Crushed (29 page)

I shake my head to indicate I’m not following her on this babbling track, either, but she sure is cute as she rambles on.

She sighs. “You know what I mean. Where the geeky girl with the glasses takes off her glasses at the end of the movie, and all of a sudden she’s gorgeous and gets the guy?”

“Sure,” I say. “Like Clark Kent.”

She digs her fingers into her hair and pulls. “No! I mean, kind of . . . just . . . never mind. You know, it doesn’t go this way in the romantic comedies. The girl doesn’t have to do so much explaining to the guy.”

To the guy. I’m the guy.

I want to fly. But then . . .

I take a step backward, my heart pounding again, half in elation, half in dread. “Chloe, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

She steps forward, and I put up a pleading hand, but she keeps coming until we’re toe to toe, nearly eye to eye since she’s wearing heels tonight.

“Don’t say whatever you’re going to say.”

Her warm blue eyes blaze into mine. “That I love you?”

My heart flips over in my chest before sinking to my feet. “Well, don’t.”

Her chin snaps up, and I watch as my words literally force her backward. Watch as the hurt makes her shudder.

“Chloe, listen to me,” I say, my hands finding her shoulders, my eyes begging her to understand. “Go to Devon. Tell him you made a mistake.”

“But I don’t want Devon. I want—”

“Damn it. Chloe, stop!”

Her eyes fill and I hate it.

I let go of her, my hands dropping. “You know my story, Chloe.”

“What story? The one where you had a crush on you buddy’s girlfriend? Yeah, it happens.”

I grit my teeth at her flippant dismissal and start to turn away, but she grabs my arm.

Then her hands are on my face, forcing me to look at her. “Michael, listen. I get it. Nobody’s ever loved you
first
. You’re tired of being second choice. Or nobody’s choice. I get it. Because nobody’s ever loved
me
first, either. But I’ve been thinking about this, and Michael . . . I don’t think it’s about who loves you first. It’s about who loves you
best
. And that’s
me.
”

Her voice is urgent now, tears on her cheeks, as she whispers. “
I
love you best. More than I love anyone. More than you’ve ever been loved.”

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

She swallows. Licks a tear from the corner of her mouth. “Okay?”

I shake my head, my throat aching as I sink my hands into her hair. But it’s smooth and silky and all wrong.

“No, Chloe. It’s
you
who doesn’t get it. I don’t even know who I am. I have nothing to give, so I can do nothing but take. And I won’t take from you. Because I’ll take too much. I will
crush
you, Chloe.”

“But—”

I drop my hands from her face like she’s burned me, because if I touch her much longer, I’ll pull her to me and take every bit of goodness and love she’s offering.

“Go to Devon, Chloe. Go to Devon, and let him love you, because I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” she asks.

I meet her eyes, letting my silence do the answering.

I watch as she draws herself up, wiping her tears way, straightening her shoulders. “I love you, Michael St. Claire. But this is a onetime offer. I’m done waiting for some guy to pull his head out of his ass. If you let me walk away, I will move on.”

My breath feels shallow now, my hands a little shaky.

But I do the only thing I can do. I stand silently.

I watch the light fade from her eyes.

And then I watch her walk away.

I watch until she goes back into the clubhouse. Back to her people. Back to Devon. Back to her life.

Numbly I open my car door and drop into the driver’s seat, staring blindly as I shut the door.

My eyes burn. “Jesus.” I swallow. “God
damn
it.”

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Letting her go was supposed to make it better. It was supposed to stave off the pain I’d felt when Olivia rejected me.

But I’ve never felt pain like this before.

Not ever.

I drop my head to the steering wheel.

I’ve never felt so alone in my life, and that’s saying something for a guy that’s been intentionally isolating himself for the past year.

I want Chloe. I want Chloe to hold me the way she did when I first met Tim Patterson. I want her to nod and make jokes the way she always does when she knows I need the mood lightened.

I want her to call me on my bullshit, to shine light where I’ve been an idiot . . .

