I got this.
I am a strong, confident woman. I can drive.
After making sure nobody is coming, I pull the SUV onto the road and drive towards home.
I’m nervous—not just because I’m a bad driver, but because I’m driving in front of Dylan for the first time. He’s such a good driver and I... well, I suck. What kind of sixteen-year-old can’t freaking drive a car?
Okay, I can drive. I drove all the time back home and I never got into an accident. But I also knew the roads well. I drove to the same places—school, the mall, the coffee shop. If I went somewhere new, I was normally riding with somebody else. Driving here is different because I’m not used to driving here.
At least they drive on the right side of the road. I cringe to think how hard driving would be if I had to drive on the left side like they do in some countries.
“You’re doing good,” Dylan says.
His compliment makes me grin. I like getting his approval.
I think Dylan is a good teacher. Austin is too, actually. He was really nice to me last night when he was teaching me.
Do they teach patience at Spy School?
Nah, I’ve seen plenty of people lose their temper. I think it’s just a Dylan thing to be so chill.
It’s only a five-minute drive home. I sigh in relief when I turn off the engine.
“You’re a good driver,” he says. “You just need practice.”
Lots of practice, I’m sure.
I hand his keys back to him.
“I don’t think I love driving,” I say.
“I think you’ll learn to love it,” he says, getting out of the car.
I follow Dylan inside the house. I wonder what we will do tonight. My mind goes back to our kiss earlier and I wonder if he will kiss me again. I want him to. I also want to know where I stand with him. I mean, he knows I’ve kissed Cam, too—more than once. And that I have feelings for the others. It’s not just him. But it’s not something I’ve talked to him about when we’re alone, so I should remind him, right?
“We need to talk,” Dylan says.
I nod.
We really do.
I follow him over to the couch. I sit down, angling my body towards his, and I look up at him.
This couch... the same couch where I had my first kiss with both Cam and Dylan...
“If you keep looking at me like that, I am going to forget why we need to talk in the first place,” he says.
I grin.
I mean...
We should talk, even if kissing him is way more fun than talking.
“We kissed,” I say, then clear my throat. “Uh, twice.”
“Yeah, we did,” he says, grinning at me. “I was there. I remember.”
“So, what now?” I ask.
“We kiss more.”
I am definitely okay with that.
“I know that you have feelings for the others,” he says.
I swallow hard and nod my head. I want to look away from him, but I don’t. If we are going to have this conversation, I need to be brave. He deserves to know where I stand—that I’m so unsure about what I want.
Who I want.
“I’m not asking you to choose, Zara,” Dylan says. “I’m not asking for anything. I enjoy kissing you.”
“I like kissing you, too,” I say.
He grins. “The only thing you need to know is that you mean so much to me—more than I can put into words. This thing between us is anything but casual, so I don’t want you to think it is, but considering the others, we don’t have to label it right now.”
His words are such a relief to me. I feel a weight lifted off my chest and I can breathe easier.
“I just... can’t imagine how I would feel if you had feelings for another girl,” I say. “It doesn’t seem fair that I’m asking you to just ignore them.”
“I’m not ignoring them,” Dylan says. “I know what you and I have. What you have between them... well, it doesn’t bother me.”
“You’ll let me know if it starts bothering you?” I ask.
More like when and not if.
“I promise, I’ll tell you,” he says.
“Good.”
“And you’ll always be honest with me?” he asks. “If something is bothering you, you’ll tell me?”
“Yeah,” I say.
I wonder if I should tell Dylan about what’s going on with Austin... how I’m feeling so torn.
But, no. He must mean he wants me to be honest with him about us and not about the others.
I’ll keep quiet about that.
Things will eventually work out.
Or everything will crash around me.
Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.
Thursday, October 18
Breakdown?
While I’m in the middle of curling my hair for school, Tristan walks into my bathroom.
I know I’m not technically supposed to have the guys in my room, but I’ve been breaking that rule for a little while now. Honestly, if Zach wants to enforce it, he should be home more. Besides, it’s not like we do anything. I haven’t even kissed Tristan yet, so it’s not a big deal.
I haven’t kissed him yet. Am I really thinking about kissing him?
Yeah.
I want to kiss Tristan.
What is wrong with me? I almost kissed Stefan, I’ve made out with Cam and Dylan, and now I am thinking about kissing Tristan? How did I go from having never kissed a guy two weeks ago... to this?
“You do this every morning?” Tristan asks, as he watches me pull the wand out of my hair and wrap up another piece. He seems completely fascinated.
“Every other morning,” I say. “I don’t wash my hair every day. It’s bad for your hair.”
“Really?” he asks. “I wash mine every day. Wait... does that mean you don’t shower every day?”
I giggle. “I shower every day. I just don’t always wash my hair. I’m not a slob.”
“You do always smell good,” he says, his face turning slightly red.
