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“I’ve been memorizing pages of dialogue since I was four.”
She gets to her feet and makes a wide, stilted half-circle around me toward the tumbling dryer. “So you remembereverythingI’ve said?”
“Only stuff that interests me.” Which is pretty much everything she’s said.
She jerks the dryer door open and rifles through the clothes.
Floored by how fast she zip-lined from fine to furious, I stand. “Asking questions was your deal.”
She flings her clothes over her shoulder and chucks mine on the counter. My shoes clunk against the granite backsplash. “We don’t need to know personal things about each other.” She slams the dryer door.
“A little too late for that.” I push in front of her. “What you asked was personal. And I answered. I even told the truth.”
“You were going to lie?” She shakes her head. “Perfect.”
What can I say—I was only going to lie if I had to?
Clothes over her arm, she marches out of the room.
And for the second time today, I wonder what the hell just happened.
chapter 21
Jess
Monday, T talked my lab partner into switching with his for the rest of the semester. He still hasn’t kissed me. I like that T seems more interested in what’s going on in my head. I really like that he’s held my hand under the table all week. Allie calls us adorable. Sarge says we’re annoying. I think we’re perfect. Because T is perfect.
~ from the diary of Elizabeth Sara Thorne (age16)
I duck into the first room I find in Gabe’s house with a door that locks and dump my clothes on the darker part of the wood floor where it looks like there used to be a large rug. A desk takes up the wall on my left. White bookshelves run from floor to ceiling behind me and on my right. Most of the books are self-help, but there’s a few romances, and one of Dad’s paperbacks.
I have a twinge of guilt that I haven’t read any of them. It’s just every time I see his name splashed across the cover, something inside me shuts down.
When Gabe cornered me about my perfect moment, the life snapshot I shared was so much more than listening to Dad mow the lawn. It was him and mom and me—it wasus—as a real family. The dog napping across my feet. Mom humming “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston through the open kitchen window while she made peanut butter and banana sandwiches. That one summer she spent sober almost made up for the ones she didn’t.
I hate what that perfect moment says about me. That I’m clinging to a thread of the life I want back so badly I’m choosing to forget all the not-so-perfect-moments. Yanking off Gabe’s shirt, I throw on my tank.
There’s a quick knock on the door. “You okay?” Gabe’s hesitant.
“Yeah.” I’m the worst, demanding answers, then going off on him when he does the same.
“I’ll wait for you by the front door.” His footsteps echo down the hall.
I kick off his sweats and step into my own clothes, grateful to have Victoria back. Going commando in his pants sucked as much as going basketcase in his laundry room.
I’m an idiot for asking why he wanted me. It’s not like knowing will somehow cancel out my Tilt-a-Whirl feelings for him. Or help me fortify a wall against his break-me-down charm. Too bad he’s not a character in my book. I’d write him more like Dante, who inspires butterflies instead of tsunamis.
I toe my crumpled hoodie where it made a wet imprint on the floor. Glancing at Gabe’s discarded T-shirt, I opt for dry over damp and drag it over my tank. I’ll give it back at the hotel. Dressed and determined to keep it together, I meet him at the front door where he’s put his shirt and shoes back on. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”
His gaze strays to my shirt—his shirt—but I get no clue as to what’s going on his head. I’m simultaneously miffed and envious at his skill to wipe his expression clean.
He punches in the alarm code and motions me outside.
“Your security code is your birthday?” I pause by the railing on the front porch and face him, the sun warming my shoulders and back. “Anyone could figure that out.”
“How do you know that’s my birthday?” He squints at me through the rays of light hitting his face.
Oops. “Vi read it in that magazine?” I flinch, hoping he doesn’t read his own press. That wasn’t in the article. It was in that text I read on his phone.
