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“Eight times,” her voice breaks through the silence. “Eight times is how many times we saw each other. It doesn’t surprise me that you don’t remember.”
“There’s no way. I would remember that.”
“Really? Remember when we were talking about Hardin and how I didn’t know him? I kept hoping you would remember. I was there when he slammed you against the wall at your parents’ house. I remember when he raised his fist to you but he couldn’t hit you because he loved you. I remember sitting at your kitchen table a few days before that and you were talking to me about college and how you hope Tessa got into NYU. I remember the blue of your shirt and the honey flakes in your eyes. I remember the way you smelled like syrup and blushed when your mom licked her finger and wiped your cheek. I remember every detail—and you know why?”
I’m stunned into silence.
“Ask me why!” she demands.
“Why?” The word is a pitiful sound from an idiot’s mouth.
“Because I was paying attention. I’ve always paid attention to everything around you. The sweet and sexy, sort-of-dorky boy who was in love with a girl who didn’t love him back. I memorized the way your eyes close when you drink good coffee, and I loved cooking with your mom and hearing you and your stepdad cheering at some stupid sport on TV. I thought”—she pauses and looks around the room before zeroing back in on me—“well, I had half a thought that you were paying attention, too, but you weren’t. I was nothing but a distraction from Dakota, who is a freaking bitch, by the way.”
“She’s not a bitch,” my idiot mouth says.
Nora’s eyes widen. “All of that . . .” Her eyes close and open slowly. “I say all of that, and all you can do is defend Dakota? You don’t even know her like you think you do. She’s been spreading her legs for every guy who even smiles at her since she moved here, and you’re so obsessed with her that you don’t even try to see how awful she is.”
Her words hit me and my heart drops. Too many thoughts are going through my head to process anything that’s been said in the last five minutes.
“She . . . she wouldn’t do that,” I mumble.
Nora sighs. She shakes her head with angry pity. I watch as she walks to the door and pushes her feet into her sneakers. She doesn’t speak, and I can’t find words for her.
I stand in the middle of my living room and watch her walk out of my apartment. If this were a movie, I would run after her and explain myself. I would be brave and find words to ease her pain and frustration.
But life isn’t a movie, and I’m not brave.
