One left turn and her cheeks are pink.
She blushes more than anyone I’ve ever met. I like it. And even though I complained about it, and even though I’m exhausted, I kinda like Brighton’s version of Truth or Dare too. It’s like knowing each other, even though we don’t.
It’s an odd list of facts I’ve collected about her tonight: a taste for horror films, childhood nickname, psychosis behind her nail color, nervous habit of making fists, and fear of her own dog. I want to learn more.
I lean closer, wanting her hand on me. On my arm, around my shoulder, against my back, on my face, in my hair … I want physical confirmation of my decision and proof that the breakup with Carly doesn’t mean I’ll be alone and untouched. I want an outlet for all these feelings.
But what I’m not thinking is: I want Brighton. And with her the distinction’s significant.
She’s semibouncing in her seat. In one car ride she’s gone from pensive to half-asleep, and now she looks like she’s snorted coffee beans. She’s even turning on my iPod and shuffling through my music. The opening notes to the Grinch theme play before she laughs and flicks to the next song.
I need a break. Just one break in a night that won’t quit screwing with my head. I need a break from her body and angelic eyes. I mean, it isn’t her I want. It can’t be. It was only seven hours ago that I was telling Carly there isn’t a girl in Cross Pointe who is “less my type.” And no matter how tempted I am, Bright isn’t the kind of girl you can play games with.
And I’d only be playing.
Right?
“Right,” she says. And I almost think she’s psychic—until I realize that it’s my next direction. I’ve driven past the intersection with Frost Street, but the roads are empty, so I can back up in my lane and make the turn. It feels like we’re the last two people in Cross Pointe—maybe then I’d actually like the place.
My mind wants to guess where we’re headed: a party, a friend’s house, an empty lot—does Cross Pointe have its own version of a make-out spot? But I decide I’d rather be surprised, so I won’t let myself project ahead and think about what these roads connect to and where we could be going. It’s not like I’ve spent that much time exploring the town, so it really could be anywhere.
“Okay, we’re almost there. Just turn left up here.” She’s grinning with sweet mischief, and I’m dying to know what she’s planning.
Until I see what’s ahead on the left. I pull my foot from the gas and let the car drift to a stop, the reflection of the marble sign in my headlights and a sinking in my stomach.
CROSS POINTE HIGH SCHOOL.
36
Brighton
1:47 A.M.
11 HOURS, 13 MINUTES LEFT
We sit parked in the middle of the road for two minutes. I watch the clock and spend the entire 120 seconds trying to figure out what to say. Finally he presses the gas pedal—just a little bit, so that the car creeps toward the school’s driveway like an animal cautiously approaching a known predator.
“This is where you wanted to bring me?” Jonah’s voice is half question and half laugh. I wish my brain didn’t find the sound more musical than the iPod’s contribution to the silent parking lot.
“Yup. Park toward the back.” I indicate the spaces at the edge of the lot, where juniors and sophomores are assigned their spots, and try to sound confident. Now that we’re here, and seeing his reaction, I’m starting to doubt this was such a brilliant idea after all.
“At least once before you graduate, you’ve got to throw some balls on that field.” I reach into the backseat and retrieve the glove I’d found earlier and a baseball too. I place them in his lap and watch his face. Watch his lips, really.
I want a smile—a genuine, comfortable smile—like the ones he gave his friends when we arrived at the party. But watching his lips is not a safe thing for me to be doing—especially when they’re slightly parted in surprise. Slightly parted in the same way they’d be if he leaned over and …
Of all the stupid things, to be imagining a kiss from a guy who’ll never imagine kissing me. I get out of the car.
When his door doesn’t immediately open, I walk around and tap on the window. “Come on—I dared you.”
The athletic fields are up on top of a hill behind the school. I bypass the paved paths, hoping the pain of climbing a grassy slope with battered toes will be enough to clear my head of the ridiculous and repair my Teflon coating.
His door opens when I’m halfway up the hill, but he’s beside me before I reach the top.
“Really?” he asks in a voice as soft as when we’d discussed my father. My pulse has been steady through the climb, but it spikes at his question.
“Really. I hear you’re a stud player and I want to see you in your full jock glory.”
When he laughs and hands me the glove and ball I wonder—again—when in the night I switched from calculating the niceness quotient of every word to comfort to flirtation.