I slowly lift my head.

Chloe’s words float back to me. Words from that day she found the picture in my nightstand drawer.

You’re in control of your own life, Michael. You get to decide.

She’s right. She’s so damn right.

Maybe I don’t have to be alone.

Then I pull out my phone and make the hardest call of my life.

Chapter 32

Chloe

My parents are pretty chill, as far as parents go. I’ve never seen them lose their shit.

But then . . .

Then
they found out that sister dearest kind of sort of tampered with our mail at the start of summer, and made our report cards from Davis “disappear.”

And . . .
eek
. Nobody noticed. Not until now.

For a couple weeks in June, I checked the mailbox every day, dying to know what Professor Aden thought of my final paper on FDR’s economic policies.

But it never came, and I guess I figured that things were just taking longer than usual, and then . . . I forgot.

Embarrassing.

But, I mean, I was sort of
busy
this summer, with life, and oh, who are we kidding? When best case is an A– and worst case is a B+ it’s hard to care
that
much, ya know? It’s not like it’s expulsion- or valedictorian-type stakes here.

But . . . my parents forgot, too.

And, honestly, they shouldn’t have.

Because they’re
parents
and they’re supposed to care about things like the fact that their pretty eldest daughter is entering a fifth year of school for
absolutely no good reason
and that her last semester may or may not have been so bad that she had to freaking steal her report card from the mailbox.

But it wasn’t them who noticed. It was me.

It took me up until last week when I started to think about school to realize they’d never come. I called the administration office. They’d said they’d resend.

And, um, let’s just say that today was judgment day.

I can’t tell what my parents are more pissed about: the fact that Kristin had two Ds, a C–, and an F or the fact that she tried to hide the evidence.

It’s a toss-up which one makes them scream louder.

I almost feel sorry for her.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m pissed at Kristin, too. She was smart enough to realize that one of our report cards going missing would have been more suspicious, so she took both.

But considering I’ve been listening to the echoing booms of my dad’s voice for about forty minutes now . . .

Yeah, I feel a little bad.

Even if she deserves it.

Oh, and for the record, I got a B+ average. C’est la vie.

And in case anyone’s wondering: Yes. Yes, I am prattling on about my report card and my witchy sister because it prevents me from having to think about
him
.

There’s a knock at my bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Kristin’s standing there, and for the first time in a really long time, she looks . . . awful. She’s tiny, as always, in itty-bitty shorts and a red tank, but her hair looks limp, her nose is red, her eyes are swollen.

I hug her.

Her return hug is weak, but ya know . . . baby steps.

She comes in and sits on my bed, wiggling in between my huge suitcase and an oversized duffel. “You’re all packed,” she says with a little laugh. “Figures.”

I shrug. I don’t tell her that I started packing three days ago in a desperate attempt to keep myself from remembering that I’d been brutally rejected in a parking lot.

“You want help with your stuff?” I ask.

Kristin’s notoriously a last-minute kind of girl. And I could use the distraction.

She sniffles, pressing the back of her hand to her nose and mouth for a second, her eyes on the floor. “I’m not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not going?” I move my duffel to the ground and sit beside her.

Another snotty snuffle. “Mom and Dad are really pissed.”

Well . . .
yeah
. But still, this is
major
. “They’re not letting you finish?”

“They said I’ve had my chance. And that they’re not paying for another year’s tuition when it’s ‘obvious’ I don’t care about school.”

My mouth is hanging open a little. Kristin has been pushing my parents around for twenty-something years. I can’t believe they’re putting their foot down in such a hard-ass way.

“So . . . what then? Are they kicking you out?”

“No,” she says, her voice small. “They said I can stay here so long as I get a job.”

Her voice is whiny. But also a little scared.

“But what about school?”

She stands, retrieving the box of tissues on my dresser before returning, and setting the box in her lap as she pulls one out. “They said if I decide school’s important to me that I can go to community college. Can you imagine?”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes at her snobbery. Barely. There is absolutely nothing wrong with community college, but I know precisely why my sister doesn’t want to go: Because to Kristin, college has only ever been about campus life, living in a bubble, and putting off the real world. She’s just taken the degree part for granted.

