“Slow down.” This was starting to feel weird. Hot, obviously, but still: she was never this aggressive when we were both sober. Also: still technically not a couple. “There’s nothing wrong with going slower, right?”
“But Kyle, I want to be with you,” she murmured. “Don’t you want to be with me?”
It sounded like something out of a movie. An X-rated one.
I jerked my head back. Suddenly it didn’t feel hot anymore. It felt forced, like she was playacting. Which made me feel dirty, like I should brush my teeth or watch a Disney movie or something.
“Emma, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” She looked past me. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’re just acting . . . I dunno, weird. I mean, we’re sitting here, doing nothing, and out of the blue you’re, like, more into me now than the entire year we dated?”
She grimaced. I could have punched myself in the face.
Why was I saying this? She’s all over me, and I’m pushing her away? Jeez, the Flit stuff must have temporarily fried my brain. Or hers. Was that it? The reason she was acting this way? I didn’t want to believe it, but it made sense.
“I’ve always been into you.” She shrank back, wrapping an arm around herself protectively. “I don’t know why you’d say that.”
“But why are you acting like this?” She hadn’t told me I was crazy. In fact she was clearly avoiding the question. Oof. “Where did this come from, Em?”
“Seriously?” She still wouldn’t meet my eye. “What’s so bad about wanting to make out? You said on the phone you wished we were back together, now you’re going to be all—” Emma rolled off my lap onto the couch. She scooted away, putting a solid six inches of cushion between us. It might as well have been a wall.
“It’s not bad, but it’s like . . .” I exhaled and looked at my lap. I wouldn’t have the courage to say it if I could see her reaction. “Are you only into me right now because of what’s happening with the picture?”
“What? It’s not even that good of a picture of you.”
Answer: not a “no.” It might as well have been “obviously.” The idea made me so angry my temples throbbed.
“Awesome. So when I’m just me, you’re over it. Don’t call, don’t need me.”
“Who ever said . . .”
“You. You said exactly that. That you were actually trying ‘not to need anyone.’ I know because it was less than a week ago.” I could feel my hands balling into fists. “But now that my picture is everywhere, you invite me over and throw yourself at me.”
“Kyle, it wasn’t like that at all,” she said softly.
It felt like my stomach was collapsing it was sinking so fast. I forced out a laugh.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re ready to do anything because I’m suddenly, like, pretend famous. For a second. On Flit. Jeez, Emma, do you know how gross that is?”
“You know what? Leave.”
“Am I hitting too close to home?”
“No, you’re being a massive jerk, and I want you to leave,” she spat, her voice stronger. She was looking at me now, eyes narrowed to angry, dark slits. “You know why I asked you over? Because my dad ditched me again, and I wanted someone around who didn’t think of me as just some obligation that they don’t even have to fulfill. Someone who actually wanted to see me.” She blinked rapidly. “But apparently I was wrong, and you think I’m half a step from an actual prostitute, so just . . . go.”
It felt like she’d popped some balloon that had been puffing up in my chest.
“Emma, don’t be like that. I’m not accusing you of anything, but I had to ask—”
“In case I’m some fame whore.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I didn’t call you that.”
“Right. Just implied it.”
“Emma, don’t be—”
“I asked you to leave. I don’t need you, remember? So leave. Go find someone who cares about you for real. Maybe that Rachel girl. I’m sure she’s deeply available.” Emma sniffed, lips curling in disgust.
I grabbed my phone and backpack. At the bottom of the stairs I turned, but Emma wasn’t in sight. I could hear the blare of the TV turning up. Sighing, I headed upstairs. I’d managed to screw that up pretty fast.
On the way to the car I opened Flit, just to see what had happened. There were too many notifications to sort through, thousands and thousands of mentions, and follows, and reflits.
I clicked to Rachel’s page. She hadn’t flitted since the picture. The last thing before that had been a couple days ago. It was a picture of a cat in space with a cat sweater on. She’d captioned it “meta-sweata.”
Man, she was so weird. But funny. Like, in a way I didn’t quite get.
I luvved the picture and stuffed the phone in my pocket.
chapter five
RACHEL
WEDNESDAY, 7:19 A.M.
“Really, Mom, I don’t feel well. I should stay home in case I’m contagious.”