“Figures.” Marcos had begged to help me wash my car last weekend. He’d manned the hose, Carly had been in charge of music and snacks, and Ana had shoved all the junk and clothing in the backseat into plastic grocery bags. Those bags are still sitting in the garage in Cross Pointe, pissing Paul off.
I swallow down the memory. The fact that I won’t have to worry about Marcos dropping his sponge in the dirt, then using it—gravel and all—to wash my car doors. And that I won’t get to play “expert” for Ana’s boy questions: So, if a guy gets this funny look on his face every time you catch him looking at you, what does that mean? There’s got to be a way I can keep them in my life, even if Carly and I are broken up.
“Um, you could take off your shirt?”
Her voice cuts right through the knot in my stomach. “What?”
I love that she’s blushing and studying her absurd green nails when she clarifies. “You’ve got a shirt on under your polo. What if you used that?”
“Brighton I-don’t-know-your-middle-name Waterford, are you asking me to strip?” It’s so good to laugh that I do for longer than I should. And when she stops blushing and joins in, I have to plant my feet to keep myself from going to her.
And I fail at it. I’m opening the back door before my brain’s caught on to what my fingers are doing. “I’m scandalized,” I tease, offering her a hand and helping her out. Then, while she’s still standing that close, I pull off both shirts. When I feel her eyes on me, I’m grateful I haven’t stopped working out just because I quit baseball.
“Here, hold this,” I say, handing her my polo. Then, with a little bit of swagger, I take the two steps to reach the windshield and attack the lip gloss. I hope she’s admiring me the way I admired her. I flex a bit as I lean farther.
“Jonah?”
It might be wishful thinking, but I think she sounds a little breathless. I grin. “Yes?”
“Your phone’s about to fall out of your pocket.”
“Oh. Right. Here, keep it safe for me.” I toss it to her, and she barely catches it. I resume my show. The shirt is working. This should only be another minute and then—
“Um, you have a missed call. And a voice mail …” She sighs. “From Carly.”
I freeze, and something in my face or posture, or something in her, deflates so that the moment is flattened, all humor gone.
“I think that’s almost good enough to get us home, don’t you?” She hands me my shirt and the phone. “I’m just going to wait in the car.”
I pull on my clean shirt and curse. I attack the windshield with one hand while thumbing my phone to voice mail with the other. I don’t want to listen to Carly yell right now. Or whine. Or whatever she’s going to say in the voice mail—though judging by the nice message she left on my car, it’s not going to be fun.
I don’t want to play it. But I don’t want Brighton to think I’m scared of listening. And I don’t want either of us to be thinking about it the rest of the night. I press the button, grit my teeth, and hold the phone to my ear.
“Hi … So, if you haven’t seen your car yet, I’m sorry. And if you have, I’m still sorry. I didn’t do it, Sasha and Maya did. But I didn’t stop them either. I probably should have.
She’s using her I’m-cute voice, but I’m not amused. Then she sighs, low and long.
“Also, can you tell Brighton I’m sorry? I didn’t know that Digg was spiking her drink, but I should’ve known he was doing something. I should’ve warned her. Not that she needed me to—she handled Daniel just fine on her own.
Her voice trembles a bit and I can picture her shutting her eyes, trying to pull herself together.
“That didn’t stop you from flying to her rescue … But whatever. I’m sorry about the car. I know we should probably talk at some point, but can you wait till I’m ready to call you? This is … it’s just hard, Jonah.”
34
Brighton
1:08 A.M.
11 HOURS, 52 MINUTES LEFT
Jonah gets in the car wearing a face I’ve become quite familiar with. It means this-subject-is-closed and includes him pressing his lips together, swallowing, and looking away. I let it go. It’s none of my business whether he and Carly are together or broken up, or what she said in her message.
I’m glad I had a minute in the car by myself. I need to be less pathetic. He’s rejected me tonight—more than once—but the second he pulled off his shirt, I was all but drooling and tilting my head to get a better angle.
I just wish I knew what he was thinking. I know him so much better than I did a few hours ago—he knows me better than people who’ve been in my life for years—but I don’t know him yet. I don’t know if he’s angry or hurting or what is going on behind those brown eyes that haven’t looked at me once since he sat down and buckled up.
I hope I get the chance to, if not tonight then tomorrow or—
No.