“It’s funny,” Beck went on. He took the handkerchief from my limp fingers, folded it into a small square, and gently wiped at my undereyes. At the makeup I’d smudged. “You’re not jealous.”
“What?”
“Of Carter and Lydia. It isn’t jealousy you’re feeling.” He was focused on his soft task, gaze not straying. It felt too much like how he’d done when we were little, wiping away the dirt from my fingers. “You’re not the jealous type.”
Maybe it hadn’t been jealousy in the traditional sense. I hadn’t looked at the two of them and felt enraged, but morealarmed. It was close enough to jealousy that it made Beck’s superior gaze confusing. “You don’t know me,” I told him for the millionth time.
Beck lowered the handkerchief. “We were close before.”
“You never let me get close.”
Something in Beck’s eyes flashed, like I’d hit him somewhere tender. I wondered if he realized it’d been a bruise-like spot for me to touch, too.
I became all too aware of the small closet around us. The walls were lined with unused coat hooks and hangers, and there was a large built-in near the back corner, with shelves that were empty. I’d have to brush past him to get out, but I didn’t move. Later, I’d tell myself it was because I wasn’t thinking, not because I couldn’t tear myself away.
“But that didn’t stop you,” Beck said finally, his low tone almost vibrating in his throat. “You followed me around, anyway.”
I wondered what Beck saw when he looked at me. Did he see who I was now, or did he see me as an annoying little kid who interrupted his peaceful time with the stars? Did he see the confident seventeen-year-old, or did he see the little fourteen-year-old lighting flowers on fire beside a pretty boy she could never have?
Who did I see when I looked at Beck? Blond hair, cutting eyes, a smirking mouth that held no humor. That was Beckham Jennings. That had always been Beckham Jennings, but I’d been the one who’d gotten a glimpse at the gentleness that lay underneath.
And I’d cut that gentleness to shreds.
“I’m sure you wished I hadn’t,” I said, but the words came out softer, closer to a whisper. “I’m sure you’ve wished a million times over that I’d just left you alone.”
“Is that what you thinkI’vewished?” Beck tilted his head. “Or what you’ve wished?”
Ihadwished it, many times. That I would’ve squashed the crush on Beck the moment it’d formed. But I’d also wished other things—that Beck had stayed in Addison. That I’d seen him at more than just Alderton-Du Ponte events. That we’d had a chance.
My heart ached now. “I’d been bored,” I said finally, clearly, as if they didn’t feel like rocks scraping their way up my throat. “A kid with nothing to do will follow around the boy she thought was the most handsome.”
“Is that right?”
“Neither one of us can amuse the other, it seems.” I stared him down in the tight space, willing him to believeme. Willing myself to believe it. “It’s time for us to find new toys.”
Beck slid his hands into his pockets. “Don’t wanna.”
And that was all he said. Like an actual child. “Gosh, you areso?—”
“You still like me.” Beck’s voice dripped confidence. “You like me following you around. You like me being your toy.”
“I donot?—”
“Why else would you have stepped in front of Mrs. Johnson’s cup for me?” Beck took a step toward me, and I couldn’t help but think about the chess game we’d played together, his knight sliding in and stealing my queen. His leg finding mine beneath the table. “You still like me.”
Every sensible part of me knew I should leave. But my body had gone traitor in the tight dark of the closet. “I—I wasn’t thinking.”
Beck’s eyes dipped to my hand before he wrapped his fingers around it, warm and certain, and every thought in my head scattered. “No,” he murmured. “You were.”
The softness of it was worse than if he’d laughed. Worse than if he’d mocked me. I could’ve fought mocking. I could’ve fought mean. But this—this low, knowing gentleness—slid beneath every defense I had left.
“Be honest,” he went on, his fingers tracing mine. “Do you still spell like you used to?”
I stared up at him, holding perfectly still, forcing my hand to be limp in his light grip. I would not give him a reaction. I would not let him see me shaken. “Yes.”
“Spell something for me,” he mused as the memory popped up. “Spell insufferable.”
The words tumbled from my lips like a compulsion. “I-N-S-U-F-F-E-R-A-B-L-E.”
