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“I can see that.” Mr. Matthews shakes his head. What he says next knocks the breath clear out of me. “You know, Zack, if you’d just turned in that one case study at the end of the semester, the valedictorian spot might have been too close to call.”
TEN
ZACK
Samantha stiffens in my arms, and I wince. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“It’s not what you think,” I blurt out and immediately wince.
She blinks rapidly, further proof I’ve said the wrong thing. As if I needed it. Taking a slow step back from me and shaking my hands from her shoulder and waist, Samantha looks as if she might bolt at any second.
From his spot beside us, Mr. Matthews pulls a face. He looks as if he’s about to apologize when our former classmate Molly suddenly appears at his side and pulls him away. It’s for the best. The fewer witnesses we have for this conversation, the better.
Noting the curious glances we’re once again drawing, I take hold of Samantha’s elbow and guide her to the side of the dance floor. She’s still staring at me in silent stupor, she follows along. I grab a glass of punch from the refreshment table and hand it to her in another attempt to make our audience lose its interest.
Absently, Samantha raises the glass to her lips and takes a sip. I watch her closely. I can take care of this. I can still make this work.
“Samantha, it really isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
Her eyes flash back up to greet mine. “Isn’t it?”
“Well, I—” Shit. I don’t know where to begin.
Samantha eyes me suspiciously.
“I need you to answer a couple of questions for me.” Her words are slow and measured, a sure sign she’s trying to keep her calm. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Sometimes she’s like a storm. Calm and eerily quiet before it wreaks havoc.
“Of course.” I moisten my lips. I wish I could pull her back into my arms. To soothe us both. To remind her that—no matter what the answers are to her questions—I’ve always had her best interest at heart.
Because I’ve always cared about her. Always. I had a dumbass way of showing it. Like the cliche of the boy on the playground pulling the little girl’s hair. I fought with Samantha, because arguing with her made me feel more alive than anything in my life. Her fire and passion added color to my otherwise beige existence of Saturday mornings golfing at the country club.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, her eyes unblinking. “Did you or did you not fail to turn in your final assignment to Mr. Matthews class?”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t turn it in.”
She nods. “And did you not turn it in knowing it dropped your grade?” Before I can answer she holds up a hand. “To clarify, did you know it would drop your grade so your GPA would technically be weighted lower than mine?”
“I couldn’t know exactly how much lower it would be. But I assumed it would be enough.”
Her face crumbles. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot.”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically, staring into her eyes. Silently pleading her to believe me, even if it’s hard for her to hear my words.
But she covers her face, hiding her eyes. Hiding the crumpled expression of disbelief and disappointment. And hurt. It’s the hurt that knocks the air out of me.
“I can explain. I—”
“No.” She drops her hands to her sides. Her face is pale and her eyes are red and shiny. As if she’s trying her best to hold back tears.
“Samantha, I—”
“No,” she says again. More emphatically. “There’s nothing you could possibly say—no explanation—that will make this okay.”
“But—”
“Don’t you get it?” Her voice breaks at the end, piercing my heart with the shards of it. “We spent four years of high school competing with each other. And you always won. Always. The class presidency. Homecoming royalty. Even the damn Model UN competition.”
“I thought the jury was still out on that.”
