We will get back to normal again. I will get my priorities straight, my focus back on Justin and Homecoming, and the fantasies about my best friend out of my head. Or at least two out of three.
“Thanks again for waiting,” I tell him, shifting in my seat. Only a week into school, and calculus is already kicking my ass. Brandon waited around until my practice ended so he could tutor me. Just another reason why this boy rocks so hard—and why I need my head fixed. “Calculus is the bane of my existence.”
“You’ll get the hang of it,” he says, pulling into my driveway. “All you need is the right tutor.” He gives an exaggerated wag of his eyebrows, but my eyes sink to his lips. I bet there’s a lot of things he could tutor me in.
The creak of his door and him hopping down clue me in to how well I’m doing so far with my mission. Does he know what I was thinking? My stomach flips as I answer my own question. Of course he knows. I have the sophistication of an infant. Brandon’s face, however, is completely expressionless as he helps me down, giving nothing away. He follows me silently up the walk and into my spacious kitchen.
Mom grins from her station at the stove. Wiping her hands on a towel, she sets a large tray of brownies on the granite counter. “Thought y’all could use a snack.”
I inhale the scent of cocoa and break off a piece. As the sugar hits my bloodstream, I take in my surroundings.
The low rumble of the dishwasher. Mom chopping vegetables at the island. The metallic sound of her spoon hitting the simmering pot on the stove. This is exactly what we need. A safe, parent-filled environment with the perfect amount of chaos to ensure there is zero chance of a charged moment. My shoulders relax, and I lean against the back of my barstool.
Kaitie flies into the room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Mom! We’re gonna be late!”
Mom looks up from stirring and squints at the digital clock on the microwave. “Oh, you’re right.”
She puts the cover on the pot and turns the temperature to low, and my gaze darts to the calendar hanging on the fridge, filled with reminders of appointments, events, and holidays. Written in red on Wednesday: Kaitie’s Youth Group: 6:00.
There goes our parental supervision.
Mom grabs her keys off the Texas Star hook hanging near the back door. Lifting several covered trays of food, she cranes her neck to tell us, “We’ll be back in a couple hours. Dinner’s ready, and I made more than enough, so, Brandon, dig on in.”
The door closes, the garage door rumbles open, and with that, we are alone.
Enter weirdness.
The sound of the dishwasher magnifies. Somewhere the house settles, and I swear I hear the second hand of a clock ticking—but all our clocks are digital. We silently take out our books, flipping to tonight’s assignment. The formulas and graphs look even more confusing than normal. My right hand itches to creep over and claim his, so I shake it.
“Cramp,” I explain.
He nods. My foot bounces against the wooden leg of the stool, and as I scratch my head, I glance at the clock.
We’ve been alone for three minutes.
In my peripheral vision, I see Brandon shift in his seat and crack his knuckles. He turns his head, and our eyes meet.
“Is this weird?” I ask after a tension-filled pause.
He hesitates, then nods. “Why is that, you think?”
“I don’t know,” I admit—or, actually, lie. I can’t answer for him, but I know part of the weirdness is because of my crazy reactions to his presence lately. “I’m getting scared, though. What if we’re not able to go back to being friends like before once this ‘experiment’ ends?” I let my hand close around his. “Besides Gabi and Kara, you’re my best friend.”
Brandon slides a section of my hair behind my ear. “Aly, we’ll always be friends. Don’t ever worry about that.” His voice is so confident, so sure, that I can’t help but want to believe it. “It’s that damn kiss that messed everything up.”
My spine straightens in shock. Ever since the sleepover, Brandon’s avoided or changed the subject every time I’ve brought up our kiss—further proof that he regrets it.
His lips press into a frown. “We just need to pretend it never happened.”
Inside, I wince. I can’t let him see that it hurts—after all, he’s only confirming what I already knew—but the truth hits like a spiked ball to the face. Forcing a smile, I ask, “Can it be that easy?”
“Sure.” Brandon nods once, as if making up his mind about something. “Stand up.”
