I pray my mom can’t see how hard I’m blushing in the weak porch light.
“Yeah, she’s all right,” Mom says, patting my cheek.
Luke starts to back away, and, feeling bad that my mom broke this up, I blurt out, “I had a really good time tonight!”
“Me too,” he says as he walks off. “See you Monday!”
See you Monday? After those kisses? Then I remember my “in a few weeks” rule. And then I have a sudden pang of longing because I don’t know that I can wait that long to kiss him again.
I expect Mom to say something like, “So you’re a total liar,” but she merely yanks my hat off and ruffles my hair before she moves off the porch.
But just as she gets to the car she turns around and raises an eyebrow at me.
“That must’ve been some game night, huh?”
I try not to look too deer-in-the-headlights and just shrug while laughing nervously. Then I turn around quickly and let myself into the house, where I may or may not flop onto my bed and sigh the sigh of a girl who’s just been kissed by the dreamiest guy she’s ever met.
CHAPTER 17
My euphoria is short-lived, because it’s kind of hard to sleep when you’re not sure if you’re a home-wrecker or not.
Like, Luke says he broke up with Greta to be with me. Isn’t that what Hunter did to me to be with Brynn? Is Greta feeling all those horrible things that I felt right now? Because of me?
And then I think about how amazing it was kissing Luke last night and I don’t want to care about being labeled a home-wrecker. But I still do.
I debate calling Jodie, but I know she’s still in mourning over USC and that she’s probably not feeling better about it today. When our favorite singer, T.J. Choi, left the boy band InSyte to become an organic dairy farmer, she was sad for weeks—and he was nowhere near as important to her as a degree from USC’s School of Cinematic Arts.
Plus, I feel weird dangling this in front of her, like I’m being insensitive or something. “I know your college plans are all screwed up and you’re depressed but look how much fun I’m having!”
So I get out of bed and stare into my mirror as I pull my hair into a ponytail. I certainly don’t think I look like a home-wrecker, especially when my pajama pants have surfing cats on them. Surely an interloping harlot would have a more, uh, smutty wardrobe.
I check my phone and notice I have three texts: one from Alisha, thanking me for helping her clean up and saying she owes me a drink at Starbucks; one from Willow jokingly asking if I’m still sore from my beer pong “beatdown” (and admitting that she has a killer headache); and one from A.J. to the JAILE family, a photo of Jared passed out on Alisha’s couch. Someone had replaced his beret with a lace doily, and Alisha’s giving him bunny ears.
That none of them mentions anything about Luke and me is a good start. I must’ve kept my feelings off my face last night.
I’d texted Luke before I went to sleep, See you Monday? That’s all??? with a wink-y face emoji.
So when I’m brushing my teeth and my phone dings, my heart does a little cartwheel when I see it’s a text from him. His reply is the toothy-grin emoji, followed by a bike and flower emoji.
Use your words, Burke, I write back with a smiley face of my own.
Use your front door, Agresti, he replies.
I glance up in confusion, then quickly peer out the bathroom window, which overlooks the front yard. Luke is straddling his bike on the sidewalk, staring at his phone.
My stomach takes off in a flight of butterflies as I run down the stairs and grab my coat. My parents just left to sell some of our basement stuff at a flea market, so I don’t have to worry about them seeing this. When I step outside, there’s a single sunflower laid on the railing of the porch.
I narrow my eyes playfully at Luke, who’s still on the sidewalk. I hope my face doesn’t look as doofily delighted as I feel. “Is this like a floral version of ding-dong ditch?”
“More like a romantic gesture,” he says.
“Then why are you all the way out there?” I ask.
“Just following the Agresti Rules. By my calculations we have, like, a few more weeks before we can, uh, give each other flowers in public.”
I lean on the porch railing and glance up and down my street. No one else we go to school with lives on this block, so I think we’re safe. “Well, maybe I’m going to add another provision that says Saturdays don’t count when it comes to private kissing.”
