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He shrugs and leans back, resting his hands behind his head. His gray t-shirt sleeves rise, showing his biceps, and he looks directly at me. “I went to keep an eye on Isla. I figured I’d punch the ex if he tried anything. But she was strong and didn’t go see him, so my services weren’t needed, and we just hung out.”
My phone buzzes and I glimpse the screen before it goes dark. Ciara just sent me a message that simply says, Snowflake.
Heat rushes into my cheeks. Bastian speaks, taking the attention off of me. “That was really kind of you, Em. Okay, who’s next. Xavi?”
After lunch, I duck out of Ms. Meadows’ classroom and head for the stairs on the south end, my mind reeling with the thought of Emory going to the game just for me. There’s no way that could have been true, could it? Would he have really stood up for me if Nate had somehow started a scene in front of everyone?
No, I decide, keeping my gaze low as I make my way through the hoard of students. He was just being himself—a charmer and smooth-talker. Getting himself out of trouble with Bastian by making up some lie. He did buy me nachos, but I refuse to make that into something it’s not. After all, I’d spent my entire relationship with Nate making it more than what it really was—a high school fling.
I round the corner and find Emory standing against the wall in the history hallway, arms crossed and gaze focused on me. “How’d you get here so quickly?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder as if the real-time version of him should be just behind me.
“I wasn’t playing on my phone when the bell rang,” he says, falling into step with me. I guess I had spent a minute replying to Ciara’s text message before I left the classroom. And he does not need to know what we were talking about. We turn the corner together, taking the stairs next to each other.
“You’re a really excellent liar,” I say under my breath.
“What’s that mean?”
I try to glare at him, but all my attention is needed to get up the stairs in one piece. “You lied about being at the football game back there. Obviously you were there to see how many girls would throw themselves at you.”
“I wasn’t lying, snowflake.” He bumps into my shoulder with his. “There are much better places to find girls, trust me.”
We reach the second floor, and I throw my hands into the air. “Teach me your ways, Emory.” I’m vaguely aware of people watching us as we walk by, turning to go up to the third floor. Girls who grin at Emory, guys who glare at him out of envy. I shake my head. “I want to be like you. Impossible to hurt.”
“Isla,” he says, tossing a sideways glance at me. “I don’t think you really mean that.”
“I do,” I say at the top of the third floor. I stop and turn toward him, folding my arms over my chest. “I want your life. I want to date around in the name of having fun with no strings attached. How do I do that?” He watches me intently, but I can’t stop the rampage now that I’ve started it. I shake my head. “So Mentor Emory, what do I do? Do I just flirt with every guy that walks by?”
He takes a step closer, taking my hand and pulling me out of the middle of the stairwell. People rush by us, some watching our little exchange and others too caught up in getting to their next class on time.
“Are you sure you want this?” he says, releasing my hand and sliding his arm around my waist.
“Yes,” I say.
He holds my gaze, his head tilted down toward mine for what feels like hours. Is he doing what I think he’s doing? Suddenly I can’t seem to breathe. “You want a date with no strings attached? Just like what I do, right?”
I nod, my throat suddenly dry.
“Okay.” He looks up. “Hey, man,” he says, reaching out and p
atting the arm of a guy in jeans and a hot pink polo shirt. “My friend Isla needs a date Friday night,” he says. “You want to take her?”
“Oh my God. Don’t listen to him.” My voice sounds a million miles away as a lead weight drops into my stomach. This is so not happening.
Pink shirt guy lifts an eyebrow and looks from Emory to me. “You sure? I’m free Friday.”
A tingle of heat slides its way up my spine. “Yeah, I’m sure. Sorry. Just—don’t listen to him.” My words are quick and panicked, and all I can do is hope that they make sense.
The guy nods and offers me a half-smile. “Okay then. See ya.”
My heart thuds beneath my ribcage, and as soon as the guy walks away, I turn on my heel and glare at Emory. “How could you do that to me?” My nails dig into my palms, and it’s all I can do not to punch his stupid grin off his face.
“Why are you mad at me?” Emory says. “You’ll never learn to swim unless you dive right in.”
Chapter Eighteen
I avoid Emory for the next week. The task is nearly impossible since we have first period and gym class together but I do the best I can by pretending to be incredibly absorbed in Mr. Wang’s lectures and class assignments. During gym, I head out to the track and run, letting the pain in my legs and the exhaustion in my lungs fuel me to forget all about Emory. I don’t know what he does in gym class, but he’s never at the track, and that’s a good thing.
The rest of my classes are a freaking cake walk because they don’t require spending all of my energy avoiding him. Mrs. Olsen is even starting to smile at me in second period. She hasn’t given me a single pitying glance all week. Maybe she’s just as convinced as my parents and the rest of the support group that I’m fully healed.
