Bright Before Sunrise (28 page)

I glare at her around the napkin, and she’s covering her mouth with both hands. Laughing. Or trying not to. But her eyes are shining with amusement and her cheeks are pink with the effort.

It cracks something in me. I want to pull her hands away from her face and see that smile. I grin at her. “You did that on purpose—but I guess I deserved it.”

She’s openly giggling now, adding spaces between words to catch her breath. “I swear. I didn’t. Promise.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you,” I say. “Napkins aren’t going
to cut it. Check the backseat. Is there anything back there?” I look away as she scampers over the console and probably flashes some serious thigh. The idea makes my blood pound. I shift and try to think of
anything
but the fact that she’s in my backseat.

She picks up my glove and a Frisbee. “Looks like you’re out of luck.”

“Figures.” Marcos had begged to help me wash my car last weekend. He’d manned the hose, Carly had been in charge of music and snacks, and Ana had shoved all the junk and clothing in the backseat into plastic grocery bags. Those bags are still sitting in the garage in Cross Pointe, pissing Paul off.

I swallow down the memory. The fact that I won’t have to worry about Marcos dropping his sponge in the dirt, then using it—gravel and all—to wash my car doors. And that I won’t get to play “expert” for Ana’s boy questions:
So, if a guy gets this funny look on his face every time you catch him looking at you, what does that mean?
There’s got to be a way I can keep them in my life, even if Carly and I are broken up.

“Um, you could take off your shirt?”

Her voice cuts right through the knot in my stomach. “What?”

I love that she’s blushing and studying her absurd green nails when she clarifies. “You’ve got a shirt on under your polo. What if you used that?”

“Brighton I-don’t-know-your-middle-name Waterford, are you asking me to
strip
?” It’s so good to laugh that I do for longer than I should. And when she stops blushing and joins in, I have to plant my feet to keep myself from going to her.

And I fail at it. I’m opening the back door before my brain’s caught on to what my fingers are doing. “I’m scandalized,” I tease, offering her a hand and helping her out. Then, while she’s still standing that close, I pull off both shirts. When I feel her eyes on me, I’m grateful I haven’t stopped working out just because I quit baseball.

“Here, hold this,” I say, handing her my polo. Then, with a little bit of swagger, I take the two steps to reach the windshield and attack the lip gloss. I hope she’s admiring me the way I admired her. I flex a bit as I lean farther.

“Jonah?”

It might be wishful thinking, but I think she sounds a little breathless. I grin. “Yes?”

“Your phone’s about to fall out of your pocket.”

“Oh. Right. Here, keep it safe for me.” I toss it to her, and she
barely
catches it. I resume my show. The shirt is working. This should only be another minute and then—

“Um, you have a missed call. And a voice mail …” She sighs. “From Carly.”

I freeze, and something in my face or posture, or something in her, deflates so that the moment is flattened, all humor gone.

“I think that’s almost good enough to get us home, don’t you?” She hands me my shirt and the phone. “I’m just going to wait in the car.”

I pull on my clean shirt and curse. I attack the windshield with one hand while thumbing my phone to voice mail with the other. I don’t want to listen to Carly yell right now. Or whine. Or whatever she’s going to say in the voice mail—though judging by the nice message she left on my car, it’s not going to be fun.

I don’t want to play it. But I don’t want Brighton to think I’m scared of listening. And I don’t want either of us to be thinking about it the rest of the night. I press the button, grit my teeth, and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hi … So, if you haven’t seen your car yet, I’m sorry. And if you have, I’m still sorry. I didn’t do it, Sasha and Maya did. But I didn’t stop them either. I probably should have
.

She’s using her
I’m-cute
voice, but I’m not amused. Then she sighs, low and long.

“Also, can you tell Brighton I’m sorry? I didn’t know that Digg was spiking her drink, but I should’ve known he was doing
something.
I should’ve warned her. Not that she needed me to—she handled Daniel just fine on her own
.

Her voice trembles a bit and I can picture her shutting her eyes, trying to pull herself together.

“That didn’t stop you from flying to her rescue … But whatever. I’m sorry about the car. I know we should probably talk at some point, but can you wait till I’m ready to call you? This is … it’s just
hard,
Jonah
.”

34
 
 
Brighton
 
 
1:08 A.M.

Jonah gets in the car wearing a face I’ve become quite familiar with. It means this-subject-is-closed and includes him pressing his lips together, swallowing, and looking away. I let it go. It’s none of my business whether he and Carly are together or broken up, or what she said in her message.

I’m glad I had a minute in the car by myself. I need to be less pathetic. He’s rejected me tonight—more than once—but the second he pulled off his shirt, I was all but drooling and tilting my head to get a better angle.

I just wish I knew what he was thinking. I know him so much better than I did a few hours ago—he knows me better than people who’ve been in my life for years—but I don’t
know
him yet. I don’t know if he’s angry or hurting or what is going on behind those brown eyes that haven’t looked at me once since he sat down and buckled up.

I hope I get the chance to, if not tonight then tomorrow or—

No.

Not tomorrow. I lean against the window, dizzy with the knowledge that I forgot what tomorrow was. What today is, since it’s now after one.