Luke leaps off his bike, tosses it on the lawn, and in seemingly one stride makes it to the porch. He’s standing in front of me and I suddenly feel shy. I make a big show of smelling the sunflower and looking at him over its giant petals.
“Are you hungover at all?” is all I can think to say.
“Hell yes, but seeing you makes me feel a thousand times better.”
“So I’m like Alka-Seltzer,” I say, unable to contain my smile.
“Better,” Luke says.
I peek up and down the street, then lower the sunflower. “We’ve only got thirteen kissing hours left in this Saturday. Maybe we should make the most of—”
I can’t even get the “them” out, because Luke wraps his arms around me, lifts me up so we’re eye level. Then he glances down at my pajama pants.
“Whoa, are those surfing cats?”
I kiss him in response.
* * *
Being secretly involved with someone is a lot harder than I thought. No one tells you that you’re going to be thinking about this person all day, and yet you have to pretend like you’re totally meh about them when you’re in their presence. Especially when you just happen to be exiting a classroom together and his ex passes by and they say hi to each other and her eyes light up, happy to see him. Or when you sit in front of him at an assembly and can only smile at each other. Or when your school’s resident gossip blogger has a front-row seat for the only class you share together.
For instance, when we’re in class and making cinnamon pretzels, standing right next to each other at the counter, I want so badly for our arms to brush, but Luke is—maddeningly—keeping his elbows tucked into his side as he braids the dough.
I sigh involuntarily.
“What’s wrong?” Isaiah says as he dries a freshly washed bowl.
I want to grab Luke and drag him into the pantry so I can run my hands through his hair and kiss him till I’m completely out of breath. What I say is, “This day is dragging.”
“Not enough action for you, Agresti?” Luke says, not making eye contact with me.
“I’ve had more exciting afternoons,” I say, as boredly as possible. Only after I’ve said it do I realize it sounds like I’m referring to the afternoons of the last few days where Luke and I find a quiet place and make out like there’s no tomorrow. I decided we could see each other super secretly until it’s safe to “go public” and Luke seems more than okay with it.
I see the dimple appear in Luke’s left cheek and realize he’s trying not to laugh.
I go to grab the dish soap, and as I do, my fingers accidentally brush the top of Luke’s hand, which is resting on the counter. His mouth drops open, as if he’s jokingly scandalized by this action, but then his eyes soften and he gives me a small, incredibly hot smile, and I can’t help it when a giggle escapes.
Of course, that little moment somehow caught Jared’s attention, and his face is scrunched up in concentration, as if trying to figure out what he just saw.
Crap.
Quickly, I contort my face into something I hope doesn’t scream “flirty.” And I make sure to ignore Luke the rest of class.
I’m still thinking about that an hour later while proofreading tomorrow’s RHHS TV script. According to Luke, Greta is heading out for some kind of training for a week so if Jared does sniff something out, she’ll at least be in Canada and won’t have to see Luke and me for a few days. My phone buzzes then, and it’s a text from Luke: Risking your phone’s battery life to see if you want to
meet at 4:30 at the skate park.
Worth the risk. See you there, I text back. I don’t realize I’m grinning till I hear Alisha say, “Someone’s happy the day’s over!”
I quickly stash my phone in my hoodie’s pocket. “Yeah, it’s been dragging.”
Alisha crouches down next to me, smiling excitedly. “Well, this is top secret, but I’ve got to tell you. The weather reporter position is opening up! Chris and Mia are going to ask you if you want the job.”
My eyes must bug out in alarm because Alisha squeezes my arm. “Only if you want the gig. They won’t pressure you. And you’ll have some time to think about it because you wouldn’t start till Thanksgiving week.”
I slump back in my chair. Doing reports every now and then is one thing, but a daily gig? That’s live? That just seems … absolutely terrifying. But Alisha is looking at me so hopefully that I can’t bear to let her down. And I can’t deny that taking the job would probably make Brynn and Kim and Hunter’s heads explode. “I will. Think about it, that is. And thank you for warning me and giving me time to prepare.”
