Please Love Me Back

by Melanie Marks

  “Sorry.” I can’t get my eyes to leave her lips. I curl my fingers in my hair, just to keep them from making moves on her. “I’ve been texting you all day,” I tell her, trying to meet her pretty eyes—distract my gaze from her lips, “—but you never wrote me back.” I straddle the chair at her desk, still keeping the eye contact going. (Now it’s driving me wild.) “I would’ve used the front door, only it’s kind of late. I thought maybe your mom would be mad.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Jazz assures me.

  ‘But she should.’

  I don’t tell her this aloud. But I think it. Uncomfortably.

  Jazz states what I already know, “My mom is really calm,” she says. “It takes a lot to make her mad.”

  Like the thoughts going through my head—they’d probably make her mad.

  I don’t share this information with her, though. Instead, I murmur, “Yeah, well, then I guess I used the window for old-time’s sake.”

  Finally, I just come out with it. “Jazz, how are you doing?”

  The thoughts of her crumbled on her lawn this morning still haunt my brain. I’ll have nightmares about it for the rest of my life.

  She raises her eyebrows. “How am I doing?” She puts down her guitar. “Smokin.’”

  I breathe a soft laugh. “Yeah, I heard you through the window. You sounded smokin’.”

  She blushes. It’s awesome.

  I pick up her guitar and play this song I’ve been working on. I catch her watching me all starry-eyed. She’s a fan-girl. (I love it.) I smile, “You like it?”

  She nods, and I swear, it’s like she’s been holding her breath. She clears her throat. “It’s pretty.” Her eyes all dreamy and soft she asks, “Did you write it yourself?”

  I play a little more. “Yeah.” I peek up at her, “I’m writing it for you.”

  Her lips part slightly and she makes this tiny purr noise. Whoa.

  Tingles whoosh through me.

  The way her awed/pleased eyes are glued to mine has me on fire.

  We’re silent, just looking at each other. This is not cooling me down. I mean, she’s STARING at me. I seriously forget how to breathe.

  I might actually die from this—too much attention from Jazz.

  Hello, your best friend.

  Key word—friend.

  I murmur softly, “I’ve been overly preoccupied about you lately. Are you all right?”

  Slowly she nods. “I think so.”

  I have to look away.

  What’s happening to me???

  Finally, I break the silence, though my eyes are back on her all hungry-like. “When, you were in that coma—I had nightmares. The whole time you were in it,” I tell her.

  I peek up at her. “I went to the hospital every day.”

  “I know,” she whispers. “My mom told me.”

  “I’d go there and just watch you…. I was afraid you were going to die.” I stare into her eyes, wanting her to see my soul, since I know my words won’t come out right, “I kept thinking, if she dies—I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  I know this is an understatement, but this is what comes out of my mouth, “You’re my best friend.”

  “You’re my best-friend, too,” she whispers.

  She says it like she knows what I was really saying is I love you.

  My eyes stay on her still all heated. I inwardly groan.

  I run a hand over my face. “I should probably go.”

  She seems disappointed. (But we’re best friends, so that doesn’t really mean as much as my heart tries to make it out to be.)

  She walks me to her window. I turn to her when I get there.

  Her eyes glisten. My heart is beating so fast. I love it when she looks at me like this.

  I have girlfriend. I have a girlfriend.

  Yet, I find myself drawing my face to hers, my whole body igniting. I can feel her delicious breath on my lips. Mmmm. I’m on fire.

  DUDE!!—SHE’S YOUR BEST FRIEND.

  I jerk away with a groan.

  I wince. “Things have definitely changed between us,” I tell her, trying to remind myself what it used to be like when I’d crawl through her window. I’d give her noogies and wrestle with her. Yeah, things have changed.

  I touch her hair. “Goodnight, Jazz.”

  Then I escape through her window, resisting my impulse to attack her.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jazz didn’t come to school today. To my relief. If she came, I’d just worry about her all day. Worry about her fainting in the girls’ bathroom or something. Hitting her head on the toilet. Or fainting into a guy’s arms. Either way, I probably would have followed her around all day, just to make sure neither happened—her banging her head, or her being completely vulnerable with a guy.

