The book—Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman—was older. Like twenty years. It had belonged to her mom, and Tate always kept it close. She used to take it with her anytime she left town for a trip.
Flipping through the pages, I searched for the poem—the only poem—that I liked. I couldn’t remember the name, but I remember she’d underlined the passage.
No sooner had I started flipping through when some pictures spilled out. I forgot the book and picked up the photos off my lap instead.
My heart pounded in the back of my throat.
Jesus.
It was us.
The pictures were of her and me. There were two, both when we were twelve or thirteen, and a ton of fucking emotions fell on me at once.
Tate kept pictures of me?
They were in her mother’s book that she treasured.
And she’d most likely taken these to France with her along with the book that held them.
I shook my head, my feet feeling like they were stuck in a bucket of cement.
She kept pictures of us like I kept pictures of us, and I smiled, feeling like I’d just won something.
And then the tiptoeing-through-the-fucking-tulips feeling that I was enjoying crashed to the ground as soon as I spied a black lace bra lying on her dresser. The tingling sensation of someone roller skating across my heart moved south, and now, I wanted to leave here in search of her.
My jaw moved, and I almost bit my tongue to keep my dick in check.
Well, well, well…Tate wore lingerie.
Her sleek body dressed in black lace blanketed my brain, and then I blinked.
Wait.
Realization dawned.
Tate wore lingerie.
Tate. Wore. Fucking. Lingerie!
What the hell for? And for who?
I ran a rough hand through my hair and felt the sweat on my forehead.
Fuck it.
Let her dad give her some money. That’s what every other teenager wants for their birthday, isn’t it?
I threw the book back into the drawer, stalked out of the room and down the stairs, and out the front door.
I don’t even remember driving to school.
The images of Tate wearing lingerie for some needledick asswipe were the only things I saw for a while.
My morning classes passed in a fog. I either sat there with my arms crossed and my eyes on my desk top, ignoring those around me. By fourth period, I gripped my desk, chair, or anything else to keep my ass from storming into her French class and picking a fight.
Teachers didn’t call on me, so I didn’t worry about paying attention. My grades stayed up, and I smarted off when they did ask me questions, so they ended up saving themselves the trouble of engaging me.
I took my time getting to lunch.
She would be there, and I didn’t want to sit back and watch us both try to ignore each other when I just wanted her next to me.
“Tatum Brandt!”
What the…?
I halted in the lunchroom at the sound of someone calling her name.
I had spied Sam and his friend Gunnar at our usual table, and I’d just gotten done grabbing a drink and sandwich when I’d heard a low voice yelling very loudly.
I zoned in on Madoc, facing away from me, fucking kneeling in the middle of the room!
“Will you please go to the Homecoming dance with me?” he shouted, and when I followed where he was looking, I clenched my fingers, destroying the sandwich in my hand.
Shiiiit.
A very surprised Tate had turned around, her shoulders tensed and eyes avoiding everyone else’s like she was more annoyed than embarrassed.
Tate couldn’t stand Madoc.
Oh, what the hell was he doing now?
The packed cafeteria hushed to a silence.
Madoc walked on his knees up to Tate and took her hand.
A few giggles sounded around the room, and a push and pull force was battling in my limbs.
Move! He’s pursuing her. He’s always wanted her.
No, stay put. He’s your friend. He wouldn’t do that.
“Please, please! Don’t say no. I need you,” he yelled, more to the audience than Tate, and everyone erupted in laughs and cheers, egging him on.
“Please, let’s make this work. I’m sorry for everything,” he continued, and I could see Tate looking down at him, wide-eyed and flushed, like she was sick.
Sick and pissed.
She mumbled something to him I couldn’t hear, and then he shouted, “But the baby needs a father!”
WHAT. THE. FUCK?
My stomach dropped, and everything in the room turned red.
Tate’s face fell, and the crowd hollered their enjoyment of Madoc’s spectacle.
Her lips moved, but only just barely.
What the hell was she saying to him?
He seemed fucking pleased, because he stood up and enveloped her in his arms, swinging her around to the delight of the audience.
Everyone whistled and applauded, and I threw my lunch in the trash without even looking.
She’d said yes?
I turned around and stalked out before he’d even put her down.