Oh, silly girl. Of course it can.
I rock back and forth in my chair, the stiff plastic squeaking as old memories assault me, this time not of rodeo or my weak body, but a particular boy and his wicked grin. The way he teased me, the way he kissed me. The deep sound of his laugh and the haunted look in his eyes.
And the craptastic way I fell for him.
“Peyton.” Mi-Mi nudges my arm and I open my eyes. Attempting a smile, I take the packets from her hands and blindly toss five behind me before handing off all but one to my neighbor. “You all right?”
I nod stiffly. “Just a little nauseous.”
No truer words have ever passed my lips.
She accepts that with a shrug, and I begin to flip—papers, that is. Funny, I was so desperate to see who my partner is, curious to learn if the universe really hated me that much, but now that the packet is in my hands, and the truth is seconds away, it’s like I’m trudging through oil. The room disappears. Lauren’s snide giggles float away. My world shrinks until all that’s left is the sound of my choppy breaths and the page deciding how my senior year will end: stress-free or in epic misery.
I shake out my hand and exhale, psyching myself up for the big reveal. Then, slowly, fearfully, I turn the final sheet and peer at the bottom of the page.
And begin laughing hysterically.
Oh, I feel Mi-Mi’s stare. Sense Lauren’s judgment. If Coach were still here, she’d no doubt be offering up a pass for the nurse. But no pills and no amount of lying down is gonna stop this crazy train from derailing, because right there, typed in black permanent ink on the final row of the spreadsheet is my name. Paired with the boy who irrevocably broke my heart...
Justin Carter.
JUSTIN
FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCES 1:45 P.M.
“When Gabi hears I’m married to Lauren, she’s gonna go ape shit.”
Carlos groans and I tear my gaze away from a near hysterical Peyton. My best friend flips his pencil in his hand and feigns stabbing himself in the chest. “Think Coach Stasi will let me switch partners?”
It takes a second to process what he’s asking. Peyton’s laugh is still ringing in my ears. But I’m a born bull-shitter, so I smirk and say, “Tell her that’s what she gets for not taking FACS with the rest of us.” Then I steal another glance up front.
I haven’t heard it in years, but Peyton’s laugh is normally musical. Like, if sunshine, rainbows, and flying unicorns had a sound, her laugh would be it. Or, at least what it is supposed to be, not that hard, cynical, pain-edged shriek she just gave. It’s so wrong, so off, that I physically wrap my hand around the desktop just to keep from going over to her.
As if she’d want me there anyway.
Carlos shoots me a sideways look. “Kid, how in the hell do you score so many women?” Then he snorts and shakes his head. “Never mind, I answered my own question. You, my friend, know ‘Casuals.’ Let me instruct you in the ways of ‘Commitments.’” He leans across the aisle like he’s about to impart some sort of top-secret intel and says, “If I followed your advice, Gabi would cut off my nuts and lock them in her camera case.”
“And you wonder why I don’t do relationships,” I reply with a half-smile, but even I hear that my delivery is off. His smirk falls and he squints in my direction, but I turn my head. The last thing I need is more questions.
A dull ache twinges behind my ribcage and as I fight to keep from staring a hole into the back of Peyton’s head, my gaze lands on Aly. She nods at something Brandon says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. I release a breath. It’s probably weird to admit since we went out earlier this year, but seeing her with him, happy and smiling, eases the pressure in my chest.
Aly and I weren’t right together. She’s had a thing for Taylor since freshman year, and as history shows, I suck at commitment. But our blink-and-you-miss-it relationship was the closest I’ve come to wanting one in years, and ever since we broke up, there’s been this itch under my skin. An annoying sixth sense that something is wrong or missing, and nothing I do—not girls, school, or even baseball—feels the same anymore.
Which sucks, since baseball and girls are the only things I’m actually good at.
Carlos’s cell buzzes on his desk and I glance over as he drops his head into his hands.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Hurricane Gabi is making landfall.”
“Someone tip her off about Lauren?” I ask, grabbing a pen. In the corner of my packet, I start sketching a baseball diamond. I’m not Brandon so I can’t draw for shit, but it beats the hell out of sitting here psychoanalyzing what’s wrong with me.