I play with the ends of my hair and try to think of the best thing to say. For once, I’m fresh out of pep talks or snarky comments or any kind of useful advice.

On one hand, I admire my parents for finally helping Kristin course-correct. On the other hand, it’s a little lame that they’ve pampered her for two decades and are all of a sudden ripping the rug out from under her.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Daddy says he can probably find me something at his company.”

Ah. So
that’s
their lifeline. Smart. This way they can keep an eye on her.

“Well, hey, that’s something,” I say.

She gives me a withering look. “Please. I’ll have no social life.”

I suck in my cheeks. “Well honestly, K . . . have you given much thought to the fact that you wouldn’t have had much of a life at Davis, either? All of your friends have graduated.”

Her face crumples, and I realize she
had
thought about that. No wonder she was so dang clingy to Devon.

“There are a few girls on the tennis team that I could have hung out with,” she says, blowing her nose again. “And you.”

I give her a look. “You barely paid attention to me the past three years. And you
hate
my friends.”

“I don’t hate them. They’re just weird.”

Her voice is so matter-of-fact that I have to laugh.

“Plus, you’re different now,” she says, looking me over.

“Skinnier, you mean.”

“Well, yeah. And you look good. Although I don’t know why you’re not straightening your hair more often. It looked so good that way.”

I ignore this.

“I think you’re looking at this all wrong,” I say, putting my arm around her. “You should totally
own
this. A chance to reinvent yourself. The gorgeous, newly single girl with a chic job in the city. Maybe you should save up some money. Get a place of your own.”

Grow up,
I silently add.

“I totally shouldn’t have broken up with Devon,” she says, her voice sulky. “If I’m not going to have a degree, I could use a soon-to-be-lawyer boyfriend right about now.”

“Hey,” I snap. “Don’t. Listen to yourself. You sound pathetic.”

Her mouth drops in outrage, but I don’t stop. “I’m serious, Kristy. This pampered princess thing worked really well for you in high school, but it’s getting old.”

I expect her to argue, but instead her mouth snaps shut and she merely glares.

I soften my tone. “Running back to Devon isn’t the answer.”

“You’re just saying that because you want him for yourself.”

It’s my turn for my mouth to drop open. Well. Shit. “So, um. You knew about that.”

She nods, but instead of looking angry, she looks . . . guilty.

“I guess I’ve always known.” Her voice is quiet. “I knew you liked him, even way back then. I knew it when I got him to ask me out.”

I swallow the sting. Because that’s all it is. A tiny sting. Not at all the rip-roaring pain that used to go hand in hand with the thought of Devon.

And because it doesn’t matter anymore, I take her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m over Devon.”

She squeezes my hand. “Because of Michael?”

Oh,
there’s
the rip-roaring pain.

I jerk my hand away.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

She studies my face. “You know, for the longest time I thought he was just using you. For amusement, or because he was desperate, or whatever.”

I give her a sour look, and say what’s been on my mind for . . . ever. “Kristin, don’t take this the wrong way, but you can seriously be a bitch.”

She laughs. “I know. But hear me out. I was watching him that night at the party, and he didn’t take his eyes off you.”

“It was probably my slutty dress,” I mutter, kicking at my duffel on the floor.

“My dress was sluttier than yours, and he didn’t look at me. Once.”

I smirk. “How’d that feel?”

“Um, now who’s being a bitch?”

I give her a wide smile in response.

She rolls her eyes, and then gets a faraway look on her face. “Can I ask you something?”

I nod.

Kristin bites her lip. “Remember when I went to Seattle for a couple weeks?”

“Um, it was like a month ago, so yeah.”

“Well . . . I know I did it to ‘get away,’ or whatever, and I thought I only needed a couple weeks. But now I’m kind of wondering if I shouldn’t get away for real. Like . . . move somewhere.”