and shake my head. Just because I already know what Haven said doesn't mean I want to hear it spoken out loud. So I cut him off when I say, "Okay fine, we kissed. But just once." I can feel him looking at me, brows raised, lips smirked in suspicion. "Maybe twice. I don't know, it's not like I counted," I mumble, lying like a red-faced, sweatypalmed, shifty-eyed amateur, and hoping he doesn't notice. Because the truth is I've replayed that kiss so many times it's tattooed on my brain.
"And?" he says, impatient for more.
"And—nothing," I say, relieved when I glance at him and see Riley's gone.
"He didn't call? Or text? Or e-mail? Or drop by?" Miles gasps, visibly upset, wondering what it means not only for me, but the future of our group.
I shake my head and stare straight ahead, angry with myself for not dealing with it better, hating the way my throat's gone all tight as my eyes start to sting.
"But what did he say? When he left the party, I mean? What were his very last words?" Miles asks, determined to find some ray of hope in this bleak and bitter landscape.
I turn at the light, remembering our strange and sudden good bye at the door. Then I face Miles, swallow hard, and say, "He said, 'souvenir?''
And the moment it's out, I know it's a really bad sign. Nobody takes a souvenir from a place they plan to frequent. Miles looks at me, his eyes expressing the words his lips have refused.
"Tell me about it," I say, shaking my head as I pull into the lot.
Even though I'm fully committed to not thinking about Damen, I can't help but feel disappointed when I get to English and see he's not there. Which, of course, makes me think about him even that much more, until I'm teetering on the edge of obsession.
I mean, just because our kiss seemed like something more than just a random hookup doesn't mean he felt the same way. And just because it felt solid and true and transcendent to me doesn't mean he was in on it too. Because no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the image of him and Drina standing together, a perfect Count Fersen with an idyllic Marie. While I stood on the sidelines all shiny and poufy like the world's biggest wannabe.
I'm just about to click on my iPod when Stacia and Damen burst through the door. Laughing and smiling, shoulders nearly touching, two single white rosebuds clutched in her hand. And when he leaves her at her desk and heads toward me, I fumble with some papers and pretend I didn't see.
"Hey," he says, sliding onto his seat. Acting like everything's perfectly normaI. Like he didn't pull a grope-and-run less than forty-eight hours before.
I plate my cheek on my palm and force my face into a yawn, hoping to come off as bored, tired, worn out from activities he couldn't begin to imagine, doodling on a piece of notebook paper with fingers so shaky my pen slips right out of my hand. I bend down to retrieve it, and when I come back up I find a single red tulip on top of my desk.
"What happened? You run out of white rosebuds?" I ask, flipping through books and papers, as though I've something important to do.
"I would never give you a rosebud," he says, his eyes searching for mine.
But I refuse to meet his gaze, refuse to get sucked into his sadistic little game. I just grab my bag and pretend to search for something inside, cursing under my breath when I find it stuffed full of tulips.
"You're strictly a tulip girl—a red tulip girl." He smiles.
"How exciting for me," I mumble, dropping my bag to the ground and scooting to the farthest part of my seat, having no idea what any of it could possibly mean.
By the time I get to our lunch table, I'm a sweaty mess. Wondering if Damen will be there, if Haven will be there because even though I haven't seen or spoken to her since Saturday night, I'm willing to bet she still hates me. But despite spending all of third period chemistry practicing an entire speech in my head, the second I see her, I've lost all the words.
"Well, look who's here,"
"And?" he says, impatient for more.
"And—nothing," I say, relieved when I glance at him and see Riley's gone.
"He didn't call? Or text? Or e-mail? Or drop by?" Miles gasps, visibly upset, wondering what it means not only for me, but the future of our group.
I shake my head and stare straight ahead, angry with myself for not dealing with it better, hating the way my throat's gone all tight as my eyes start to sting.
"But what did he say? When he left the party, I mean? What were his very last words?" Miles asks, determined to find some ray of hope in this bleak and bitter landscape.
I turn at the light, remembering our strange and sudden good bye at the door. Then I face Miles, swallow hard, and say, "He said, 'souvenir?''
And the moment it's out, I know it's a really bad sign. Nobody takes a souvenir from a place they plan to frequent. Miles looks at me, his eyes expressing the words his lips have refused.
"Tell me about it," I say, shaking my head as I pull into the lot.
Even though I'm fully committed to not thinking about Damen, I can't help but feel disappointed when I get to English and see he's not there. Which, of course, makes me think about him even that much more, until I'm teetering on the edge of obsession.
I mean, just because our kiss seemed like something more than just a random hookup doesn't mean he felt the same way. And just because it felt solid and true and transcendent to me doesn't mean he was in on it too. Because no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the image of him and Drina standing together, a perfect Count Fersen with an idyllic Marie. While I stood on the sidelines all shiny and poufy like the world's biggest wannabe.
I'm just about to click on my iPod when Stacia and Damen burst through the door. Laughing and smiling, shoulders nearly touching, two single white rosebuds clutched in her hand. And when he leaves her at her desk and heads toward me, I fumble with some papers and pretend I didn't see.
"Hey," he says, sliding onto his seat. Acting like everything's perfectly normaI. Like he didn't pull a grope-and-run less than forty-eight hours before.
I plate my cheek on my palm and force my face into a yawn, hoping to come off as bored, tired, worn out from activities he couldn't begin to imagine, doodling on a piece of notebook paper with fingers so shaky my pen slips right out of my hand. I bend down to retrieve it, and when I come back up I find a single red tulip on top of my desk.
"What happened? You run out of white rosebuds?" I ask, flipping through books and papers, as though I've something important to do.
"I would never give you a rosebud," he says, his eyes searching for mine.
But I refuse to meet his gaze, refuse to get sucked into his sadistic little game. I just grab my bag and pretend to search for something inside, cursing under my breath when I find it stuffed full of tulips.
"You're strictly a tulip girl—a red tulip girl." He smiles.
"How exciting for me," I mumble, dropping my bag to the ground and scooting to the farthest part of my seat, having no idea what any of it could possibly mean.
By the time I get to our lunch table, I'm a sweaty mess. Wondering if Damen will be there, if Haven will be there because even though I haven't seen or spoken to her since Saturday night, I'm willing to bet she still hates me. But despite spending all of third period chemistry practicing an entire speech in my head, the second I see her, I've lost all the words.
"Well, look who's here,"
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