She smiles at me, but then her brow furrows. She glances over her shoulder, as if making sure no one’s in earshot. “There’s something else I wanted to ask.”
“You’re not going to ask me to be an anchorperson, I hope,” I say with a nervous laugh.
“No, uh, is something happening between you and Luke? I mean, if so, I think that’s awesome, and you don’t have to, like, tell me anything. But a post just went up on The Buzz you might want to know about. It makes it sound like Luke cheated on Greta with you.”
Good lord, Jared works fast. I feel myself force maybe the fakest smile in the history of fake smiles. “No, we’re just friends. Jared’s probably just still pissed at me from a couple weeks ago when I insinuated that he’s balding.”
Alisha nods. “Well, maybe he needs to get better at making up his stupid lies, too. Anyway, I thought I’d warn you, just in case.”
“Thanks,” I say. Then I have to fake a few minutes of enthusiastic conversation about our history class before I can’t take it anymore and pretend to check the time on my phone. “Oh, crap, I have to meet my mom.” I bid Alisha a quick farewell, gather my stuff, and hightail it out of the studio, then duck into an empty stairwell to load up The Buzz. And there it is, the latest post.
Cheaters Never Win
Was this snow bunny done dirty by her beau? Sources say a new lady love might have blown up their amore, resulting in an out-of-nowhere dumping. Sounds Fish-y to us.
A full-on garden of thorny angst blooms in my stomach then, to the point that I have to sit on the stairs and catch my breath. This has to be made up. Luke wouldn’t lie about this.
Then I have another momentary freak out: What if Greta’s already looking for me to tell me off? Or worse? How is this even happening?
When I’ve gotten my heart rate down, I creep out the back exit, and as I round the corner of the building toward the street that leads to the skate park, I see two girls sitting on the curb. One has her head on her knees and the other is rubbing her back as if she’s comforting her. I’m briefly worried that a stomach bug has hit campus, but then the one girl lifts her head, and I almost do a double take. It’s Greta, her blonde hair free from its braids, all wild and curly today. Her face is tear-stained and her eyes swollen from crying. It’s so jarring to see her this beaten down and vulnerable that my first instinct when seeing her is pity, not out-and-out fear.
“But why would he do this to me?” she says in gasping sobs. “Doesn’t he know what I did for him? Why would he lie?”
My heart sinks all the way down to my ankles as the words from The Buzz post practically float in front of me. Done dirty.
“He’s an asshole, that’s why,” her friend says, rubbing her back. “And a stupid one, clearly. Like he didn’t think you’d find out.”
Greta wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and shakes her head. “I mean, he’s with her? And then lies to me about it? What the actual fuck?”
“We could kill her,” her friend says with a snort.
“I’m not going to rule it out. I wish I wasn’t going away because I’d kill him first.”
Greta may say more, but all I can hear is the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. I don’t know if it’s fear that Greta’s going to slaughter me, or knowing that I’m about to start crying myself, but my feet seem to realize this is a situation I don’t need to be part of and steer me back the way I came.
The back of my throat starts to burn and I can’t tell if I’m about to start crying or scream or both. How could he? Luke Burke, the one who is supposed to be nice, is just like every other dude out there with a dream to get with as many girls as humanly possible.
This is exactly what I didn’t want. And now I’m in it. And I’m the Brynn in this scenario. And I’m probably going to get murdered by Greta.
I get a few blocks from school when tears start burning my eyes. I promptly blink them back. I’m not going to be sad about this. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. No, I’m not going to be the depressed victim again.
I stomp to the skate park, my eyes darting around as I head to the back of the building, to a maple tree that’s brimming with burning red leaves. We just kissed under this tree yesterday—and all I could think then was how perfect it all was.
