“I’ve got it—” I start to say, but you take them out of my vise-like grip.
“What’s this?” you ask, pulling out Gideon’s note.
I pluck it out of your hand, smiling.
“Excuse me,” I say. Tease, flirt, divert. “That is super-secret girl stuff from Natalie.”
You narrow your eyes. “Right.”
I’m not a gambling kind of gal, but I have no choice. I hold it out to you.
“Read it if you want. It’s all about cramps and boy drama and—”
You look at it for a long moment and I think you know, but maybe you don’t want to. You wave the note away.
“I’m good, thanks.”
I tuck Gideon’s note into my pocket, hands trembling. You’re so smart, Gavin. If you hadn’t threatened to hurt yourself, I would have chosen Gideon the moment he said Choose me. Or better, I would have chosen myself.
You put your arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “It’s just when Peter and Kyle—”
“I get it,” I say. “I’d freak, too.”
Your hand slips into my back jean pocket, rests there.
“Gavin,” I say, dancing out of your arms. “Someone will see.…”
“So?”
My stomach hurts.
You’re worth the wait.
“I have to get home,” I lie.
You’re wearing the shirt that says ROCKSTAR across it that I bought you right after we got together. You love it. Sometimes you ask me to sleep in it so it’ll smell like me. It’s faded now and has a hole near the shoulder and isn’t that us, I want to say, Isn’t that us?
You sigh. “Let me drive you, at least.”
I get into the car, but instead of driving me home, you drive to your apartment and park in the lot.
“Seriously,” I start, but you stop me with a kiss and unzip my jeans.
“Here?” you whisper against my lips. “Or inside?”
We haven’t been inside since my first time over. But I owe you. The guilt swims inside me, threatens to take me over.
I shift away from you. “Inside,” I whisper. I am powerless. And maybe I want to be. “I really don’t have much time.”
Your lips snake up. “We don’t need much time.”
When we get inside I surrender to your touch, to sweat and spit and sloppy kisses. Because you deserve this. Because it’s the least I can do. I think of Gideon’s letter in the pocket of my jeans and I hope it doesn’t fall out. You push me onto my knees. Slide off your underwear. Your eyes beg. Demand.
You’re right. We don’t need much time.
THIRTY-SIX
I’m standing backstage waiting to call the last cues. Kyle’s onstage doing the clown’s final speech. I’m in a dark puddle of blue light and Gideon comes up and hugs me from behind, his arms crossed over my chest, his chin resting on the top of my head. He’s so tall.
“Gideon…,” I whisper. Anyone could see. But I don’t push him away. This is the last night of the show. No more hiding together in the dark.
We stand like that for a few minutes, me sinking into him. He whispers funny stuff in my ear, tries to get me to laugh. His lips brush my hair as I call for a blackout. This is all highly unprofessional and I love every guilt-ridden second of it.
“And … lights up,” I say into my headset.
The stage is blindingly bright and Gideon runs out, along with the rest of the cast, to center stage. They lift up their arms and bow. They motion for me to come on, and Miss B, too. Tears spring to my eyes and it suddenly hits me that this is my last show. The next one I do will be in college.
Backstage again, everyone’s floating. It was a good final show and the house was packed. The guys head to their dressing room and I follow the girls into theirs to help out with costume stuff. It’s small and it smells like perfume and makeup.
“I can’t believe this was our last show,” Lys says. “We’re graduating in ten weeks.”
Unreal.
Natalie glances at me as she reapplies her lipstick.
“So…,” she says.
“So…,” I say back.
She rolls her eyes. “I adore you?”
I’ve told them everything that happened this afternoon, except that very last part with you. I hate myself when we mess around now. It’s like I lose another piece of me each time. Soon, there won’t be anything left. You stupid, stupid girl. You deserve what you get.
“I don’t deserve him,” I say. “He’s … I have so much baggage.”
“You have daddy issues,” Lys says.
“Like I said: baggage.”
Nat’s eyes flash. “Just … stop. Stop being dumb. You’re going to hurt Gideon. You already are.”
“I know,” I whisper. I’ve been trying to ignore the longing in Gideon’s eyes, the hurt when I try to stay away from him.
“I’m siding with Nat on this,” Lys says, adjusting her pink babydoll dress, then sliding on a pair of knee-high socks with bows on them.
“I love you,” Nat says. “And I get that this whole Gavin thing is effed up. But you can’t have it both ways. It’s not fair to put Gideon in the middle.”
She’s right. It’s not fair. I’m stringing him along. He’s not going to wait forever. And I’m not going to break up with you anytime soon. I have to believe that these feelings for Gideon will pass. They will. It’s just a crush and I’ve taken everything too far—
There’s a shout outside and we rush to the stage door that leads to the private outdoor courtyard for the cast and crew. You’re there, gripping a baseball bat. Peter and Kyle are holding you back.
“Are you fucking my girlfriend?” you scream at Gideon. “I will kill you. I will kill you, you little fuck.”
“What is this?” Gideon says, gesturing to the bat. “You think you’re gonna challenge me to a duel or something? This is bullshit.”
He glances at me and it’s a punch to my gut. I realize that he’s not just talking to Gavin—Gideon’s talking to me, too.
He hurts you. It kills me to see it.
“Gavin!” I yell, running toward you. “Stop! What are you doing?”
“Shut up, whore,” you say to me, your voice dangerous. I stop. The word echoes and I hear Nat and Lys gasp.
“Enough,” Gideon says, his voice low. He takes my hand and gently pulls me away from you. I let him. Electricity surges through us, between us.
“You don’t talk to her like that,” Gideon says.
You stare at my hand in Gideon’s. I let go, palm slapping against my thigh. My skin tingles. I can’t breathe.
“She’s my fucking girlfriend. I’ll talk to her however I want.” Your words are tough but your face—the look in your eyes. You want to kill me, not Gideon.
“Asshole,” Nat mutters beside me. Then louder, “Get him out of here or I’ll bring Miss B.” She holds up her cell. “Or, better yet, I’m calling the cops.”
“Come on, man,” Peter says to you.
You look at Gideon for a long moment.
“Is this what you want?” you say, nodding toward Gideon. “This skinny fucker who can’t even grow a beard?”
Gideon’s seventeen, a year younger than me, two years younger than you. Here, now, you seem even older, with the cigarettes in one pocket and the keys to your own apartment in the other.
I know I’m supposed to say something—tell you to fuck off and run into Gideon’s arms, or tell you No, I love you, stop it. Or, better yet, go off by myself. But I don’t say anything.