I’m glad that today is Tristan’s turn to pick me up. I feel the most comfortable around him. Maybe because he knows how I feel. He knows everything. I don’t have to hide when it comes to him.
I wouldn’t have to hide if I told the other guys what I really feel...
I’ll worry about that later, though.
“Why don’t you leave your hair natural?” he asks, walking over to the side of my hair I haven’t curled yet. He grabs a piece of it.
“That isn’t natural. That’s me after I blow-dried it,” I say.
“What does it look like naturally?”
I shrug. “Wavy, I guess. But I like to fix my hair. That’s why I do it.”
“I like it fixed,” he says. “You are always beautiful.”
I smile at his words.
I have never felt beautiful before. How could I? My mom is freaking Isabel Jensen-Livingston, practically a goddess in Hollywood. And I’m just her awkward teenage daughter.
Doesn’t have her mom’s looks, one article wrote.
It’s fine. I’m not as pretty as my mom. I never will be. But it still hurt to read.
In Switzerland, with Tristan, I feel more beautiful than any actress or model in LA.
As I continue to fix my hair, Tristan watches me closely. It makes me a little nervous to have him watch me fix my hair, but I don’t have the heart to tell him so. His eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly open. He is so fascinated by me curling my hair and I think it’s adorable.
Chloe and Charlotte used to always watch me curl my hair, too. But they’re kids, so they’d usually get bored after a few minutes and run off and leave me. Tristan doesn’t leave. He just watches until I am done.
“You’re so cute,” I tell him.
“Cute?”
I nod. “Very cute. Handsome.”
“I like handsome better,” he says.
I grin.
Tristan is handsome—with his dirty blond hair
and caramel eyes. His eyelashes are so long that I’m jealous of them. Why does it seem that guys are always the ones who get long lashes?
When I turn around to look at Tristan, I have to look up. He’s is one foot taller than I am. Standing next to him, I feel small and girly.
Actually, I’m small next to all the guys.
“We have our cooking class tonight,” he says.
“Really?” I ask.
Because I thought he was joking about wanting to take a cooking class with me. I’m thrilled that he’s serious about it. A cooking class is just what we need.
“For real,” he says. “I think we’re going to learn how to cook something easy tonight, like spaghetti and cookies or something.”
“Thank you for doing this with me,” I say, then lean in for a hug.
Tristan never acts surprised when I hug him, not like the other guys do. He just accepts its and hugs me back. Maybe that’s part of the reason I felt so comfortable telling him how I felt. He makes me feel like I don’t have to hide anything from him.
“Zara, don’t you know I’d do anything for you?” he asks.
I squeeze him tighter.
Why is he so amazing?
“I was wondering,” I say, when we pull back from the embrace, “have you found a solution to my problem yet?”
“Problem?” he asks, titling his head to the side.
“You know,” I say, biting my lip. “The whole... not wanting to split you guys up or cause any drama thing.”
Yeah... that’s what I’ll go with. It’s better than admitting out loud that I’m falling in love with five different guys.
“The guys and I are working on it.”
My face grows warm. “The guys and you?”
This is something they are discussing on their own time? Without me? I don’t know if I should feel flattered or nervous about this fact.
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. I think we’ve almost come up with a solution.”
“What?”
“You’ll know when I know,” he says.
“You guys seriously talk about me when I’m not there?” I ask.
“You’re pretty much the center of every conversation the guys and I have had since you arrived.”
That’s...
Frightening.
“We should go,” Tristan says. “I’m pretty sure Zach would be pissed if he knew I was in your room.”
I wave a hand. “You’re technically in my bathroom. And if he’s going to be mad at you, he’d also have to be mad at Austin and Stefan.”
“You’ve had Austin and Stefan up here?”
I nod.
I wonder if I should’ve told him that, but I want to always be completely honest with Tristan.
“I’m surprised Stefan came,” Tristan says.
“I forced him to the first time,” I say. “He always has wet hair in the mornings.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding his head. “I knew his hair looked better on the mornings he picks you up.”
I grin.
Fixing Stefan’s hair is my favorite.
“I can fix yours sometime,” I say.
“Not today, though,” he says. “We need to go.”
He’s right.
I unplug my curling iron and leave the bathroom, with Tristan following me. He turns off the lights behind us as we head downstairs and to the car.
“Why was Austin in your room?” Tristan asks, once we get buckled in.
I’m glad Tristan isn’t making me drive this morning.
“I kind of had a breakdown on my bathroom floor, so he came to comfort me,” I say.
“A breakdown?” he asks, not taking off yet. I look over and see that he’s looking at me with a concerned look in his eyes.
“Austin has been mad at me,” I say. “I think so, anyway. He seems mad at everybody. We had a heart to heart on my bathroom floor, but I don’t know if it really helped. He still seems quiet this week, you know? Stefan said he’s just going through something and I should give him time, but it’s hard. I care for Austin and I want to help him. I wish he’d talk to me.”