Confused, I let him pull me up. He takes a deep, cleansing breath and widens his eyes, suggesting I do the same. I feel like I’m in yoga. Then he says, “Now we’re gonna shake the memory out, like an Etch A Sketch. Remember those?”
“Uh, yeah?”
Brandon starts shaking his head violently back and forth, just like you would an Etch A Sketch, and I can’t help but laugh. He stops and grins. “Don’t just stand there. Try it.”
With reluctance, I shake my head and even add a few jumps in for good measure. Surprisingly, it’s kind of fun. He does it some more, too, and after a minute, we share a smile.
A nice, silly, comfortable, platonic smile. A normal smile.
“Friends?” Brandon asks.
I nod. “You know it.”
“See? Everything’s fine,” he says, tweaking my nose. “We’re still us, and nothing will ever change that.”
He exhales in relief and stretches his arms above his head. The hunter-green polo lifts, a strip of his stomach creeps into view, and I swallow my tongue.
Yeah, I’m not sure that worked as well as he hoped.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 20TH
6 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming
BRANDON
LONESTAR THEATRES, 7:20 p.m.
It’s dinnertime, which means Aly is grumpy. The movies are slammed on weekend nights, and she rarely has time to grab anything to eat after practice. As I walk up, Gabi lifts her head behind the ticket counter, and I wave the McDonald’s bag in the air. She motions me through the door with a smirk, one that becomes an actual smile when I hand over a chicken sandwich. Say all you want about guys, but I’ve learned the way to a girl’s heart is through her stomach. Especially when French fries or chocolate are involved.
The lobby is crowded. Following the salty smell of popcorn, I pass no fewer than three wailing babies and a half-dozen kids screaming for candy. By the time I hop over the swinging door to the refreshment counter, my ears feel like they’re bleeding. Out of the seven lines of customers, Aly’s is the longest, so I reach into the bag for a greasy bribe and hand it over to her coworker Barbara.
“For me?” she asks, batting her fake eyelashes as she takes the cheeseburger. “Boy, if you were fifty years older—or I was fifty years younger—I’d rock your world.” She gives me a quick once-over as she chuckles at her own joke. “I’m guessing your motives aren’t completely selfless, but lucky for you, I’m easily bought.”
She waits for Aly to hand a couple their change and hip-checks her. “I’ll take it from here.” Aly’s nose crinkles in confusion, and Barbara nods her head in my direction. Aly grins. “Go enjoy your break with Stud Puppy, sweet girl. Believe it or not, I was young once myself.”
Aly pecks her wrinkled cheek before eagerly keying her code into the machine. “Thanks, Barb. I’ll be back in thirty!” Her shoes squeak on the sticky floor as she rushes over and envelops me in a quick hug. “My hero.”
The sweet scent of her hair fills my head, and I quickly lean back, masking my discomfort with a smile. “Outside?”
“God, yes.” She holds her palms over her ears and makes a pained face. “Quiet, please.”
We walk across the lobby, under the overhead screen playing an endless loop of previews, and through the door, plopping down on the metal bench farthest from the ticket counter.
Aly looks at the bag between us and shimmies her shoulders. “What’d ya bring me?”
“Quarter Pounder with Cheese, hold the
pickle, French fries, and a Coke, no ice. What else?” I’ve had her order down for years.
She squeals with delight and dives in. Around a mouthful of fries, she asks, “So what brought you to our humble establishment tonight? Severe boredom or just desperate for my company?” She smiles as she asks so I know she’s joking, but honestly, she’s not that far off.
I take a bite of my Big Mac and hold up a finger, chewing as I contemplate how to answer. I have a proposition, but I’ve been debating all day whether or not to suggest it. On one hand, it’ll be an excuse to hang out with my best friend again. On the other, it could complicate things even more. I swallow and ask, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“After my shift here, nothing,” she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Definitely no hot dates lined up or anything,” she adds with a teasing jab to my ribs.
