I didn’t plan to meet up with Isaac after I sped down my driveway. I just needed to put as much distance between myself and that crazy life Audra was trying to cage me in, before it was too late to escape. And I was too mad/hurt/disgusted to look at her anymore.
But then my phone vibrated and I realized the first step to taking back my life was right there, in my hands. Well, in my butt pocket—but still.
Which is how I ended up back at the River, this time at the noisy, crowded Cheesecake Factory. They really need to build some decent places to hang out in this crappy valley. I’m crammed into a booth next to Hannah, and Isaac and Shelby are across the table, watching us with the smug grins all long-term couples wear when they watch their friends on a double date.
Probably waiting to see how I’ll blow it this time.
Shoot, knowing Isaac, they probably placed bets on it.
But I’m not screwing up tonight. I left Audra and her chaperone-from-hell skills in the dust at my house.
Which is good because I have big plans for me and Hannah, number one of which is kissing her and proving that (a) I don’t need Audra, (b) I make my own decisions regarding my life, and (c) a kiss is just a kiss. I don’t buy that bonding crap. And I’m determined to prove it.
The thought makes my palms sweat and my heart race and my stomach twist like I swallowed something alive. I tell myself those are nerves.
But I know it’s mostly guilt.
I feel guilty for using Hannah. It’s not that I don’t like her—she’s really nice. Cute, too. Especially tonight, in her tight pink halter top. More than a few guys have checked her out. But when she bumps my leg under the table or grazes my arm, I don’t feel any warmth. If anything, I feel colder. Like my body’s telling me I’m sitting next to the wrong girl.
And there’s the other type of guilt too.
Guilt for betraying Audra. Cheating on her by simply being here with Hannah.
It’s insane. She made it very clear that she doesn’t want me—at least, not as much as she wants to please the losers in her army.
This is her choice. Not mine.
Hannah launches into some story about hockey—she’s so Canadian it’s hilarious—and I take the opportunity to study Isaac and Shelby. He has his arm draped across her shoulders and his fingers are playing with the soft red curls that frame her face. She’s pressed up against his side like she doesn’t want a millimeter of space between them. The grin on Isaac’s face says he doesn’t mind that at all.
Everything about them screams “couple.” And I have to hand it to them. They look happy. I mean, I know why Isaac’s happy. Shels is way out of his league. He isn’t bad-looking, or he wouldn’t be if he shaved the ugly mustache he insists on sporting, which is surprisingly thin and scraggly considering he’s full-blooded Mexican. All the other guys in his family—including his fourteen-year-old brother—have beards.
Shelby’s hot, though. Long legs, despite being what girls would call petite, and enough curve to make the buttons pop on almost every shirt she wears—not that I look. Well, not now that she’s with Isaac.
But Shelby looks even happier than Isaac. Like she belongs in the crook of his arm. And she’s spent so many months in that exact spot I almost can’t picture him without her there. Makes it kind of annoying when I want a night with my friend without his girlfriend joined at the hip. Right now, though, it makes the careful gap Hannah and I are keeping between us feel like the Grand Canyon.
Maybe I need to try harder. Hannah has her right hand resting on the table, and before I can change my mind I grab it.
Hannah flinches and I relax my grip, realizing my big move came across more like an attack than a romantic gesture.
Isaac and Shelby share a look.
Strike one for Vane.
But I’m not out yet. Hannah doesn’t pull away, and she turns her hand over, twining our fingers together.
I smirk at Isaac. How you like me now?
This is good. I’m doing this. I’m on a normal date with normal friends on a perfectly normal night. No crazy winds. No talk of evil warriors or languages of the wind or arranged marriages. Just random chitchat about movies or music or school or whatever—exactly the way a date should be.
So what if everything about this moment screams, This is wrong?
The waitress delivers our food, and I smile when I see the giant bowl of pasta she sets in front of Hannah. A girl who eats when she’s hungry. Score one for Hannah.
There’s an awkward moment when I stare at our clasped hands and try to decide what to do—strike two. Then I let go of Hannah so I can dive into my gigantic sandwich and mountain of fries. I eat way past the point of fullness, like it’s another form of protest.