scans my face as if he’s trying to read my mind. “Your sister’s sick, and your parents are ass—” He grimaces and searches for another word. “Your parents are hard on you.”
I drop my gaze to my shoes. The glossy black finish is covered in sawdust from the shed floor.
“And you and Brittany probably share friends too, am I right? I hear them bombarding you with questions about her. I bet you don’t mind either, but I never hear them ask how you are.”
“I don’t mind,” I object softly. I feel like he’s seeing right through me, like he’s found all the ugly, rotten, spoiled parts I keep hidden. The parts that resent my sister for her cancer, even when I know it’s not her fault. The parts that resent my parents for all the times they seem to forget about their healthy daughter. It’s like he can see even the parts I don’t want to see myself, and I can’t decide if it’s terrifying or . . . a relief.
This is why I’ve felt sick all day. Not because I’m worried Marston will judge me for dating Roman and not because I think Marston’s right and Roman might hurt me again. My stomach has been in knots because where everyone else sees Brinley Knox, good girl and perfect daughter, Marston sees me. I’ve never felt so vulnerable. “How do you know all that?”
His lip twitches. “I’m bored. I’ve had some time to think about what makes you tick.”
My eyes widen. “You’ve been thinking about me?”
“A little.”
“Enough to psychoanalyze me.” Now I’m smiling. Smiling because he knows I’m screwed up and selfish—what the heck is happening here? “You’ve been thinking about me a lot.”
“Not in a creepy way.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely if I had a friend who thought about me in a not-creepy way. Then maybe I wouldn’t need to go to the drive-in with Roman.”
He grunts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “You’re bribing me to be your friend?”
“Only if it’ll work.”
“Friends.” He shakes his head. “Your parents would freak out on both of us.”
“I think I need something in my life that my parents don’t control . . . and the only parts of my life they don’t control are the ones they don’t know about.”