The door creaks open and Luke saunters out, his eyes meeting mine in a way that on other days I’d describe as “flirty” but today it makes my stomach turn.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Luke says, smiling devilishly.
“You lied to me.”
He wiggles his eye brows suggestively. “Okay, you got me. I don’t like the smell of your shampoo. I love it. Drives me crazy.”
He thinks I’m kidding.
“Knock it off,” I snap, and his face sobers. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I’m stupid or something?”
“Find out what?” He folds his arms, which I know is body language for guilt.
“I saw Greta today. Crying. And from the sounds of it, you guys weren’t exactly as broken up as you made it out to be.”
Now Luke’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you heard today, but I can almost bet it’s not what you think.”
The fact that he’d try to gaslight me on this is amazing. Are all guys my age completely deceitful jerks? Or just the ones I’m attracted to? “I’ve done this once, and I am sure as hell not going to be on the other side of it,” I say.
Luke’s face turns a deep shade of red and his jaw clenches. “Why do you think I’m lying?”
“Because it came straight from Greta’s mouth,” I say, throwing my hands up. “And I saw the way she was looking at you when we were walking in the hall yesterday.”
Now Luke’s eyes bug out. “The way she was looking at me? Seriously?”
“And then there was today’s fantastic Buzz item about Greta being done dirty.”
“Done dirty? We broke up mutually.”
“Or so you think,” I say.
If it’s possible, Luke’s face has grown even redder. “Why do you care so much about what that stupid site says? You know Jared’s an asshole.”
“Maybe because the last time I was the subject of it, all the information was true,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Jesus, so you think I’m a liar now?” Luke says, shaking his head. “Listen, Ellie, I know you’ve been burned before, but I don’t know how to make you believe me just because you can’t move on.”
The fact that he calls me Ellie surprisingly stings. And how can he possibly be turning this around on me? “I’m not apologizing for looking out for myself after what happened with Hunter.”
Luke throws his hands up. “Well, maybe that’s your problem. You’re still living in your last relationship. And I guess maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore because I really don’t feel like paying for all the bullshit he dumped on you. If you don’t trust me, I don’t know what more I can do.”
With that, he turns on his heel, flings the door open, and stomps back inside.
Five days. Is that a new record for a broken heart?
CHAPTER 18
I manage to fake normalcy pretty well the next day. I hang out with Alisha and the TV crew in the morning, eat lunch with Isaiah, and get through a group project in English without anyone being like, “Ellie, are you all right?” Probably because I now basically hold a PhD in not crying in public.
I guess some life skills you don’t learn in home ec.
I desperately wanted to tell Jodie about this last night, but she had Chinese class, then said she had to go to some dinner with her parents. So at lunch, I finally text her, Any chance you want to meet up at Starbucks later?
A few minutes later, she replies. Sorry, I have to work today.
And that’s it. No rain check. No “come meet me while I’m on my break,” which I’ve done before. Ever since the USC thing, it’s felt like she doesn’t want to deal with anything—including me. Like, we haven’t even seen each other in person since the football game. I’m about to reply with a sad-face emoji and “I miss you,” but wonder if that would make her feel guilty. I don’t want to do that, so I don’t reply.
To ignore the growing feeling of agitation in my stomach, I scroll through The Buzz several times, and there are no more thinly veiled mentions of me being a home-wrecker or Luke being a lying lothario or Greta being tragic and unbraided on the curb. Greta hasn’t sent anyone to kill me, either, so that’s a bonus.
But I know home ec is going to be a challenge because I’m not sure how Luke is going to act. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to act, but as angry as I am, and as many dagger-eyes I want to give him, I have to keep it bottled up. And that just makes me angry with myself. I mean, I’d just gotten to a place where this class was tolerable—likeable, even—and now I’ve gone and screwed it all up and I can’t act any differently because I don’t want Isaiah and A.J. to catch on. Because I’m not going to jeopardize our position in the class rankings, especially when we’re so close to first place.
The Secret Recipe for Moving On Page 18