I smile back, but it’s forced. The burger in my mouth tastes like cardboard. I tell myself it’s a gut reaction. That I’d feel the same way thinking about a guy asking out any girl I’m hooking up with—but that’s a lie. I wouldn’t give a shit with any other girl. But Aly’s not just any girl.
Ignoring that train of thought, I say, “Good, you do now. You get off of work at seven, right?”
She tilts her head and squints. “We’re going out? Like, on a real official date?”
“A pretend official date,” I clarify.
Just the thought of a real date with Aly gives me hives. A real date could lead to real dating. Aly is a Commitment, whether she wants to believe it or not, which means she’ll want a real relationship. One beyond our easy, dependable friendship. Those kinds of relationships end. I see it every day in the halls at school, and I saw it in my dad’s hospital room. I don’t want that for us.
“But Saturday night is date night, and since it’s not like either of us can ask out anyone else, I figured we might as well have some fun during this experiment.” I give her the smile that normally gets me what I want and hope she can’t see my uncertainty. “Don’t you think?”
“A pretend official date,” she muses.
She bites into her cheeseburger and quietly chews. The silence only amps my nerves. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it, but after the tension of the past week and my inability to get anywhere in my own plan, I decided we both need a night of fun.
“A date with Heartthrob Taylor, huh?” Aly laughs and twists to give me a full body appraisal. “I finally get to see what all the hoopla’s about. Does this mean I’ll learn your moves, too?”
“I can’t give out all my trade secrets,” I tell her with a grin. “But you’ll have a good time.”
“Count me in.”
We inhale the rest of our food before Aly’s break is over, falling into our usual conversations about nothing and everything. Things have been better since yesterday’s Etch A Sketch exorcism, and sitting outside now, it’s almost as if nothing has changed between us. I certainly don’t stare at her mouth as she chews on her French fries or when she sips Coke out of her lipstick-stained straw.
Or sniff her hair again when we hug goodbye.
Walking back to my truck, I hear her call my name.
“What should I wear tomorrow night?”
A conundrum. What I’d like to see Aly in and what type of outfit is best for our friendship are two completely different things. “Whatever you’d wear on a usual date would be fine,” I reply, walking backward.
She nods, looking deep in thought, and I turn back around, unsure of which outfit I hope she’ll choose.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 21ST
6 weeks until Homecoming
BRANDON
ALY’S HOUSE, 7:30 p.m.
I ring the doorbell and step back to gaze up at Aly’s window. She’s tied back her yellow curtains, and I can see her running around inside, probably trying to find a purse or matching shoes in her disaster of a room. I kick the red brick and ponder the night ahead.
As I see it, the night can end in one of two ways: our comfortable friendship will return after a night of fun and goofing around or being with Aly on a date—even a pretend one—will make kissing her again all too tempting.
I close my eyes and beg the universe for the first outcome.
From the other side of the door, I hear the rhythmic thump of shoes hitting the ceramic tile. I straighten in preparation to greet Aly, but when the door opens, I feel my smile freeze on my face. I take in her white lace halter top and the short denim skirt showing off her tan legs and swallow.
I hadn’t been sure which outfit I wanted her to choose, and now… Well, I’m still not sure which would’ve been better for our friendship, but I’m damn sure enjoying the view.
“You look amazing.”
A blush creeps up her neck. She bites her lip and fidgets with the neckline of her top. “Um, thanks.”
I clear my throat and remember why I’m here. Playful and fun. I hold out my elbow and say, “Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”
She grins and hesitantly slips her hand into the crook of my arm. The feel of her soft skin instantly has me imagining other soft things: her hair, her cheeks, her lips. I screw my eyes shut, replace the thought with baseball stats, and glance down. “I see you’ve banished the heels for the night.”
Aly nods vehemently. “They are the devil. From now on, it’s either ballet flats or sneakers on these bad boys.” She stops to wiggle a black, flat-footed shoe.
