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Drawing in a deep breath, I turn and walk around the tree, putting the massive oak between me and the guy I’m trying to ignore. “It’s got to be around here somewhere,” I say, casual and collected and not sounding at all like a girl with butterflies in her stomach.
Behind the oak, half-rotten and covered in moss, lies a fallen pine tree. And a shoe print in the dirt next to it. I push away a suspicious-looking pile of pine needles with my foot. “Found it!” I call out, bouncing on my toes. I bend down and take the cache, grinning like a madwoman because I finally found one of these things.
Funny how a plastic pill bottle, painted black and covered in dirt can be the most rewarding part of my day. I hold it in my hands like a precious gemstone as I turn back toward Emory, who’s been looking on the ground a few feet away. “This must be what Christopher Columbus felt like when he discovered America.”
“Nerd,” Emory says.
I twist open the cap and pull out the paper inside, thrilled that I get to sign my name first this time. When I finish, I hold it out to Emory, but he doesn’t take it. He just stares at me.
“Listen, Isla,” he says, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He reaches for the paper and pencil and sighs. “I just want to say I’m sorry about last week. I was just messing around. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, holding up the paper again. He still doesn’t take it. My shoulders fall, and I push the paper into his hand, closing his thumb around the pencil. “I know you well enough now to know that you can’t help being a dick.”
“Isla,” he says slowly, his lips pressing into a flat line. “Please forgive me. I hate this.”
“Hate what?” I ask, shifting on my feet.
He rubs his eyebrow. “You’ve given me the silent treatment for a week now. I hate it.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the trail. Doesn’t he realize that ignoring him is the only way I can survive having to see him every day?
His footsteps are heavy behind mine, and he joins me, still holding the paper and pencil. I realize I’m still holding the cache, gripping it in my fist until my knuckles are white. I grab the paper from him and scribble his name quickly, then shove the paper back into the bottle and toss it toward the pile of pine needles.
“Why do you even care?” I snap, throwing my arms in the air.
For a fraction of a second, he almost looks hurt. “Why wouldn’t I care?”
I start walking again, busying myself by looking up the coordinates for the next item on the list.
“You don’t have to forgive me, but I wish you would. I like being your friend.”
I stop, his words a roadblock. “You want to be my friend?” I say, trying out the words on my tongue. Friends. The flutter in my stomach is now something new and inspiring. Maybe I don’t have to ignore Emory forever. Maybe we can just be friends. Like Bastian and Xavier—just another one of the guys in my life.
Emory kicks an acorn across the path, his hands balling into fists inside the pockets of his thin basketball shorts. “Yeah. You’re not like every other moron in this school.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say quickly before I change my mind. This might be exactly what I need. “We can be friends.”
Chapter Nineteen
Being friends with Emory comes easily if you don’t mind standing awkwardly next to said friend while they say hello to every person in the universe. It’s been nearly a week since we made the deal to become friends and every day since then, Emory brings me a coffee and spends first period making stupid jokes while we take notes on Mr. Wong’s lecture. During lunch, we sit together in the support group and in gym, he follows me out to the track to run laps together.
I hadn’t realized there would be benefits to being friends with a guy that can’t compare to dating one. It’s not that I like being single exactly, but friend status doesn’t require the upkeep of girlfriend status. I never have to worry about my makeup being perfect or my hair looking sleek and pretty around Emory. I can make stupid jokes without worrying about him thinking I’m lame, and I never get that cold stab of fear in my chest when other girls talk to him. Because unlike with a boyfriend, Emory is just my friend, and I don’t have a claim to be jealous.
Two guys I don’t recognize jog onto the track and for a second, I think they’re looking at me. But then they say hi to Emory, and he gives them a guy-ish head nod before they take off running ahead of us.
“How do you know everyone?” I ask, incredulously shaking my head as we jog.
“I’ve lived here my whole life,” he says, glancing at me for a moment before focusing back on the rubbery orange surface of the track. “The guy on the left, Josh, used to play little league with me. And DeBraun, on the right, lives down the street. His mom and my mom run some Facebook recipe group. They’re always cooking up stuff in the kitchen.”
“I’ve lived in Deer Valley my entire life,” I say, brushing stray hair behind my ears. “I didn’t know everyone at my old school. It’s funny how we’re just a few miles away but would have never met each other if the town didn’t rezone the school districts.”
Emory shakes his head. “You never know. We could have met at some other point in life.”
We jog in silence for a few seconds and then he slows down. “You know, you’re my first girl friend,” he says, emphasizing the hell out of the word girl. “All my best friends have been guys, and we haven’t really hung out much in the last year.”
“Why is that?” I ask, slightly out of breath from our run.
He shrugs, his eyes looking off into the distance. “They all got girlfriends. Some of them have two or three girlfriends. I guess there’s just no time for the guys anymore.”
