Page 118 of The Cheerleader

I watch Bryan break eye contact with Liz first, ending their connection like a snap. Even I feel it, and I see an almost imperceptible wince touch Liz’s face, a quiver in her ever-present smile.

“See you later. I have no idea how long we’ll be, depending on the line at Irma’s.”

I smile and wave at her, and she leaves, almost reluctantly, glancing one last time at Bryan’s head bent over the paper as he writes something.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and plop into my seat next to Bryan.

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.”

Bryan doesn’t comment. He and I are back to feeling at ease, as if we’ve called a truce on the tension and all the questions about our mutual attraction, most importantly the question about whether or not I’ll sleep with him, at least temporarily.

Maybe we’re friends after all, though it’s not the signals I was getting. And, being honest with myself, not what I’d been hoping for since that night in his room.

I know exactly how Liz feels now, and I almost laugh out loud at how pathetic we both are when it comes to Bryan. As I watch her leave with Penderly, a feeling of wistfulness comes over me. I wish I could talk to her about it, tell her how I feel.

But that kind of confession would ruin everything between us because there’s no way she wouldn’t feel betrayed. If I keep my feelings under wrap long enough, they’re bound to change, to disappear. Some day.

Or they would if what I felt for Bryan was an ordinary crush, but it’s not. If I haven’t been able to get him out of my head for the last six years, there’s not much of a chance of that happening now. At least not while we’re both still here at UConn. One more semester.

Liz’s laugh trails behind her as she disappears, and I allow myself to imagine that she never kissed Bryan last night, that maybe she’s moving on from him. Maybe she’s developing a crush on Penderly. But I’m no fool, and it’s useless to imagine.

Maybe I should be the one moving on from Bryan. I should let go of my dream about the broken boy in the ditch who I swore could see into my soul.

“You’re lucky to have Liz as your special friend,” I say.

His forehead furrows. “She’s your friend too.”

I shake my head. “Not in the same way.”

“Not that again. You must know by now she’s not my⁠—”

“I’m not talking about that.”

He stares at me as if I’m going to say more, to explain what I mean, but I can’t.

“Are you sure there’s not more between you… I mean deep down underneath all the troubling things…”

“Are you talking about Liz?”

I take in a quick breath, and my heart stutters into double-time. Because if I’m not talking about Liz, who does he think I’m talking about? Me? And what if I am?

I stammer. “No—I mean yes—I mean⁠—”

“I’m not sure about anything, princess. Not a fucking thing.” He shuts his notebook and stands, pacing around.

I’m too stunned and too confused to say another word. Even if I could speak, my heart is jumping into my throat, clogging it with crazy scary emotions. So much for the easy truce.

As he sits down again, he mutters, “Never mind,” and throws his attention at the paper on the table in front of him.

“You should have told me it was your birthday.” I try to get the truce back, to pretend I’m okay with the purgatory of our relationship.

“It’s not,” he says without looking up, and I see him grip his pen harder as his knuckles turn white.

There’s more to it, and I want to ask what that was all about, but I wait in silence to see if he’ll share. Because I have a feeling I know what it’s about—or have a good idea—and that it’s going to make me feel more uncomfortable. Even more like an outsider.

“It’s not my birthday. It’s a thing between me and Liz since we were kids. We were—are—both poor, and we’d give each other food when we had it and the other didn’t.”

I nod when he pauses and finally looks at me to gauge my reaction, I suppose. I’m looking at him the only way possible, with awe and compassion, with more interest and needy emotions than before. I’m looking at him like I wish I had that with him.