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“Attie? How would asking me to go off with him piss Attie off?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“Girl, please. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way Atticus moons over you.”
“He does not,” I deny, but I do it while blushing, because I know Atticus has a crush on me. But, he’s only a friend and after last night with Gavin, that’s all he could ever be.
“Get real. You know better,” she laughs, not buying my denial in the slightest.
“We’re just friends,” I mumble.
“Maybe on your end. But Atticus and Gavin hate each other. The whole school knows that.”
“Yeah, I think they might.”
“So, there’s only one solution,” Jules announces.
“What’s that?” I ask, desperately wanting to do whatever I can so that Gavin doesn’t slip through my fingers.
He’s the one for me. I love him. I can be the girl who gives him the happiness that he doesn’t get because of his dad now. I can fix everything wrong in his life and show him how great our lives will be together. Then, he’ll want forever plans, too.
I just know it.
“You have to flirt with Atticus.”
“I will…. Wait. What?”
“You have to make Gavin jealous so he will notice you and claim you as his. You have to let him think you might go to Atticus if he doesn’t pay you attention,” she plots, nodding her head for emphasis.
“I can’t do that, Jules,” I respond, shaking my head.
“You gotta. It’s the only way to handle boys. You have to make them want what belongs to someone else.”
She sounds so positive.
I get this sick feeling in my stomach.
I want Gavin. I want him so much… but…
“What if I do it with someone else besides Atticus? What about Larry?”
“No. It has to be Atticus. There’s competition there. Remember how Atticus always talks about Gavin being held back a year and forced to be in the same grade with him? They compete over everything. Nope. If you want Gavin, you’re going to have to flirt with his brother.”
I fall back into my pillow, completely deflated and full of despair.
Crap.
Chapter Eight
Gavin
“I guess you’re proud of yourself,” Atticus growls as I walk into the bedroom.
I ignore him and flop down on the hard, twin mattress of my bed, grab a baseball that is sitting on the nightstand and start tossing it up in the air, catching it.
Our beds used to be bunks, but we separated them years ago—his moved on one side of the room and mine all the way against the wall on the other side. They’re as far apart as we can physically get them, and if there was another bedroom, or hell, even room in the garage, they would be even farther apart. I think it kind of symbolizes how our relationship is.
“You just couldn’t stay away from Luna, could you? Had to make your play because you knew that I liked her.”
He’s not wrong. I couldn’t stay away from her, and I hated that my brother was getting close to her. I could watch her with anyone but him—at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, seeing Luna with any guy would probably piss me off.
“Talk to me, damn you!” he yells.
The only thing that Atticus and I have ever agreed on, is the mutual hate of our father. It’s a dick move, but since he wants me to talk, I decide to point out the obvious.
“You sound just like our father right now.”
“You bastard,” he snarls then launches himself at me. I’d just caught the baseball and I hurl it toward him in reflex. It hits him on the shoulder, bouncing off to crash against the window. The sound of glass shattering registers for nearly a second before Atticus’s body connects with mine and his fist slams under my chin. The force of the blow jerks my head up, and I ignore the pain as I connect with Atticus’s ribs. We trade blows, and I throw him off of me. He crashes on the floor but gets right back up and charges again. I fall back, hitting the table by my bed. It scrapes against the worn, hardwood floors. I feel the edge of the wood cut into my back, as I push back against Atticus.
We’re pretty evenly matched. I’m a little taller than him and maybe a little broader but blow for blow we’re not that different. I might be the first to draw blood, but his next punch cuts my lip and the coppery, bitter taste of it hits my tongue.
“What the fuck?”
Atticus and I both freeze solid as our father storms into the room. His question is surprisingly sober, no slurring at all. When I look up however, I can tell he’s been drinking. His salt and pepper hair is mussed and sticking up in a million different directions. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and the scruff is mostly gray. He’s wearing a torn white t-shirt that has oil stains on it and barely covers his growing beer belly. There’s a bottle in his hand too. Our father might be wondering what was going on in his sons’ room, but not enough to put down his drink.
