There’s no way I’m telling him we talked about him, so I sidestep, sidestep, sidestep. And as soon as I get the chance, I change the subject by asking Shawn something I’ve been wondering about since last night. “Has Mike ever hooked up with a groupie?”
Shawn shakes his head as he chews. How he makes even chewing look cute, I have no idea, but he’s so adorable with his clean bites and good manners, I want to eat him up, even though it would probably make me sick. “He’s hooked up with a fan or two, but never a groupie. Not girls like we had on the bus last night.”
“Why?”
He takes another bite as he thinks about it. “Do you remember the girlfriend he had in high school?”
“Wasn’t her name Danica or something?” I ask. I remember her having flawless honey-brown hair, and bright white teeth inside an expensive designer smile. She was on the cheerleading squad, and knowing Mike like I know him now, I have no idea what he ever saw in her.
“He dated her for like three years,” Shawn confirms. “He put her on a pedestal, but she dumped him right before we moved out here.”
“Because of the long distance?” I bunch up my trash and discard it in the basket my cheesesteak was in.
Shawn shakes his head once. “Because she was a gold digger who tried to force him to quit the band. She said he wouldn’t amount to anything.”
“What a bitch,” I scoff, and Shawn nods emphatically before taking the last bite of his sub. He gathers up our trash, and I follow him to the trashcans.
“Yeah. She broke his heart.”
“Do you think he wants a girlfriend now?”
“Maybe. But he’s . . . careful, you know? He deserves someone special.”
“Someone who deserves him,” I agree, and as we cross the street, Shawn flashes me an approving smile that ripens the pale apples of my cheeks.
When he opens the door of the Laundromat, I enter with the inside of my lip pinned between my teeth. I’m nibbling at the skin when I finally ask what I’m wondering. “What about you?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as I open the dryer and start gathering the clean sheets into my arms. He used more fabric softener in the dryer, and the sheets are all as soft as the clothes he wears. I resist the urge to bury my face in them and breathe deep.
“What about me?” he asks.
“Ever want a girlfriend?” I walk ahead of him so he can’t see how red my cheeks are glowing. I don’t know why I’m even asking. I don’t care. Can’t care. Shouldn’t care.
“She’d have to be one hell of a girl,” he says as he catches up with me. The bells jingle as we leave the Laundromat behind, and I know I should close my mouth. I should stop asking questions. I should let the conversation drop.
“Like what kind?”
My question hangs suspended in the air between us, the inside of my bottom lip getting nibbled sore as what seems like an eternity passes in just a few hard thumps of my heart. My palms start to sweat and I think of a million jokes I could tell to make him forget the stupid, impulsive, stupid, stupid question I just blurted. But then he answers me.
“I don’t know . . . ” he says, his magnetic gaze pulling at me even though I resist the urge to meet it. “Maybe a girl like you.”
I DON’T SAY anything on block one, minute five, or step 152. My thoughts are traveling faster and further than my feet are moving, and each step of the way, Shawn is right beside me.
Maybe a girl like you.
A girl like me? Not me, but a girl like me . . . Why a girl like me? What the hell does that MEAN? Why is he always so goddamn confusing?
My mouth has opened and closed at least five times when my phone rings, tearing me from the eternal echo of Shawn’s words.
My twin’s face flashes onto the screen that I free from my back pocket, under letters that spell “Butthead.” He’s wearing a cowboy hat that I plopped on his head while we were Christmas shopping last year, and he has an unamused expression on his face that makes me grin every time he calls.
Well, almost every time. This time, I simply cast an uncomfortable glance at Shawn before handing off the sheets and telling him I really have to answer the call. My phone has been on silent all day, but I have it set so that if anyone calls twice within three minutes in case of an emergency, the call comes through.
“What’s wrong?”
“Aside from the fact that I’ve texted you like a million times since yesterday and you clearly aren’t dead?” Kale asks.
I feel bad for worrying him, but not bad enough to say sorry. “Should I apologize for not being dead?”
Shawn turns his head with his eyebrow lifted, and Kale answers gruffly. “For starters.”
“I’m sorry the bus didn’t crash and burn,” I offer, nearly snickering when I picture the way his brows probably just slammed down with frustration.