“Would you feel better if I talked to him?” Tristan asked.
I nod. “Would you?”
“Of course,” he says. “As long as you don’t stress over it, anymore.”
“I won’t,” I say.
I’ve got such good friends.
Frozen pizza.
After school is over, Tristan and I head to our cooking class, which is actually in the school. I had no idea that the school even offered classes like this, but I don’t know why I’m surprised. Spy School seems to teach literally anything you want to learn—I even saw a class on basket weaving. How... obscure.
There is a sign at the front of the class that says if you have long hair, you have to put it up. There is even a basket full of elastic bands. I grab one before walking to the middle of the classroom with Tristan. I flip my hair over to put it up and spot Tristan watching me. I grin at him and finger comb my hair into a ponytail on top of my head.
“You can do lots of things with your hair,” he says. “I’m surprised that rubber band thingy can hold all of your hair.”
“Do you not have any sisters?” I ask.
“No. I’m an only child,” he says.
Why have I never asked this question before? I mean, these guys are my best friends and I hardly know anything about them, yet I feel like they know everything about me.
“What about your mom?” I ask. “Did she ever fix her hair?”
“My mom died when I was four. I barely remember her,” he says.
My chest clinches. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
“It had to be hard to grow up without your mom. I can’t even imagine,” I say. “I know my mom was gone a lot, but if I ever needed her she was only a phone call away. I feel heartbroken for you that you never had that.”
“I guess I didn’t miss what I never had,” he says.
“I’ll share my mom with you,” I say. “She’s a little crazy, but she’ll love you.”
Tristan shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re really sweet,” he says.
Me?
Sweet?
Pretty sure my mom would argue that I’m the opposite of sweet, but then again, she was there through my awkward pre-teen phase, when I was trying to find myself. I’m pretty sure my family deserved a gold medal for putting up with me during that time.
The door opens and the teacher walks in. She’s a middle-aged woman I haven’t seen before. She looks out at the classroom and points at a girl who still has her hair down.
“Hair up,” the teacher says.
“Why?” the girl asks. “It’s my food, right? What does it matter if I get hair in my food?”
“I’m not worried about you getting hair in your food. However, I’ve had more than one student set their hair on fire, so hair up.”
The class laughs.
Somebody set their hair on fire?
I have so many questions, but it’s obvious the teacher isn’t going to go into details when she starts giving us instructions.
Cooking is harder than it looks. I thought spaghetti would be easy to cook, but we actually have to watch four different things at once. We have to cook the meat, the sauce, the noodles, and the garlic bread. We end up burning the garlic bread a little bit, but the spaghetti turns out okay, even if some of the noodles are stuck together.
I kind of want to cry, just looking at the mess we made.
How am I ever going to learn how to cook? I’ll forever be eating takeout.
“Are you crying?” Tristan asks.
“No,” I answer, turning my head away to wipe away some tears from under my eyes.
I’m such a girl.
Why do I have to cry over this, of all things?
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’ll just never
learn how to cook.”
I’m trying to keep myself from crying more because we’re still in class. Everybody is taste-testing their food.
The teacher says she’s not tasting our food because she’s not the one who will have to end up eating our cooking. There isn’t technically a ‘grade’ in this class.
“We can order takeout,” Tristan says.
“I am so tired of takeout. I’m starting to really hate pizza,” I say.
“Then we will keep coming to this class and eventually we will get it down,” he says. “The spaghetti isn’t that bad.”
He takes a bite and cringes.
It is that bad.
It’s a little too salty. We didn’t even put salt into the dish, so I’m not certain how that happened. Unless Tristan put in garlic salt instead of garlic powder, which I suppose is possible.
“We suck,” I say.
“Kind of,” he says. “But we suck together. Great teamwork.”
I laugh.
Okay, maybe I’m being silly.
“It doesn’t matter if you can cook or not,” Tristan says. “We’ll make one of the guys learn and they can be our cook.”
“How am I supposed to feed my kids someday?” I ask. “Not that my own mom fed me. She hired somebody to feed me. But I don’t want to do that. My poor kids will be eating boxed mac and cheese and peanut butter and jelly their whole life.”
“And frozen pizza,” he says.
“No pizza,” I say.
“Don’t worry. By the time we are married with kids, one of us will figure it out. Or one of the other guys,” Tristan says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Married?”
“Yeah. You and I will be married someday,” he says.
“Then you’d better learn how to cook a proper meal,” I say. I’m completely joking.
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out,” he says. “You worry far too much.”
I start to say something else, but I can’t because Tristan leans over and kisses me.
On the lips.
In the middle of class.
It’s just a peck, but still.
It’s out first kiss.
He just smiles at me after, like he doesn’t even realize what he just did—like it came second nature to him.
I mean... I’m okay with kissing Tristan.
But that will have to wait until after class.
Dream Page 4