  Fortunately, like I said, she didn’t come. But so instead of me following her, Gia is following me.

  I think she knows I was freaked about her throwing a cake at me. Also, I used to would never turn down an opportunity to kiss her. Now I do it continually. But see, I’m torn. If I’m going to keep from becoming a Jazz stalker, maybe I should give me and Gia more of a shot. I mean, we made it a whole two months without breaking up. And she’s trying really, really hard. Maybe if I try too … I mean, come on. She is easily the prettiest girl in our whole school. Guys would give up a lung to be in my shoes.

  “I made this for you,” Gia tells me before our history test, placing it on my desk.

  It’s a huge peanut butter and chocolate cupcake that says ‘good luck’ on the top.

  “Mmm. My favorite.” I smile, though I feel guilty. “Thanks.”

  Instead of giving her a kiss (which face it, she deserves) instead I give her hand a gentle squeeze. I do the innocent-ish gesture as much because we are in class as because I’m worried I’ll picture Jazz if our lips meet—since I was just thinking about Jazz. And about her lips. And about how I’d almost kissed her last night.

  All this stuff keeps me from giving Gia the kiss I can see she is craving and needing and I feel like a dirt-bag for not being able to do it.

  I pat her head instead. (Lame!!!) “Thanks,” I tell her again.

  Then I pull out the coupon that was on my car’s windshield this morning. “I got you this,” I tell her in jest, ‘cause I’m a wad. And broke. “It’s for helping me study last night.”

  “Oh a coupon for a free car wash,” she pans thrilled, holding it over her heart.

  “We can make-out while it’s being washed,” I tell her.

  She lights up. “That’s fun.”

  I nod. “It is.”

  (It really is.)

  She’s been sending me dirty texts all day. I should be into this. I just need to shake my continual thoughts of Jazz. Gia’s hot mouth (later) can probably help me do that … unless it gets me dreaming of Jazz some more.

  Man, it might do that.

  CHAPTER 18

  It’s Friday night and I’m at this teenage dance place, Pikes. Seeing Jazz walk in doesn’t exactly help get my mind off her. Which was what I had planned to do tonight when I let Gia drag me here with her group of friends that I usually avoid like the plague.

  But see, I had worked up this plan. I planned to totally keep my thoughts Jazz-free tonight. But now, no way. Every second I’m conscious, my eyes are back on her. She’s like a magnet to them. They can’t resist. Not even when I’m trying my hardest.

  I have no idea what she’s doing here. She’s all alone. Most likely she’s waiting for a guy. I swear, if he stood her up I’m going to punch his lights out. Only she’ll never tell me who it is that dissed her. She doesn’t like me getting into fights over her. (She has no idea how many I’ve been in on her behalf.)

  Gia took my phone, or I’d text her. Which is why Gia took my phone. But now I’m stuck wondering what’s up. It’s eating at me. (I admit, I’m overly protective of Jazz. I’m aware.)

  I finish my drink, then tell Gia I’m going to get me another soda. I steal a fry from
Jazz as I go, then on my way back, I sit in the chair next to her. “Why are you here alone?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry about it, bestie. My company is way better than yours.”

  She’s talking about the whole crowd I’m hanging with tonight—not just Gia, all her friends.

  I take another of her fries. “Well, they’re nice to look at.”

  “But I bet the conversation isn’t any more stimulating than the one happening here.”

  I smirk. “With nobody?”

  “Exactly.”

  I shrug. “Probably true—but again, the view is better.”

  She mutters, “But the chatter here is less obnoxious.”

  “Jazz, why are you here alone?”

  She grimaces at my cut to direct, then takes a sip of her soda, totally hedging, “I don’t know. I guess my chatter is obnoxious.”

  “Yeah, it’s not. So, what’s going on?”

  I can tell she’s not going to tell me. Something’s been going on with her though. She’s here alone on a Friday night? No way. She wouldn’t wait around for a guy. She doesn’t wait around for a guy.

