The Fine Art of Pretending (18 page)

“Might as well keep the winning streak alive,” I say. She looks up, the red and blue lights from the machine lighting up her wide eyes, and I lift the box of weights. “I have to bring these back, but let’s see how that beginner’s luck holds up against a bunch of zombies.”

Aly laughs. “Challenge accepted.”

She plops the quarters in the machine, and prerecorded screams echo behind me. I stroll up to the counter, nodding at the purple-haired guy kicked back on a stool, fingers flying over his cell phone. His eyes shift to the box of weights when I set them on the counter, then back down again to his hands.

“Do you mind?” I ask, drumming my debit card on the counter. “I’m kinda on a date here.”

The guy sighs and pockets his phone, then takes his sweet-ass time ringing me up. By the time I walk back to where I left Aly, I expect to find her knee-deep in zombie bodies.

Instead, I find another body.

A polo-shirt-wearing guy’s body, leaning over her with his arms caging her on either side of the machine.

Polo-Boy’s head looms over hers, his mouth entirely too close. He lifts his hand and skims it down Aly’s arm. She lurches and glances over, widening her eyes at me in a silent plea.

Long strides cover the distance between us, the world tinted red. I grab the fabric of the guy’s shirt and force him around. “Get your hands off her.”

Polo-Boy looks me over. “Just keeping the girl company.” He stands up tall and, despite being several inches shorter than me, sneers dismissively. “You shouldn’t leave pretty little things like this alone. You never know who might come around to steal her.”

Just keep talking, asshole
.

My hands clench at my sides. Deep breaths rack my chest. The guy lifts his chin and laughs, and my entire body tenses as I rear back, ready to strike.

A soft hand grabs my fist. “Brandon, leave it alone.” I drag my gaze away from his and glance down into Aly’s frightened eyes. “Please, let’s just go eat.” She steps between us and lowers her voice. “Don’t let this jerk ruin our pretend date, okay?”

Pretend
.

More than the gentle pleading in her voice, the seemingly innocuous word strips me of all fight. I blink and stare down at my hand.
What the hell am I doing?

All around us, people are watching, hoping for a show. Polo-Boy is smiling, acting like it’s just another Saturday night. Like he does this all the time. But I don’t.

I mean, sure, I’ve gotten into a few fights in my life, but never at a place like this. Never with a complete stranger. And
never
over a girl.

Aly laces her arm around mine and tugs gently. I nod, slowly and wordlessly, and walk away.

Behind us, Polo-Boy snickers.

“What an asshat,” Aly mutters. “Thank you for that.”

I give her a tight-lipped smile. She shoots me sideways glances as we walk to the dim restaurant section lit up by twinkle lights. I nod at a waitress in a fluorescent teal shirt, and she asks, “Two?”

“Yes, please,” Aly answers, a little too loudly.

The girl grabs a couple sets of rolled utensils and old, peeling menus and leads us to a back booth. We pass a middle-aged couple and a family of four, but other than that, the restaurant is empty. I drop onto a vinyl bench seat that smells strongly of bacon.

“I don’t know why,” Aly says, sliding in across from me, “but I’m craving a bacon cheeseburger.” Her smile is so bright it’s like she swallowed a light bulb. Obviously, my caveman behavior freaked her the hell out—not exactly the feeling I was going for tonight.

I give her the chuckle she’s clearly looking for, wishing I could explain what happened back there. Wishing I understood it myself. Instead, my gaze drops to the graffiti’d tabletop.

Names proclaiming forever love have been carved into the thick wood. I glance back at Aly absently playing with her hair, and my stomach convulses, almost as if Polo-Boy had snuck back and landed a sucker punch to my gut.

The waitress brings us two waters, saying she’ll be right back for our order, and I snatch my glass, gulping it in three long swallows. Crunching on the ice, I curse myself for not noticing the signs. I’ve never let myself fall for a girl before, but I’ve had more than enough experience watching Drew.

This is bad.

Aly closes her menu and beams at me. “I’ve decided. Bacon cheeseburger it is. What do you want?”

What do I want? To go back in time and stop your stupid makeover. To stop the urge to put Polo-Boy’s head through a wall. To stop fantasizing about scooping you up, dragging you back to my truck, and kissing you until you can’t see straight
.

