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“All right, whatever. I’m not hungry, anyway,” I say.
I push out of my chair and leave the cafeteria, forced to contemplate the quiet part I’d done such a good job ignoring, the one thing that, throughout this entire ordeal, has been the most impossible to swallow.
Maybe it’s not Ally’s fault.
“Hey,” I say to Ally when she walks into the gym for our shared detention. “I have all of the stuff here. I thought maybe you skipped.”
“Nope.”
“You weren’t at lunch.”
“Yeah, I was,” she says.
“Oh. Okay…well. The outline is already up, so we just have to fill it in.”
“Fine.”
“I’m sorry, Ally,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to talk to me at all?”
“No. Not if I can help it.”
“Well…we kind of have to talk to finish this. We need like…a plan.”
“A plan? Okay, fine. Here’s the plan: you do the shitty eagle, I’ll do the shitty flowers, and we can split the stupid fucking letters and the mountains down the middle.”
“Okay, fine,” I tell her, climbing the ladder. “You’re not going to…push the ladder over or anything, right?”
“Don’t give me any ideas,” she says.
I take the brown paint pan and climb to the top while Ally kneels to paint the rhododendrons. We work like that—in silence—for the first half hour. Until I absolutely can’t take it anymore.
I look down and see her bent over on all fours, adding more paint to her tray. Her white scoop-neck t-shirt falls away from her body, and I get a pretty good view of her tits. Between that and her ass up in the air, I feel my dick gorock fucking hard.
My feelings for Ally are…complicated. I’m mad at her. I don’t know if I can trust her, but I don’t want her to leave. I know we’re not done; I’m not sure what that means, but it’s true.
And I didn’t want to hurt her like I hurt her with that picture. Also, I’d sell my soul to pull those jeans down and fuck her just like that right now.
“You know, I like this arrangement,” I tell her. “I can see right down your top.”
“Yeah, well. Not much to see.”
“You’ve got plenty to see—trust me. A good handful is plenty.”
“Would you stop? We aren’t talking.”
“Your haircut is nice, too.”
She turns and looks at me for the first time today, outraged. “You didnotjust say that to me.”
“What? I can’t like it?”
“No!”
“Why not? I always thought you’d look nice with short hair. And I was right—look at you. You’re like a midnight pixie.”
