Cherry (15 page)

“I feel like I'm inside of your head right now,” he said.

Zoe hoped that wasn't true. Her head felt like a giant jumble. There may have been a lot happening on her wall, too, but at least the layout was meticulous and the composition was balanced and everything was more or less color coordinated and, finally, and probably most important, everything was stuck in place and couldn't move. In real life the thoughts in Zoe's head would not stop moving. Ever. They were jumping from Dylan and his wandering eyes and the fact that he was currently sitting on the edge of her bed, to Austin and his kissable lips and the fact that he put a hickey on her neck last night, to her hair and its constant frizz and the fact that right now she couldn't stop herself from thinking every thought she'd ever had over and over again . . .

“Nice scarf,” Dylan said, noticing Zoe's accessory.

“Yeah . . . ,” Zoe said, pulling it off.

“Oh shit.” Dylan smirked, getting a good look at the hickey.

Zoe had texted him about it, but the visual was even more impressive. “Too bad it's purple and not red,” she said. “It would blend right in with my face.”

“
Surprisingly, your redness is mostly in check right now,” Dylan admitted.

“Good,” Zoe said as she sat down in her desk chair, attempting to get comfortable. Dylan certainly was. Now he was sitting on her bed and leaning back against all of her pillows.

“Is it weird that I feel like you've been here so many times before?” Zoe asked, knowing that it wasn't actually all that weird but trying to find a way to make more conversation.

Their silences felt far more natural on the phone.

“Not weird at all. I probably should've, but it's nice to see where the magic actually happens. Now I don't have to imagine.”

If they'd been on the phone, Zoe would've pressed him about the details of his imagination, forcing him to let her deeper inside his head. She could say almost anything to Dylan on the phone, but now, in person, it just seemed like too much. It was almost as if it were too real. It wasn't as if what happened on the phone
wasn't
real, but the distance between them and the lack of visuals made it all seem safer somehow.

After another mostly awkward silence Dylan finally stopped stalling and pulled a CD out of his jacket pocket. “I made this to commemorate your big date night. It's a mix CD,” he added, as if he were worried Zoe wouldn't know what it was. “It's a little old school, but there's this whole stack of them in my brother's room from when he used to DJ, and I figured it was more substantial than just sending you a playlist. Also, I had to see the hickey for myself.”
Dylan handed Zoe the CD. On the front, in blue Sharpie, he had written
ZOE GOT SOME
. He'd also drawn a ­little awkward smiley face with squiggles around it. “That's your hair,” he explained.

“Thanks,” Zoe laughed. She was touched and also a ­little bit overwhelmed by the sweetness of the gesture.

“I, um . . . ,” Dylan started. Zoe waited for him to find the right words. “I just want you to know that I'm really happy for you. You know, and Austin.”

Zoe looked up, catching Dylan's eyes. He really did look genuinely happy for her—as he should be. But still, Zoe felt like there was something more he wasn't saying. It felt like there was a “but” missing from the “I'm happy” part of his statement . . .
but
Zoe couldn't prove that, and Dylan certainly wasn't going to just come out and say it, so that seemed like the end of the conversation right there.

“Well,” Dylan said after a few moments, “I should probably get going before your dad notices we didn't actually have any homework to do.”

“He's harmless, but yeah, that's probably a good idea . . .”

“I'm sure he's on high alert with all the boys who've been hanging around these days.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean . . .”

Yes. Zoe knew exactly what he meant. In the past ­couple of weeks, both Austin and Dylan had shown up on her doorstep. Both of them had nervously rung the doorbell. Both had given her dad an awkward handshake. But only Dylan had gotten an invitation upstairs. And only Dylan had gotten to sit on her bed. Partially because he didn't ask
for permission, but mostly it was because Zoe knew there was no chance of anything happening between her and Dylan. But with Austin . . .
Ohmigod.
Last night they'd been sitting in the middle of a crowded movie theater, and Zoe still ended up with the world's largest, purple-est hickey on her neck. She couldn't even fully imagine what might've happened if she and Austin had been on a bed instead . . .

“What?” Dylan asked, seeing Zoe's smile. “Thinking about your boyfriend?”

She was. And Dylan already knew that she was. If they'd been on the phone, Zoe would've been able to ask him if he was jealous. Dylan probably would've laughed and said no and then made some stupid comment about how many more boyfriends she would need to have—four? five?—in order to even the score between them.

But they weren't on the phone.

They were still in real life. In Zoe's bedroom. Sitting eight feet apart. And Zoe could see Dylan's face. And the look in his eyes. And she could see that even though he was her best guy friend, and even though he had shown up with a thoughtful present in order to celebrate her first hickey with her first real boyfriend, and even though he was clearly doing everything he could
not
to be jealous . . .

. . . Zoe had a pretty strong feeling that he most certainly was.

She could see it all over his face—and she couldn't help but like it.

ALEX
didn't know exactly how many boys she had made out with.

She suspected it might be approaching triple digits, but she wasn't sure. What she did know for sure was that she could count on one hand the number of boys she'd gone out on a real, honest, he-makes-a-plan-and-picks-you-up kind of date with.

Alex tried not to make a big deal about too many things, but tonight's date with Oliver was certainly a bigger deal than her normal Friday night.

In the past hour and a half, she had pretty much tried on every piece of clothing in her entire closet. Now, every inch of her boring, beige carpet was covered with all of the bright or black or flirty clothes she owned. She was annoyed at herself for spending so much time and energy trying to pick out an outfit, but she wanted to get this right. She wanted to send the right signals, and she knew her
outfit was an important place to start. She wanted to wear something not too serious or dressy. Something with the perfect amount of cleavage right in that sweet spot where her shirt was low enough to see more-boobs-than-not, but still high enough that the view of said boobs might just be a happy accident. The point was to try as hard as possible to look as good as possible while also looking like you didn't try at all.