  “Jazz, I’m your best friend. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She bites her lip. “No. You won’t like it.”

  “Right, I get that. But what is it?”

  Before she can answer (not that she will), Gia is at my elbow.

  Jazz rolls her eyes. Gia narrows hers.

  This is fun.

  (Not.)

  It’s not fun watching your best friend wilt at the sight of your girlfriend. Or your girlfriend snarl at the girl you love.

  Again, it’s messed up.

  I know I have to break up with Gia. I know that. But it’s hard when you’re not in a fight.

  Still, once I have her alone, I’ll just tell her—not the truth, that’s just hurtful. I’ll give her that ‘It isn’t you, it’s me’ speech. Though really, it’s Jazz. But the thing is, it’s always been Jazz, so relationships give me whiplash. Always. Especially since the coma though. Because now it’s not the usual a girl giving me an ultimatum—my best friend or her. Gia isn’t even doing that. Because she knows what will happen. Now it’s just me—finally figuring it out on my own. It’s not all the other girls’ fault. It’s Jazz’s fault. She totally owns my heart. I just didn’t realize it until the coma. But now I see it, I freakin’ can’t live without her.

  What am I supposed to do with that?

  I mean, she has some sort of secret life going on. She’s here, she won’t tell me why. She had expensive perfume and jewelry on her bedroom dresser last night that she kept trying to hide from me. There’s definitely something up with her, but she won’t include me. Yeah, she wants me to be her Ally fill-in; her ‘best friend.’ But she keeps me at arm’s length. I can’t beg her to let me in. I want to beg her, but I can’t. It won’t do any good, and it will make me feel small.

  Only Jazz can make me feel small.

  Or giant.

  Actually, Jazz is the only girl that can make me feel.

  Hmmm, this is a weird thing to be figuring out. Not exactly a comfortable thing. And not exactly a good time to be figuring it out. I mean, Gia and Jazz look like they’re going to start clawing on each other and ripping each other’s hair out.

  I wince and brace myself for a fight.

  Gia gives me a withering look, like she knows I’d rather get hit by a truck than watch her and Jazz yell at each other. She dangles her practically empty glass in front of my face. “Would you get me another soda?”

  I cut a wary glance between the two of them. I’m more than a little hesitant to leave them alone together.

  I’m not really worried about Jazz fending for herself. She’s tough … but I’d recently seen her unconscious a bunch of times; so, I feel overly protective.

  But I know it’s dumb. Like I said, she’s tough. (She beat up boys on our block all through elementary school. It was a hobby.)

  I scrub a hand over my face, then slowly do my girlfriend’s bidding. I go fetch her a drink.

  But …

  As I’m coming back, they’re throwing their drinks on each other. I swear.

  Only, well, Gia’s glass was practically empty, and Jazz’s was full.

  However, Gia threw her drink first. So …

  Yeah, I keep the new drink out of Gia’s reach.

  Meanwhile, she’s throwing a fit about her dress. How Jazz ruined it.

  “Sorry,” Jazz scoffs. “Maybe next time resist throwing your drink at me. Just throw yourself at Luke.”

  I tilt my head at her words.

  Gia snarls at her, smoke coming out of her ears, “Shut up, troll!”

  I shake my head. “Hey. Jeez, both of you stop it.”

  Gia shoots me daggers with her eyes. “I’m going home.”

  She storms off. Both of us watching her go, I shoot Jazz a sideways glance. “You know, you make her mad flaunting it in her face that I’d choose you over her.”

  My heart slams against my chest as Jazz asks all choked-up like, “Would you?”

  I puff out a breath. “Well, not right now. Right now I have to chase after her—because you threw your drink on her.”

  I hear Jazz apologize, but I’m already heading for the door.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I know you want to break up with me,” Gia says after she finally lets me come into her house.

  She’s been crying and her eyes are all red. But she’s one of those girls that cry pretty. Okay, not going to lie, everything she does is pretty. (I’ll admit that, even though she just called me a bunch of names through the door a second ago.) (Unattractive names.)

