“How else was I going to get you in this car?”
“You didn’t need to.” She turns away from the window and shoots a quick glance at me. “I was already going to say yes.”
“Oh.” I know I should apologize, but I can’t make myself do it.
“Just so you know, I’m holding you to showing up at the book event on Sunday.” That smile again. The slightly lopsided real one. It makes this whole idiotic idea seem more idiotic. Me, bringing Brighton Cross Pointe Waterford to a party. Her wanting to come with me.
Yeah, right.
“What’s Carly like?” she asks.
I don’t want to talk about Carly.
But she’s staring at me, rolling that hemline, exposing and re-covering the same inch of thigh.
“Carly—” I clear my throat, “she’s …”
Manipulative.
“Charismatic. And she’s …”
Reckless.
“Fearless, like this one time she talked a cop out of a ticket after she got caught waving to me from Maya’s sunroof. And she’s the one to watch out for every year during the neighborhood Thanksgiving football game—she’s short, but she’ll throw mud or trip anyone that gets between her and the end zone. She’s also …”
Judgmental, always right, an emotional seesaw.
“Compassionate. She loves animals. Never would be crazy about her, all dogs are. She’s a vegetarian too. Throws a fit if I eat meat in front of her and won’t let me kiss her until I’ve brushed my teeth.”
I swallow twice, but I still can’t continue. My mind is stuck in a loop of not anymore; never again.
“And she’s real. Carly is who she is—she doesn’t care what other people think about her. She’s not defined by the clubs she belongs to. She says what she means and doesn’t hide behind what she thinks other people want to hear.”
Bright’s gaze is heavy on my face, like it’s weighted with her comprehension of my less-than-subtle insults. I need a break from that level of scrutiny. I know she can’t read my thoughts, but I can’t meet her eyes without feeling guilty.
“Pizza?” I ask. I’m already parking in front of the doesn’t-look-like-much, but-just-taste-their-sauce place the team used to stop at every Friday after practice. It’s open late and not much else is besides fast food. I bet Brighton doesn’t eat things that start with Mc.
“You didn’t say a single thing about what she looked like. Most guys would start with ‘she’s hot’ and then go on to list the ways.”
“I guess I’m not most guys.” I yank the keys out of the ignition. “Of course she’s hot.”
I’m out of the car and halfway to the restaurant before I wonder if Bright meant it as a compliment not a criticism.
“I figure we’ll get a pie. What do you want on it?” I ask when it’s our turn at the counter after a silent wait in line.
“Whatever you want is fine.”
“Seriously?” It’s the iPod all over again.
She nods. I roll my eyes and lean across the counter. “I’d like a medium pie with jalape?os, olives, pineapple, and mushrooms.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she presses her lips together and doesn’t say a word. I grin and snag a table in the back. She joins me, carrying a pitcher of water and two cups of ice. I’m so busy gloating, I forgot drinks. And napkins, which she has pinned under her arm.
“They don’t have chocolate milk. I checked.” Her mischievous grin is a hell of a lot more appealing than Evy’s, and probably much rarer. As she pours water into the scratched red plastic cups, her smile fades to seriousness. “I don’t really drink. Alcohol, that is. I mean, I do sometimes, but only if I’m with Amelia or people I know really well.”
“That’s fine. No one’s going to force you to do keg stands or anything.” Because I’m clearly the type of guy who’d bring her to a party where she’d be roofied. Is that what she thinks? Or is she worried I’ll get tanked and she’ll need to babysit me and drive me home? Maybe I’ll let her. It might be nice to lose some of tonight in the bottom of a Solo cup.
“What do I need to know about this party?” she asks.
“What do you mean? It’s a party.” She’s winding a straw wrapper over her fingers, and I can’t look away from the contrast of white paper, green glitter, and tan skin.
“Who will be there? Is it, like, for a club or something?” Her words are slow, like she’s choosing them individually. It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s trying not to imply.
“A lot of people will be there. It’s a regular party—not some antisocial group like you’re imagining.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yeah, you were. You don’t know everything, Bright, and Cross Pointe isn’t the whole world. Maybe I haven’t been Mr. Social there because I don’t need more friends than I already have.” She flinches at my angry words, and I’m glad. Happy to see her hands curl in her lap and her eyes hidden by her hair when she lowers her head.
A guy brings us pizza and paper plates. Normally they just call your name from the counter when it’s done and ring you up when you go get it.
“What about the check?” I ask.