He nods wearily and I snicker. How people spread shit before Facebook and texts I don’t know, but in this case, technology is my friend.
Count on good old Carlos to remind me why I don’t do commitment. I swear, he and Gabi invent stuff to bitch about. They’re constantly fighting over nothing and spend most of the time driving each other insane. I’m no expert, but that shit ain’t normal.
“Carlos, look at me.” He lifts his head from his hand and I clasp his shoulder. “Tell me the truth… she’s already got you by the balls, doesn’t she?” His eyes narrow and I grin. “Blink once for yes and I’ll go get help.”
His good-natured smile returns as he knocks away my hand and flips me off, which is good since I am kidding. Well, mostly anyway.
“What about you, huh?” He picks up the packet and starts turning pages. “What lucky lady got stuck with your punk ass for the next month?”
Since I don’t really give a shit I shrug and lean back to study the stained ceiling tiles… until I hear him say, “Huh.”
I glance over. “Is that a good huh or a bad huh?”
He rocks his head back and forth as he replies, “Guess it depends on how you look at it.”
I sit up straight and grab the paper from his hand, searching for my name. The fact that I can feel him watching makes me nervous. I’ve hooked up with half the girls in this class (half the school, really), but none have ended that badly. For the most part, they know the score before it even starts—that’s the beauty of dating “Casuals.” The only semi-weirdness I ever had was with Aly and that’s long over. She and Brandon are way too whipped on each other to care about me.
As I near the bottom of the page, Carlos asks, “You two used to hang out, right?” and I do a double-take when I reach the final row.
“Did y’all have a falling out or something?”
“Or… something,” I mumble, swallowing hard.
Justin Carter and Peyton Williams.
This at least explains that hysterical laugh.
Slowly, I lift my eyes toward the front of the class. As if she can feel my stare, Peyton turns in her seat, and when her wide blue-gray eyes lock on mine, I completely forget how to breathe.
Guilt, longing, and that damn stupid question—what if—hits me square in the chest. You’d think seeing her after three years would get easier. It hasn’t. I’ve just gotten a hell of a lot better at hiding the fallout. Pretending I don’t occasionally search her out in the halls, checking to see if she’s all right. Wondering what she’s thinking, what she’s doing, and acting like it doesn’t make my whole damn day when I catch her smiling. I used to be the reason for Peyton’s smiles.
Now, I’d be thrilled if she didn’t glare at me like I was dog shit stuck to her shoe.
“Damn, dude.” Carlos whistles under his breath after she spins back around. “That girl is not a fan of yours.” He laughs under his breath, ending on a cough when I glare at him. “What in the hell did you do to her?”
“Nothing,” I say, wishing that were true. “Just a small misunderstanding.”
But it wasn’t small, and it damn sure wasn’t a misunderstanding. Whether it was the truth or not, Peyton saw exactly what I wanted her to see that day. She believed what I thought she had to believe in order to protect her. To protect me. The same thing I’ve regretted every day since.
Me cheating on her.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 4TH
21 Weeks until Disaster
?Freshman Year
PEYTON
FAIRFIELD ACADEMY 7:05 A.M.
So this was high school. Students streaming through every door and lining the walls. Multi-colored fliers and trophy cases, a thousand conversations at once. Mass chaos was what it was, and as I strolled through the middle of it all, wide-eyed and staring like Dorothy in Oz, I couldn’t help but gawk. A girl in a uniform exactly like mine walked past and sized me up with a scrunched up nose, and I (thankfully) stopped myself just shy of waving like some sort of socially inept dork.
This. Was. Awesome.
Okay, so yeah, starting school on a Tuesday was weird. And I was a semester behind, my uniform was stiff and scratchy, and I was walking the halls with my dad. But none of it mattered because it all meant I was here, at Fairfield Academy, and that despite every whispered doubt and liquid fear in my bones, I’d finally gotten my fresh start.
Already I could tell there were things I’d miss. I’d been homeschooled all my life, and with that came certain advantages, such as never having to think coherently before nine A.M. and wearing my ratty pajamas all day. Also, in between learning algebra and earth science, I could bathe a basset hound, watch Days of Our Lives, or ride Oakley after lunch. Most importantly? My stomach never roiled like it wanted to ingest itself. But the fear knotting my gut simply walking through the main door today proved that I was alive, and I was clinging to my new motto like a desperate cowboy on a buck-crazed horse: