Authors: Katie Klein
I want to know if Blake Hanson has a reason to be jealous.
I swallow hard, forcing the thought away. "Anyway, it's fine. I don't want to keep you. Are we good on our topics?"
She bites into that lower lip of hers and nods. "Yeah, I mean, if something changes I'll let you know." And as she crams her notebook into her bag, I wonder what would've happened had Blake not arrived when he did. Would she be ready to leave? Or would we still be sitting here, joking and laughing and talking about Ethan and Mattie and how miserable they were—how everything conspired to work against them.
How life always seems to get in the way.
She tosses her bookbag over her shoulder and stands, so I do the same. And, as she moves, I smell that perfume again. I feel her arms wrapped around my chest, body pressed to mine. And as wrong as it is—as wrong wrong wrong as this is—I can't help myself. I can't stop. It's like someone else, easing closer to her, lowering my mouth to her ear, whispering the words: "If I meet you at your third floor window tonight, will you let me in?"
"
What?
"
"You said you can get to your third floor by climbing the oak tree to the second floor roof, right?"
"Yeah, but..."
"So if I knock on the attic window tonight, will you let me in?"
She pulls away from me, studies my eyes, almost anxious. But she must see something in them.
Something
is there. Because she says yes. I can't believe she says yes.
"What time?" I ask.
"It would have to be late," she whispers, glancing at the librarian working the circulation desk. "Midnight, even. And you can't park your motorcycle at the house. You'll have to walk down the road."
"That's fine. I'll do it."
"Why are you doing this?" she asks, point blank.
Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this when I already have a life? When I have a job to do? When I have a freaking fiancée who's planning my wedding as we speak?
Shit. I have no fucking idea why I'm doing this.
I heave a frustrated sigh. "Because...I don't know. I want to spend more time with you...outside of school, and this project, and...." I glance toward Non-Fiction, making sure we're still alone, then find her eyes again. "Other people."
"I could get in
so
much trouble."
I know. And this is what keeps me going. This is what keeps me hopeful. I
know
this girl. As wrong as this might be, she never would've said yes if she didn't
want
to meet me. "I won't get you in trouble," I promise. "Cross my heart." I draw an X across my chest with my finger.
She smiles—the first real smile I've seen since Hanson arrived. "No one has crossed their heart since fourth grade," she says, rolling her eyes.
"You want a blood oath? A vile of my DNA to wear around your neck?" I ask. She laughs, color rising to her cheeks. "You better go. Don't want to keep
Mr. Perfect
waiting."
She heads to Non-Fiction to find Blake. I watch the two of them move toward the exit. I watch him open the door for her. I watch her disappear into the hallway. I watch him turn on his way out, casting a final, warning glare in my direction.
You mean nothing to me, Hanson.
Instead of working on a math set, I study my story—the notes written under Chief Anderson's supervision. Already I struggle to remember what I told Jaden the night we sat in her car. About me. My life. My family. I'm afraid if it comes up again I'll say the wrong thing. I'll screw up. I'm afraid I've already screwed up. The girl is smart. Sharp. She'll remember everything I've ever said. She'll catch me in a lie in a second.
I toss my notes aside.
As bad as I want this, I can't take any chances. I can't risk it. One mistake—one misstep—and my cover's blown. My freaking job is on the line.
But when the assignment is over, I'll come clean. I swear I will. Whatever happens—wherever I am—I'll explain everything. Even if.... I check my cell phone. It's almost time to call Callie.
Callie
.
Shit.
And the realization dawns: I'm planning to sneak over to another girl's house tonight. A girl who isn't even my girlfriend—who could
never
be my girlfriend—and for what? Because I want to spend
more time
with her?
What the hell is my problem?
I dial Callie's number. She answers on the fourth ring. "You're early," she replies, surprised.
"I know. I was...ready to call, I guess."
I am a liar. I'm a liar and an asshole.
"How was your day?"
I finger those notecards, pushing them into a neater pile. "Um...okay, I guess."
"That's it? Just okay?" she teases.
I sit straighter, switching my phone to the other ear. "Callie, why do you want to marry me?" I blurt out.
She laughs. "What?"
"Why do you want to marry me?"
"What is this? I don't understand. Where is this coming from?" she asks.
"It's an honest question. I'm serious, Cal."
She hesitates, taken back by the direction this conversation is heading. But I need to know. I need to know why this happened—if this is as good as it gets. If this is what "meant to be" feels like—if this is how it was supposed to be from the beginning.
"Okay, um, I love you, obviously. We've been through a lot together. I mean, I know we met when we were in high school, and you should know that I never really bought into the whole 'high school sweethearts' thing, but...I don't know. I always felt that what we had was real. That it would last no matter what. I can't see myself waking up next to anyone else. I know we're still young, but I found you, you know? I don't want to wait to be together forever."
I lean back, falling against the cushions, and rub my eyes with my fingers.
Shit.
I can't go to Jaden's. This whole thing...it's stupid. I can't believe I actually suggested.... That I thought....
"You still here?" Callie asks.
"Yeah," I reply, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry, Cal. I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the ass."
She laughs, but I'm serious. I can't ruin this. I can't ruin what we have together. I can't risk screwing up this assignment. I can't risk losing my job. I have to get it together—start thinking.
I grab the notecards and toss them onto the coffee table, then settle onto the couch as Callie talks wedding colors.
Green.
She picked
green
.
*
*
*
My leg shakes. It won't stop bouncing.
I'm not going. I can't go to her house. I'll get caught, then she will be screwed and I will be screwed. It's not worth it. It's not worth screwing with Callie. It's not worth screwing with my job....
But I promised. She'll be waiting for me. She'll wonder what happened to me—why I didn't show.
I watch the time on my cell phone, my laptop, the microwave, slip closer to 11:30. That's when I'd have to leave—no later than 11:30.
11:28.
I could tell her my dad was home—that he was in one of his moods. She'll understand.
I don't have to tell her anything at all. I could stand her up. She'll hate that—she'll hate herself for believing me, then I won't have to worry about her anymore.
11:29.
But I don't
want
her to hate me. I
want
to see her.
Callie trusts me.
Whatever is going on between Jaden and me—it's nothing.
Nothing.
11:30.
I exhale relief.
Good. It's settled. I'm not going.
I click the email icon on my home page. No new messages. I read one of the headlines. When I glance back at the time, it's still 11:30.
My heart thumps loudly, beating in my ears. I slide my palms across my jeans. And, when I close my eyes, she smiles at me. I hear her laugh. I see her gaze at me from beneath those long lashes, green eyes sparkling.
It's still 11:30.
"Dammit," I mutter, tossing my laptop aside. I grab my keys, my helmet, turn off the light, and pull the door shut behind me.
I park four blocks from Jaden's street and head down the sidewalk, trying to keep to shadows. It sucks how well lit everything is around here. I wait for one of the neighborhood watch ladies to come running out her front door, demanding I leave. But everything is quiet. Even the houses are asleep—lights out and shades drawn.
It takes forever to reach Jaden's, but when I see her house, my heart lifts, squeezing out an extra beat. My eyes zigzag across the street and up the street and back again as I move down the fence that lines her property. The old oak tree towers above me.
"I didn't exactly think
this
through," I mumble, half under my breath.
I circle the tree. A low branch hangs on the east side. I jump, grasping it. The muscles in my arms tighten, tensing as I haul myself up. I pause to catch my breath, legs dangling, sweat prickling at the small of my back.
Shit. When was the last time I climbed a tree?
I lift my head toward the canopy. The branches are fairly close together from this point on. The hard part is over. I blow out a quick breath and rise, climbing to the next branch, and then the next, until I'm parallel to the second floor. I untie my boots and toss them gently to the roof. They land with a thud louder than I expect.
Fuck!
I scream on the inside.
I move closer to the trunk, eyeing my shoes, waiting for a bedroom light, a porch light, any light to turn on—for someone to catch me. But the house remains still.
I inch my way across the branch—
don't look down
—and jump the remaining distance. I grab my shoes and scramble to the dormer, pressing myself against the wall. The roof is cool beneath my socks, the winter air bites at my exposed skin.
Nothing.