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He stops at his bedroom door and looks at me. “I bought everything on the list. So call off your teenage hormones.”
I laugh. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes.”
I shrug, tearing open the packet of lollipops, unwrapping one and popping it into my mouth. “No can do, sorry. You’re stuck with my teenage hormones. I’m actually oozing them right now.”
His eyelids flicker as he watches me suck on my candy like he watched me suck on my thumb yesterday. “Yeah, I can smell it.”
With that, he enters his room and closes the door. And I beam.
Because see, lollipops weren’t on the list.
Nope.
They weren’t. So that means he bought me them himself.
Not only lollipops though. He bought me tons of other things that I never put on my list. I didn’t even think to put them on there.
Oh wow, the things he bought me.
He bought me my favorite juice: watermelon. He bought me packs of my favorite chips: barbecue sauce. The favorite candy bar that I eat, other than the lollipops: almond and chocolate. My second favorite fruit: again watermelon. Chocolate-covered pretzels, normal pretzels, veggie sticks, all the stuff I used to survive on back in Connecticut. In fact, I’d carry around their packets at school. It used to be my lunch.
But how does he know that?
He doesn’t know anything about me. He didn’t even know who I was until the night I stupidly kissed him.
I’m the one who knows things about him. Me.
I’m the one who was a creepy information hoarder.
But why does he appear to be the information hoarder instead?
I can’t get over it. I think about it and think about it and think about it until I’m compelled to ask him.
It’s night and we’ve just had dinner. After going grocery shopping, he finished clearing out the roof and started to work on the broken porch steps. Honestly, I was a little disappointed.
I thought he’d go to his roses next.
I thought he’d work on them, water them, or at least look at them.
But he hasn’t and it hurts me more than I want to admit.
So I’m distracting myself with the question I’m going to ask. We’re sitting on the old, musty couch, which is surprisingly super comfortable – him on one side and me on the other – and watching a movie on TV. I told him to stop at a channel and he did, and now we’re watching something that I’m not even paying attention to.
I give up all pretense of watching and turn toward him.
Propping my back against the arm of the couch and bringing my knees to my chest, I ask, “How do you know so much about me?”
He stiffens as soon as I ask the question.
Which makes me cringe.
Yikes.
Did I have to be so blunt? Maybe I should’ve eased him into it. I just made him feel like a criminal or something.
Or did I?
Because he glances toward me, his eyes sharp. “What?”
He asks the question in such a lashing voice that I’m cringing for different reasons now. I’m cringing for jumping to God-knows-what conclusion.
I wiggle my toes on the couch and he notices the gesture. “I mean… I just, was wondering that you bought all that stuff? You know, all the juices and fruits and things? I was wondering how you knew that I liked them?”
He flicks his gaze up and thank God for that, my toes were starting to blush. “How do you think I know?”
His words make me feel like a fool. They also fill me with all those teenage hormones he keeps talking about.
I fight them, those hormones. I fight them because they want to fly me away in a dreamland. They want me to think that he knows all this about me because he watched me like I watched him.
But that’s not true, is it?
So I take a guess. I make the rational, smart choice. “Uh, Brian? Maybe. He told you.”
The source of my information could be the source of his, too.
He confirms it a second later with a tight nod and by glancing away from me to the TV. “Yeah. Brian.”
I bite my lip in disappointment, which is ridiculous.
First of all, I already knew the answer. I don’t even know why I asked him the question.
Second of all, it doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. I’m over him. I’m smarter now. Ten months older in age and ten years older in experience.
I hug my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them. “It was just surprising, that’s all. Besides, the first time you saw me was that night. The night I, you know…”
“The night you attacked me, you mean,” he deadpans, still looking at the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t attack. There was no attacking.”
He glances back at me, his eyes alight with something similar to humor. “You wouldn’t let go of my shirt. You got up on my shoes, Jailbait. There was definitely attacking.”