“Chicken wings,” I tell her.

The waitress appears again, miraculously with another water, and takes our order. It can’t come quick enough. My empty stomach churns, and my wired body thrums on the cracked vinyl seat. All the tension and awkwardness of the previous week is back and then some.

I force a smile for Aly and continue chomping on a mouthful of ice, shattering it into tiny pieces. Working my jaw back and forth, I will myself to get over it. To act like nothing has changed. As far as Aly is concerned, it hasn’t. She doesn’t know how badly I screwed things up tonight.

And she never will.

ALY
BRANDON’S TRUCK, 11:15 p.m
.

Brandon
speeds down McAllister Drive, the glowing neon lights from the passing fast food restaurants casting an eerie glow on his intent expression. He grew quiet during dinner and hasn’t spoken more than a handful of words in a row since, but tonight has still been one of the best nights of my life. Certainly, the best date. There’s no denying it anymore; my crush is back full force.

And that’s a problem.

Three years ago, Brandon told me he doesn’t do relationships. He’s proven that every day since with the countless girls he has dated. A night of fun and defending my honor isn’t going to change that, as much as I may wish otherwise. He dates
Casuals
, and while that is exactly what I’m trying to become, I can’t casually hook up with Brandon. He means too much.
It
would mean too much. And there would be no going back when it ends.

It’s not as if my feelings even matter. The only reason we went out tonight is because of my plan to get Justin’s attention. And it’s working. My confusion between fact and fiction kept me preoccupied this past week, but I haven’t missed the glances he’s been casting in my direction. Operation Sex Appeal is trucking along right on schedule, and I didn’t even have to annihilate Lauren Hays…as if I had any clue how to do that anyway. They called it quits all on their own. I don’t know if it’s because Justin wised up or if a week is the norm for a
Casual
hookup, but he’s a free agent again. If I lose focus now, it will be as if the last two weeks were for nothing. Especially since the boy who has me discombobulated doesn’t want me anyway.

I’ve gotten over a crush on Brandon in the past. I can do it again.

The crush-in-question glances at me before turning back to the road. We drive down the quiet, tree-lined street of my neighborhood in silence. I don’t know what to say to fix this. I don’t even know what happened or if it’s all just in my head. One minute everything seemed great—we were joking and laughing—and the next it was like he threw a wall up between us.

His truck rumbles into my driveway, and without hesitation, Brandon hops out. He comes around to my side, opening and leaving his hand on the door.

The tension between us practically crackles.

“Want to come in?” I ask. “I’m sure I can hustle up some brownies or something. Maybe we can have a rematch on Wii?”

I realize him staying will mess with the whole “getting over the crush thing again,” but I don’t want him to leave. I want the joking and laughter back. I want the flirtation.

Brandon scuffs the toe of his boot on the ground. “Nah, it’s getting late. Long day, you know?”

“Sure, yeah,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Absolutely.” It
has
been a long day. Practice, our first rec match, and then work for us both. But if he wanted, I’d easily find the energy to hang out.

Especially if hanging out involved
making
out.

Whisking away that notion, as if that would ever happen again, I scoot to the edge of the seat. But I hesitate to move any further. With Brandon standing right in front of me, we are at eye-level. Kiss-level. That whisked-away notion comes right back as the memory of our dared kiss plays in my mind. The taste of the forbidden fruit. But he makes no move to lean in.

“Well, thanks again for tonight. I had a wonderful time.”

Brandon nods. “Me, too.”

I take his hand as he helps me down, and a zing runs up my arm. His other hand steadies me once my feet touch the ground, and a glutton for punishment, I lift my head, waiting for him to inch toward me, to pull me closer. My teeth bite into my lower lip as I search his face for any clue about how he is feeling.

He simply stares back, a trace of a smile on his full lips.

“Goodnight, Aly.” His low, silky voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I’ll call you later.”

I mumble a goodbye, barely hiding my sigh of disappointment. He closes the passenger door, and I begin the slow trek up the red-brick path leading to my front door. I let myself in, knowing he won’t drive away until I do, and watch him back away through the white wisp of my curtain. Then I sink against the hardwood.

I’m in so much trouble
.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27TH

5 weeks and 1 day until Homecoming

BRANDON
BRANDON’S TRUCK, 7:15 p.m
.