  Most girls, when they cry hard they get all red and splotchy. Gia does too, but her green eyes turn even more green. And the red in her face just makes her more beautiful. But her words aren’t beautiful. Her words rip at my heart. ‘Cause she’s done a 180. She’s begging me not to break up with her.

  It makes my planned speech strangle in my throat and my arms come around her and my lips press against the top of her head. I can’t take this. Her pleading.

  “We fight a lot,” I tell her. But I say it in a whisper. In her ear.

  She nods in my chest. “I know.”

  “But—but,” her voice is all hitch-y, “It’s just because I like you so much. And—and you like Jazz too much.”

  I go still. I don’t know what to say to that.

  She goes on talking, and I listen, not sure if I should believe her. “But you and Jazz are just friends.” She stresses the word ‘friends’ to me. Just like I’m always trying to do. Like make it sink in. She goes on saying the same things that have been swimming around in my brain, only she says them with a lot more conviction.

  “I know you think Jazz is perfect for you,” she says. “You always seemed sort of under that strange delusion. But ever since she was in that car accident—in that coma—you are seriously delusional. You aren’t seeing things clearly anymore. Maybe because you thought she was going to die. It freaked you out and made you start making things up in your head. But you and Jazz—no way. You two are friends. ONLY friends. If you go for more with her you’re totally going to ruin what you have with her. Are you really willing jeopardize that?—all these years of friendship? Just to get to kiss her?—and for what?—a week? Two at the most? Isn’t that about a record for both of you? Neither of you stay friends with people once you break up with them. You both run from all your ex’s like you can’t get away fast enough. Do you really want Jazz running away from you?”

  The thought sends a chill through me.

  Gia notices my face go pale and goes on even more confidently, “Face it, Luke. I’m the longest romance you’ve ever had. You have to admit it—I get you. And I’m forgiving. I am. I get upset—but I’m forgiving. And … I’m a good kisser.” Her voice goes all soft and seductive as she says this and she tries to kiss me.

  I don’t know what to think. Is she right? Am I delusional? Neither me or Jaz
z have a good track record when it comes to relationships. (I mean, the romance kind.) Jazz and I have had a long, long perfect relationship together. But maybe it’s because we haven’t slipped and got tangled romantically.

  Plus, really, I’m not even sure Jazz is into me like that. We’ve known each other all our lives. I’m pretty sure she thinks of me like a brother…. Well, I used to think that. But the way she looks at me sometimes …

  Man, I don’t know what to think.

  I let Gia kiss me for a while. I’m all for us working out. To me, losing Jazz is terrifying … and she really doesn’t like to deal with ex’s.

  It would kill me if she ran from me.

  CHAPTER 20

  When I get home from Gia’s I pace around my house, confused and restless.

  Jazz isn’t home. The lights are all off at her house. Did she meet up with her mystery guy?

  Even if she did, is she thinking of me? (She threw her drink at Gia and seemed pretty bitter when she told Gia to throw herself at me—her boyfriend. What was that about?)

  Is our friendship crumbling?—or evolving?

  Man, I do not understand girls.

  I wince, but then go ahead and go for it. Totally turn into a girl. I put on old sappy music that reminds me of Jazz and look through old stuff we used to do together. There’s lots. We used to be on the same community baseball team and take karate lessons together, and there’s this old comic book we were working on right before Ally moved into town.

  I look through the book and laugh. We were making it about two robots that lived in an electronic store. It’s hilarious. (Well, anyway, it seemed like it to us at the time. Now, actually, it hurts my heart sort of. For some reason.)

  I put the comic book down, as I don’t actually like pain.

  On nostalgic impulse, I climb out my window, up on to my roof. I used to come up here all the time—with Jazz. We’d look up at the stars. Sometimes I’d want to hold her hand. But I never did. (She’d probably karate chop me.)

  As I’m lost in moody thoughts, suddenly Jazz is here. Beside me. She climbed up the tree. Just like old times.