“No,” I interrupt, “you shouldn’t have.”
We drive most of the way back to school in silence, but after an hour or so, she pulls an open bag of Cheetos from the center console and holds it out to me. I stare at it for a moment, recognizing it for the olive branch that it is, and then I reach my hand inside and take one.
“I told him I miss him,” I finally say.
Dee says nothing, and I know it’s taking all of her willpower to keep her mouth shut. I don’t even know why I told her . . . Do I want her to say something? Do I want her to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am?
Because I’m pretty sure I already know.
Chapter Nine
THAT NIGHT, I lie in bed thinking about Brady, trying to figure out why I’m so dead-set on avoiding seeing him. It’s not because I’m still angry—I am, of course, but that’s not the real reason.
The reason is that I don’t know how strong I’ll be if I have to look into his bright blue eyes again. I feel strong enough on the phone to hold my ground, to say goodbye. But if I need to say goodbye for good . . . can I do that with him standing in front of me, telling me he’s sorry, telling me he loves me?
I miss being loved. Because I’m weak, and pathetic, and . . . God, I wish I didn’t still miss him. I wish I was still as angry as the night I found him cheating on me. That night, he took my heart and tore it in two. Now, half of it still loves him, but the other half would rather struggle to beat on its own than mend together for the sake of a trust-abusing cheater.
If I talked to him now, I know I’d cave and tell him I forgive him, even if in my heart I never do. I’d hug him and kiss him and lose myself in him. And if I let myself do that once, I know I’ll let myself do it again and again. And I don’t want to be that person.
I’ll talk to him. I will. Just . . . not yet.
The next day in French, Adam is a no-show. No surprise there. Some of the girls up front stand up and leave as soon as Dr. Pullman arrives, realizing that Adam won’t be in class today. Leti laughs as I try to make them self-combust with my nonexistent superpowers. Dr. Pullman doesn’t look happy either, his jaw working as he steps to the podium.
I don’t see Adam until Wednesday, when he shows up twenty minutes late, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Our night together is almost like a memory of a memory now. I still remember every detail, but it’s like it was a movie I watched and rewatched a hundred times, not like it was something that actually happened to me. I admire Adam from afar just like all the girls who have never actually talked to him. And today, he is looking pretty damn admirable. He’s dressed in midnight-black jeans—which, uncharacteristically, aren’t torn up at the knees—and a long pale yellow band T-shirt with black lettering and designs. His hands always draw my attention, decorated with bulky rings and black nail polish, and framed by layers and layers of stringy leather bracelets. A long wallet chain hangs from his jeans, swinging as he walks to his seat at the front.
When class ends, Adam is the first one on his feet, but Dr. Pullman immediately stops him from leaving. “Adam, hang around. I’d like to speak with you.”
I watch Adam’s back as he lets out a visible sigh and turns around. He leans against the wall by the door, watching everyone else leave, and I suddenly feel panicked. I’m actually going to cross paths with him now. There’s no way I can avoid it!
I pack my things as slowly as humanly possible while Leti stands over me, grinning from ear to ear. I swear, it’s like that boy can read my mind. “What’s taking you so long?” he teases.
I shoot a glare at him from where I’m crouched on the floor, picking up a stack of papers I intentionally dropped to buy myself some time. I’m hoping Dr. Pullman will talk to Adam and get it over with before I make my way down the stairs.
By the time I stand up, I realize what a horrible plan that was—because Adam, Leti, and I are the last three students in the room.
Oh, God.
But maybe he won’t even recognize me. I’m sure he’s been with dozens of other girls since Mayhem. It’s been over a month since then, and I look nothing like I did that night. My hair is pulled up in a lazy mess, I’m wearing my glasses, and I’m dressed in baggy winter-green yoga pants and an oversized royal blue college T-shirt. My nails are bright pink, my flip-flops are orange, and my face is pale, pale, pale.
Oh, God.