My dad doesn’t.
Except that’s not true, because I feel the weight of everything he’s done—everything he hasn’t done—on my back. And I don’t know if it’s ever going away.
But you can try to push it off, surely?
I swallow the last lump of tears. “You were right, before. I do avoid my feelings. But I’m going to…try. To do better.” To let them drive my choices, instead of letting my dad rule over me. “And I…feel like I don’t want to see him at the ball.”
Brad nods slowly.
“But I can’t just…not go. Can I? Wouldn’t that be giving him too much power?”
Brad’s response is careful. “I don’t want him to ruin this for you. Either by upsetting you when you’re there, or by taking it away from you altogether. I think maybe…you should talk to your mum.”
My stomach thuds down into the concrete bench. “Right.” Mum doesn’t know anything about this because I’ve very specifically kept it from her, and suddenly that feels less like protection and more like the betrayal my sister said it was. We don’t sneak around behind Mum’s back. She’s never done anything to deserve it. But I did it anyway, and now I’m meant to reveal all and, what, ask for her help? I got myself into this mess.
God, I can’t think about this anymore. My head hurts, and the only good thing I can see is Brad. The only good thing I feel is Brad. The band is playing “Heat Wave,” and that’s what’s rolling through me, sickly and nervous and hungry. “I’m going to ask you something.”
He goes so still, the air around him vibrates in comparison. “Yeah?”
There’s a lump of anxiety in my throat that’s swelling by the second, but I manage to let it pass. “Do you— Can we, like…kiss? Again. Maybe?” I bite my lip. That was a Herculean task.
Brad stares at me. His eyes seem darker, pure black—like his pupils have grown to meet the midnight ring around his iris. His lips roll in, then out, full and soft and honestly impossible to resist, which is probably why I’m in this mess. Except, no. I’m in this mess because he’s the kind of guy who says things like, “Why?”
Fear crackles inside me like a bonfire. Because I love you. “Why not?”
“Celine.”
“Because you’re hot, obviously.”
He grins and flicks me between the eyes.
“Ow!”
“Stop objectifying me and tell me the truth.”
Yeah, right. I know I just decided to face my feelings, but accepting that I love him is very different from admitting it aloud. Who says I love you after a couple months of rekindled friendship? Not me, thank you very much. I’m seventeen. My mum still does my laundry. I’m about to change my entire life plan because the first one was an overemotional mistake, so what exactly is my love worth? What’s it going to do?
“Cel?” he whispers.
You know how many people stay with the person they adored when they were seventeen? Not a lot. But do you know how many friendships survive school and thrive for years?
Way more.
I finally decide. “I don’t want to lose you,” I say. It’s the only truth I’m ready to tell.
“Okay, Celine,” he says softly. “It’s okay.” His lips curve in a one-sided smile. My stomach lurches to the same side. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“I—” Really want to say yes. But my mouth tastes like a copper cage and I can’t get out any more words. Disappointment sits heavy in my stomach. I’m supposed to be better than this.
Brad deserves better than this.
His throat bobs, and I glimpse something painful in his expression before it vanishes like it was never there. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like my insides have just been ripped out.
He smiles his usual, beautiful smile and says, “You still want to kiss me, though.”
I force myself to laugh, and once I’ve started, it’s surprisingly easy. Everything’s easy with him. My voice is hoarse, but I still push it out, still make the joke. “Don’t judge. I have a theory that seventy percent of the global population wants to kiss you, and that’s a conservative estimate.”
“But you’re the only one who gets to do it. Lucky you.” His hand slides into my hair. His thumb traces the curve of my jaw. “Okay. So kiss me.”
Something nervous squeezes in my stomach. My heart winces. “But—”
“Just kiss me. That’s all. What’s a little tongue between friends?”
Friends. Just like I wanted. Right? “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re beautiful.” His mouth meets mine. This kiss is tender, careful, so sweet it makes the crack in my chest ache. Usually, when my eyes are closed, all I see is black, but when Brad’s touching me, everything is gold and glowing. Safety blooms, like the gentle rise of music in the air as the band plays “Comfortable.”
He pulls away slightly and murmurs against my mouth, “See, they’re rooting for us.”
I push down the last of my strange sadness, grab the back of his head, and put his lips on mine again. There’s no way I’m even close to done with him.
But I make a mental note to tip those musicians.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BRAD
As soon as I drop Celine off, all the sparkle fizzes out of me and leaves disappointment behind, because what the hell was that? Did I basically just tell her we can be, like, friends who make out sometimes? Am I really so much of an absolute sucker I just gave a piece of myself to my literal dream girl without any of the commitment I want in return?
Well, yes, evidently. I pushed too hard at the worst possible moment, then backtracked all the way into her mouth.
“Stop objectifying me and tell me the truth.”
Why did I ask her that? It’s obvious Celine doesn’t trust anyone as far as she can throw them—and I thought she’d be ready to pledge eternal devotion a couple of hours after bumping into the devil incarnate? She was crying, for God’s sake. I am the literal worst.
I drum my fingertips against the steering wheel as slashes of streetlight whip past. My brain points out that we could be speeding straight off a bridge right now so we should probably check the speedometer and all of the mirrors eight times, or preferably stop driving altogether, but I remind my brain that there are no bridges on my route home because I do not, funnily enough, live in Venice. Just as I’m pulling into the driveaway behind my mum’s Kia, my phone lights up on the passenger seat and my ringtone fills the car. I ignore it. Parking is very important to me.
So’s Celine, and you fucked that right up.
Yes, thank you, brain. I appreciate the reminder.
Here’s the problem: if I believed she had zero feelings for me, maybe I could get a grip, but I don’t believe that. She told me she likes me, and, God, the way she looks at me…I know I should leave this alone, but I can’t. I—care about her too much.
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
What if she did?
Several brooding thoughts and a few pristine angles later, I switch off the engine and call Jordan back.
“Hey, man,” he says, “what’s good?”
Literally nothing. Except the way my mouth is still tingling with the memory of Celine’s, but even that’s bittersweet. “Just got home. You?”
“Whooooa. What is that?”
I frown at my house. Lights are on. Everyone’s home. “What’s what?”
“That voice, bruh. Who killed your cat?”
“I don’t have a cat.” They play with dead animals, and I really don’t need that energy in my life.
“Meeting didn’t go too well, huh?”
Actually, I didn’t mention this to Cel, but my meeting did go well. It went very well. My score for the practice expedition was 4.79. If I work as hard in Glen Finglas, and take my weakest trait into account—commitment, apparently, probably because I couldn’t stop messing about with Raj or staring at Celine—I could be one of the top three Explorers. I could win. “I think…I have a real chance at the scholarship,” I admit, the words rushing out on a sigh.
“Uh. Did I miss something? Is that…bad?”
“No. No, it’s good,” except no it’s not because oh my God, I don’t even care right now. I don’t feel the slightest spark of excitement, and it’s not only because I’m upset about Celine. When I check in with my feelings, I find a mountain of dread at the idea that I’m one step closer to making this law degree happen because—
I know what it feels like to want something so badly, it eats at you. I know how greedy I really am, how much I need. And now I know how it feels to go without.
I tap the handbrake, just to make sure it’s on, and say, “I don’t want to study law. It would be fine. But that’s not enough.” As soon as the words are released, it’s like a too-tight belt around my waist loosens by a single notch. I breathe a little deeper and stare at my house. I can see the back of Dad’s head through the living room window. The belt cinches tight again.
“Damn,” Jordan says. “Okay.”