I’ve spent a whole day—from the moment my alarm clock buzzed at 5:25 a.m.—wishing I could go back to bed. I wanted to sleep straight through Saturday and emerge unbroken on Sunday. But now, with less than an hour between me and my covers, it seems hard to let this night go. There’s not enough time. Things have shifted—Jonah’s ideas of me, mine of him, mine of me—and I’m not ready for tonight to end.

There was
almost
a moment out there where—I swallow and clench my fists—where I let my imagination get away from me.

He turns the key in the ignition and eases the car away from the curb. This time as we wind through the streets of Hamilton, I don’t look for the mismatch between buildings; instead, I wonder if they have any connection to him. Was that his orthodontist? Does he have friends who live in those condos? Did he date anyone who grew up on this street? Or wipe out on his bike on these sidewalks?

“Did you have braces?” I ask.

“Where’d that come from?” He turns and flashes his teeth at me—perfect, straight. “Three years. I hated them.”

“Me too.” Though, really, I didn’t. I felt so grown-up when I got them on. Evy had braces already, like most of her friends and a lot of mine too. It was like joining a club. I loved color coordinating the bands to the holidays. I loved the routine of it, the lists of rules about what to eat, what not to eat. I basked in the monthly praise from my orthodontist about how I was his favorite patient because I kept my braces so clean.

I’d lied to Jonah. And it had come out as easy as breathing. Why? Was he going to think less of me if he knew I proudly brushed my teeth every day after lunch in middle school? He might tease me, but he wouldn’t care. And it’s not like he’s now feeling all chummy because of our shared loathing for orthodontics.

“That’s not true.”

“What isn’t?” He gives me a confused look as he puts on his blinker to turn on to the highway.

“About hating my braces. And you know what else? I’m not nice.”

“Oh-kay?”

I’m already blushing, and I want to let this go. Or say “just kidding” and push things back toward normal, but I can’t. “I just realized—I’m not nice. I may act nice, but that doesn’t make
me
nice. I only behave like that because I want the reaction—I want people to like me.” I press both fists to my forehead, shut my eyes, and try to explain. “I’m so messed up—I don’t know how to begin thinking about who I
am
versus how I
act
.”

Jonah takes a hand off the wheel and rubs at his temples. “Brighton, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but honestly, I’m too tired to talk about this. I don’t have any answers. Remember,
my
mom was the one with the library of my-teen’s-a-screwup books—including the one your dad wrote. I can’t fix you. But I don’t really think you’re messed up.”

I’d leaned forward on my seat, expecting another dose of his harsh honesty, but now I slump back, defeated. “You’re right—if I don’t understand me, why would you?”

“I will say this—I do think you’re nice.”

“Just not always sincere.”

“You said it, not me.”

I fold my arms across my chest and nod. That’s another truth to add to tonight’s unmasking. But there’s a bigger question that I’m wrestling with now. The why of it all. Why do I care so much what Jonah thinks? Why do I want to hear his opinion? Why do I
need
his approval?

I settle back against the seat, pulling my curls out of the way and resting my cheek on the faux leather so I can watch his profile. It’s a comfortable silence in the car, not one to be filled with babble or pointless questions. Jonah has some sort of instrumental electronic music playing at a low volume. I try to find patterns in the musical loops, and my eyelids start to grow heavy. Sleep wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. It’s calm here, safe, and comfortable. I yawn and let my eyes close. Jonah will wake me. I want Jonah to wake me, want his face to hover over mine as he gives my shoulder a soft shake. Says my name.

I sit up so suddenly that he startles and the car gives a small jerk to the right before he corrects it. “What? You okay?”

But I can’t tell him what. So I nod and stare out the window at blurring highway signs with eyes that are now wideawake. The “what,” the latest and hopefully last revelation I’ll have tonight is simple: I like him.

Like
him, like him. And not only do I not know how he feels, I don’t even know if he’s available.

“Jonah? Can I ask you a question?”

He rolls his shoulders back. It seems an incredibly long time before he answers. “That never comes before a question
I want to answer. And we’ve been doing this all night—this twisted version of Truth or Dare. Can we stop now?”

I watch the highway markers count down the distance. Cross Pointe is the next exit. Less than four miles. It’s probably for the best. I should get home and check on Mom and Evy. I shouldn’t keep pushing this issue or asking for answers that Jonah clearly doesn’t want to give. I mean, even if he’s single, what am I going to do, throw myself at him?

“Fine. What’s your question?”

“It’s none of my business, but how did things go with Carly? Did she listen? Did you guys patch things up? I mean, the windshield thing doesn’t really look that great … but she called you.” I speak the words in a tumble and then hold my breath while waiting for his answer. Is it wrong to wish they’re still broken up? Talk about not being nice—who wants the person they like to be in pain?

Apparently, me.

He brakes a little too suddenly for the Cross Pointe exit and waits until we reach Main Street to answer: “We’re done. Carly and me.”

I turn toward the window so he can’t see my smile. “I’m sorry.”

Another lie—but I’m not confessing it this time.

“I’m not. Can we be finished with questions now?”

I start to nod, then change my mind. “Nope.”

He turns off the music. “Nope?”

He’s single. He’s probably not interested, but he is single. And I’ve put him through so much tonight—granted he’s given me just as many trials, but I want to do something
for
him. And I’ve come up with the perfect idea.

“You owe me a dare. You dared me to go through the sprinkler. I did, so it’s only fair. Now make a left here.”