But all of that was way easier said than done, which was why all of her clothes were sitting on the floor of her bedroom.

“Way to make a mess,” Max said as he walked in without knocking.

“Hello to you, too . . .”

“Where are you going?”

“Minigolfing.”

“Cool.” Max pushed a couple of Alex's skirts onto the floor, making enough room for him to sit down in Alex's rolling desk chair.

“Excuse me,” she said, laughing.

“It's too much,” he said simply.

Alex knew that Max was literally talking about all of the clothes, but, because he always talked literally like that, it also seemed like he was talking about how much time and energy she had been wasting trying everything on—and all the obsessing and overanalyzing. She agreed that it was too much too, but she still needed to make a decision about what to wear. Showing up to the date naked definitely wasn't going to send the right signal.

“Final question:
This one or this one?” Alex held up two options.

“I dunno.” Max shrugged.

“Can you please pretend to care?”

“No,” Max said sincerely.

“Okay, fine. Thanks for nothing.” Alex laughed.

“You're welcome.” Max laughed back.

Alex wasn't sure if Max understood
why
she was laughing, but she loved when they laughed together. It made her feel a strong connection to him. And she appreciated the brotherly reminder that Oliver probably wouldn't really care what she was wearing either. He would be able to pretend that he cared better than Max could, but still.

Alex finally settled on a white crop top and a blue flannel shirt. It made her feel cute, but it was also comfortable, too. She didn't want to come on too strong. She wore her hair up in a casual high ponytail and wore extra lip gloss. Alex felt really good about her outfit and the way she felt in it and the purposefully mixed signals it might be sending. She snapped a picture of herself in her full-length mirror and sent it to The Chat.

Please tell me that's a sexie
, Emma texted back quickly.

Ha
, Alex responded.
Not even close
.

About an hour later Alex and Oliver found themselves on a minigolf course in Sherman Oaks, in the midst of a heated battle. Alex was impressed with Oliver's choice of date location. The golfing provided enough activity to fill the quiet spaces in their conversation, but also left plenty of room for talking and flirting and competing too. Unsurprisingly—
but true to form—Alex and Oliver were both taking the game far too seriously, doing everything they could to win.

They were all tied up going into the second-to-last hole.

Alex took a few practice swings before hitting her ball under a bridge and watching it land about two feet from the hole. Alex tapped the ball into the hole for an impressive score of two.

“Nicely done . . . ,” Oliver said. Alex got the feeling there was something he wasn't telling her. She wanted to ask what it was, but she held her tongue. Oliver also took a couple of practice swings, but then, instead of hitting his ball under the bridge like Alex just had, he sent it rolling through a seemingly hidden passageway at the bottom of a stone covered wall. This secret shortcut allowed his golf ball to roll
directly
into the hole for an automatic hole in one.

“Wow,” Alex said, feeling dumb. “Way to make me look bad.”

“Only on the scorecard,” he said, flirting.

“Only on the . . . Did you really just say that out loud?
Only on the scorecard
?”

“I did.”

“Okay, cool. Just checking. I think I just also heard you say it to every other girl you've ever brought to this golf course, but I wanted to make sure.”

Oliver shook his head, but he didn't take his eyes off of Alex.

He had a Mona Lisa smile of his own.

A few minutes later, Oliver ended up winning the
minigolf match by two strokes, but he didn't gloat. “Gotta act like you've been there before,” he said.

“You mean like you've been on this date? 'Cause,
clearly
,” Alex teased.

“I mean in the
winner's circle
,” Oliver said as they dug into burgers and fries and chocolate shakes. They shared a booth at the diner, which was connected to the golf course and nearby arcade. “I promise I don't get around any more than you,” Oliver insisted.

“Ouch . . . and here I thought things were going so well.”

“Oh, like you haven't kissed half the guys on my team?”

“You know I've only kissed
two
of the guys on your team . . .”

“And Trevor Morgan,” Oliver added, somehow knowing Alex had forgotten about him.

“Right. Okay.
Three
of your boys, but that doesn't mean—”

“I know,” Oliver interrupted. “I'm trying to say you don't have to explain it to me. I know what it's like . . .”
To be mislabeled
.
To be called a slut. To have everyone jump to their own conclusions about you all the time
, Alex thought as Oliver searched for the right way to complete his sentence. “ . . . to be able to kiss anyone you want,” he said finally.

“You know, it's those sorts of comments that make other people think you're an ass.”

“Luckily, I don't care what ‘other people' think,” Oliver said in a way that made Alex actually believe him. “I'm here with you, so.”

“Well. I
also
think you'
re an ass, so . . . ,” Alex said without missing a beat.

Oliver laughed. “I know you wouldn't be here with me if you didn't like me at least a little bit. And
I
wouldn't be here if I wasn't interested in kissing you.”

“Right. I figured that had to be the reason.”

“It's not the
only
reason.”

“It's fine. We've already clarified that you can kiss anyone you want . . .”

“I can. But that doesn't mean I don't think kissing's a big deal.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“It's true,” Oliver said. It took a lot of self-control for Alex
not
to roll her eyes. “If there's something you're not going to believe, it's that I think that kissing is actually a bigger deal than having sex,” Oliver added.

Alex couldn't stop herself from letting out a quick, loud, snort-filled laugh.

“I'm serious,” he insisted.

“So then you've slept with more people than you've kissed?”

“Hell no. But I swear I haven't slept with as many people as you think. Whatever number you're thinking, I promise my real one is less.
Way
less, probably. Everyone assumes about me, too . . .” Alex shook her head slowly. “What? You don't believe me?”