“The hell do her parents do?”
“Her mom worked on Wall Street for however long, and now she’s the owner-slash-mastermind person for the Paloma bank. And . . . well, I don’t know what her dad does, but he’s always traveling. He’s probably an international spy.” I lean against the counter. “So, what’s going on? Why were you trying to find me?” I give a coy lilt to my voice, hoping that it’s the reason guys usually seek out girls at parties.
Matt sits on one of the bar stools. “I just—I made a mistake yesterday. I shouldn’t have told you about Lucas.” My heart sinks—of course it’s about that. He goes on, looking lost: “I only found out by mistake that he’s, you know, and I was supposed to shut up about it, and he’s worried about . . . you didn’t tell Claire, did you?”
A lump rises in my throat. “I’m sorry. I told her it’s a secret, but . . . yeah, I couldn’t keep it from her.”
“Shit.” Matt closes his eyes. “She’d better not tell anyone.”
“I don’t know who she’d tell. Claire kind of considers herself above the gossip thing.”
Matt’s hands fold, unfold, and fold again. He paces down the stairs toward a weird art print on the wall. “Man, I just—I’m an idiot.”
“It was a mistake.” And I went and made it worse, telling Claire, says a merciless voice in my head. I perch on the banister and slide down to the lower level. The wood squeaks. “You talked to him, though?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t mad. He just looked . . . I don’t know. Like he dreaded having to deal with it. Which makes sense, but if it were me, I would’ve beaten me up.” Matt sinks into an armchair by the banister, stretching out his legs. A line of bare stomach above his jeans glares out, conspicuous in my peripheral vision. “Well, I guess there’s not much I can do about it now.”
“I can text Claire and be like, don’t tell a soul or I’ll poison your dog,” I offer. “Not that I would poison her dog. She doesn’t have a dog. So poisoning it would be hard.”
I spy a hint of a smile before Matt goes back to chewing on his lip. His face has this almost-strangled look, as if he’s itching to say something.
“What’re you thinking?” he asks.
I reach for my usual honesty. Can you pull your shirt down? It’s sort of distracting. Sorry, that’s blunt. But you did ask.
All that comes out of my mouth is, “Uh, nothing.”
“I doubt that.”
“How dare you doubt my totally trustworthy self?” I say. He gives me a real smile, and my mind goes blank.
With a horrible jolt, I realize I have a crush on him.
No. This cannot be happening. Crushes ruin lives and destroy souls. Crushes either lead to the inconvenience of unrequited feelings or the batshit-insane idea of having a relationship.
I work my jaw loose. “We should, um,” I say. “We should probably get out of Juni’s parents’ room.”
“Right,” he says, standing.
For a moment, I don’t move. He’s so close—three feet? Four?—and the proximity doesn’t make him any more readable than usual, but it sure makes everything vivid. The point of his nose. The dark tan of his skin. The flecks of stubble on the tip of his chin. For a second, I wonder what his hair would feel like between my fingers.
He meets my eyes, probably waiting for me to say something or act like a normal person in general. This, unfortunately, is beyond my current abilities. I can only look at him, frozen in our eye contact. It’s terrifying, eye contact: the knowledge that somebody is regarding you with their whole and undivided attention, that for a moment, you’re the one thing in this world that demands their focus.
I could see if he’s interested. It’d be easy enough to say: So, hey, how do you feel about kissing me? It’d be less awkward than letting this silence stretch on longer, that’s for sure. But my voice is on lockdown, which is bizarre, given that locking down my voice is usually about as doable as locking down a rampaging rhinoceros.
I don’t want to say anything that might make him go.
Why am I invested? This is a horrible idea. Whoever invented emotions is hopefully frozen in the ninth circle of hell. They deserve it.
“Right, yep, let’s go downstairs,” I say in a rush, heading for the door. I hold it open, and as he passes, I catch a whiff of the air that sweeps after him. Tonight, he doesn’t smell like the usual eau de ganja. Tonight he smells like something aged and a bit sweet. Well-worn leather and honey. He walks with his hands deep in his frayed pockets, and I wonder what the tips of his index fingers feel like, and if the flats of his palms are rough or smooth, and if I were to take his hand, what he would say.