I breathe a sigh of relief at her playful tone. This is good. We stop at the passenger door, and as I help her into the cab, my fingers graze her bare lower back. Her blue eyes meet mine and then dart away. I cough and close her door, muttering a string of curses as I round the bumper and slam the door on my side.
Aly smiles nervously. “So where you taking me?”
By the grace of God, I choke down the response I’d like to give—back to my room—and force a nice, lighthearted, friendly smile as I back out of her long driveway. “All will be revealed in time.”
“The thrill of suspense, huh?” She leans back, obviously getting more comfortable with the situation. “I am intrigued, Mr. Taylor.”
“Good,” I say, waving at the security guard in front of her neighborhood. “You should be.”
I tune the radio to the country station she loves but I rarely allow, and she rolls down the window, letting the warm breeze fill the cab of the truck. Hair blowing in the wind, she laughs and sings loudly over the sound of cars zooming by. Happy to see her singing in front of me, I join in, doing my best to murder the tune, which only makes her laugh harder and sing louder.
When we pull into The Station, our final destination, I’m nervous. If this were a real date, I would’ve taken her to the stereotypical “dinner and a movie” or even to a party. But all that seemed too boring. This place seems tailor-made for Aly—video games, pool tables, shuffleboard, and, of course, food.
“Interesting choice,” she says, eyeing the building normally frequented by older couples or game heads. Her face is in profile, but as I search her expression, I note her trademark grin is glaringly absent.
“You don’t like it.”
I knew I should’ve stuck with the same old routine.
This is why Aly deserves someone better than Justin. Guys like him and me aren’t cut out for this shit. “Aly, look, we can go somewhere else. I just thought—”
“No! Are you kidding me?” She twists around to face me with an incredulous look on her face. “This is awesome. I was actually a little nervous about being on a ‘pretend official date’ with Brandon Taylor, but this’ll be fun!”
She pushes open her door, and I jump out my side, relieved I didn’t screw the night up before it even started. When I arrive at her door to help her down, Aly beams at me with such a playful smile that I make it my mission to keep it there.
Offering my elbow again, I ask in a fake British accent, “Well then, shall I escort you in, miss?”
That beautiful smile grows as she lifts her nose in the air and rep
lies, “Yes. Please do so.”
Laughing, we walk across the crowded parking lot and into the brightly lit building. The techno symphony of bells and beeps from video games, the crack and clash of pool balls colliding, and a cacophony of voices and laughter assault us.
“Pick your preference: eat first or play?” I ask, leaning in so she can hear me over the noise.
“Hmm. Tough choice.” She taps her lips with a pointed finger, but my gaze does not linger on her soft, glossy mouth. “While food is always a good option, I think I wanna play. Ready to have your butt handed to you in shuffleboard?”
I laugh at the smug look on her face, and any hint of sexual tension dissipates. Thank God. “Honey, Wii doesn’t count.” We’re both athletes so we’re naturally competitive—and sore losers. But Aly’s delight in decimating me in virtual shuffleboard a few weeks ago is annoyingly adorable. “Besides, that night was pure luck, sister.”
She rolls her eyes, holds her fingers up in the shape of a W, and mouths, “Whatever.”
“You just watch,” I say, leading her to the billiards section. “I got my A game tonight.”
A guy about our age sits behind a cracked wood counter looking bored. He has eyebrow and lip piercings and a purple tint to his heavily gelled hair. Aly’s mood is infectious, so I decide to have a little fun.
“Good evening, chap,” I say, continuing the British ruse. The dude fingers his lip ring and eyes me curiously. “We’d be delighted to play a rousing game of shuffleboard, wouldn’t we, darling?” I turn to Aly with a playful smile.
She snorts and then, straightening her shoulders, collects herself. “Yes, that sounds like a spiffing idea. Let us do that.”
The guy widens his eyes like he thinks we’re crazy before turning to grab the colored weights. I chuckle and reach for my wallet to start a tab. I don’t care if the whole place thinks I’m nuts as long as Aly is laughing again.
The Fine Art of Pretending Page 10
