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Then he reached around her and jerked a yellow notebook out of her open backpack the one she used to keep assign-ments in order. A pen was still attached to the spiral, and he pulled it loose.
That was so unexpected that she faltered. “My . . . what . . .
why . . .”
He’d flipped to the middle and was already writing.
Before her heart could catch up, he shoved it back into her bag. He didn’t even smile, just stepped back. “Call me when you’re ready to cut through the bullshit.”
He’d turned the corner before she could get it together to pull the notebook out of her backpack, to see what he’d written.
There in the middle, scrawled across the page, was a phone number.
And right under it, in his handwriting, even and blocky: I’m not perfect either.
CHAPTER 15
Gabriel poured Cheerios in a bowl and chased them with milk. Not much of a dinner, but food was food, and he was the only one home.
He had no idea where Nick was. Probably out somewhere with Chris, doing something with Quinn and Becca. Or maybe just out somewhere, doing Quinn. Like Gabriel gave a crap.
He dropped into the kitchen chair and set the bowl beside his textbook. The house was so silent that the sound echoed in the kitchen. Gabriel had his cell on the table, sitting next to the trig book, taunting him by remaining completely silent.
He’d never given a girl his number and walked off. At the time, it seemed like a great idea put the ball in her court, leave her with a line and ten digits scrawled in her notebook.
Now it was like water torture, knowing she had it, knowing she was making the deliberate decision not to call.
Christ, was this how girls felt?
His pencil had dug trenches in his notebook. One page of questions had been assigned for homework, and he was stuck on the first one.
Find the focal diameter of a parabola with focus (2,4) and di-rectrix y = –1.
It was almost enough to make him call Nick.
And he hated to admit it, but there was a small part of him that wished Nick would call. Or text. Something. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since they’d last spoken. That hadn’t happened . . . ever.
The front door slammed, and his older brother’s work boots clomped down the hallway. When Michael stopped in the kitchen doorway, Gabriel looked up.
Michael was filthy, covered in sweat and dust. Stains streaked across his T-shirt. His expression was puzzled. “What are you doing?”
Gabriel half shrugged. “Homework.”
An eyebrow raised. “Homework? Should I call a doctor?”
Gabriel took a spoonful of Cheerios and gave him the finger.
“That’s better.” Michael walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “You all right?”
I made my twin brother hate me.
I can’t try out for basketball.
I gave my number to some girl who thinks I’m a thug.
Gabriel looked back at his textbook. “Yeah. Fine.”
Michael turned and walked back down the hall. “Cheerios?
