Switched: Flirt New Adult Romance (25 page)

His lips stay closed, but there’s something that drops in his expression. And before I can think about it too hard he says, “Yeah … right.” And not in a sarcastic way, but in the way that tells me I
am
right and I need to leave now.

So I do. I take the rest of the steps to my car without being pulled back. I refuse to look at those hazel eyes and that cowlick as I start the engine. I do manage a small wave in his direction as I drive off, but heaven only knows if he saw it.

Some tears break loose as I head down the highway, and I swipe them furiously away so I can make it home safely. I think I’ll burn that progress journal, instead of write in it, when I get there.

(All of your best friends.)

My face hurts.

My nose is raw from blowing it. My eyes sting from rubbing them. My tongue and lips have bite marks all over them from my vain attempts to keep from screaming. I push my face into my pillow, as if that’ll cushion all the soreness, but it doesn’t. Of course it makes it worse.

“Dirty Little Secret,” Wesley’s ringtone, keeps going off, but I’m afraid to answer. He’ll hear my blubbering and know something is majorly wrong. And he may come over for another three-in-the-morning gummy bear huggle.

No.

No. No. No.

Can’t let that happen. I want to be alone.

After three or four rounds of the All-American Rejects, I hear a ding. I snake my fingers down to my phone, which is resting in my pocket, and pull it out enough to read the text.

Did you make it home okay? That’s all I wanted to know
.

It pisses me off that Wesley’s name is now the one that makes the bouncy balls go crazy in my stomach, while Talon’s does squat. And since I know he won’t leave me alone unless he knows I’m okay, I tap back.

Yes
.

My face kisses the pillow again till my phone goes off.

Is Reagan there? She left with Talon a while ago
.

Duh, Kayla. Of course it’s Reagan he actually cares about. I quickly type
No
, then go back to my private wallowing.

I don’t expect a reply, since I figure he’ll want to call her, but my phone rings again, and I still don’t want to talk. My voice is gravelly and probably sounds like a dude’s. After two more rings the phone dings again.

Why won’t you answer?

I blow out a sigh.
Tired. Trying to sleep
.

How’s that working out for you?

Classic Wesley. Joking around when things get too serious. Or maybe he’s not feeling the same weirdness I am.

It’s not. Someone keeps calling me. All-American Rejects are determined to keep me up all night
.

I’ve heard of this thing called “silent mode.” You could try that. ;)

Now my heart hurts too. The pain is moving down from my face, and I’m so done with it. I put my phone on the desk next to my bed and turn over, hoping to push Wesley out of my head. It’s too hard to act normal. Like he doesn’t mean so much more to me than I do to him.

Ding!

Damn it. I fold my arms and fight the urge to pick up my cell. I last ten seconds.

“Ugh,” I grumble to myself as I whip the phone off the desk.

Tonight was weird. Sorry about that
.

That was so not his fault. In fact, I think it was everybody’s fault
but
his.

We’ll just keep “I Never” off the list of group activities
.

Agreed
.

It seemed to work in your favor, though
, I type, and send the text before I can stop myself. Stupid jealous and bitter mood. I bang my head against the screen on my phone until it goes off.

What do you mean?

I don’t know. Never mind
. Mr. Rumpled Shirt, if you don’t know what I mean, too bad. I’m not spelling it out for you.

Well, seemed to work out for you too
.

What the hell? Did we experience the same night? I twist on my bed so I’m facing my wall, cocooning myself in the glow of my phone. I want a subject change. Something far away from Reagan and Talon. But that’s pretty much impossible with the lives we live. Everything is about them.

Did you fall asleep?
he asks after a few minutes of no response from me.

No
.

What’s on your mind?

I want to know why the hell he cares. Why he’s talking to me when we’re done with this whole stupid plan. He got what he wanted, and I … well, I screwed up. Instead I type back another something that’s on my mind, and has been since he mentioned them.

You have nipple rings
.

Even though his reply is a text, I hear the bark of laughter in the words.
LOL. Yeah. But don’t spread that around. I already have way too many girls after all of this. *flexes*

Too late. I posted it on my Facebook wall already ;)

Shit, Mickey. You better be kidding
.

I ignore the name.
When did you get them?

Senior year
.

Why?

You know, you asking about my nipples makes them perk up. It’s getting kinda tingly
.

You ass. Never mind
.

I’ll tell you, but you can’t make fun of me
.

Yeah, right. When have you not taken every opportunity to make fun of me?

You like it
.

I won’t admit to him that I do. I really like it.

Nipple story now, or I’m going to bed. Go!

If Wesley didn’t make me tense and bouncy, I probably would’ve fallen asleep waiting for him to respond. I keep checking my phone settings to make sure I didn’t put it on silent.

So … Reagan and Talon had just gotten together, and I overheard her saying something to him about how she loves a guy with piercings. And since Talon’s whipped, and yeah, I admit, I wasn’t exactly keeping my head about it either, we went to a tat shop and got stuff pierced. I went for my nipples because, shit, you know my mom, she’d shoot me with a cannon if she saw any holes on my face. So I sold out for a girl, thinking I was a total badass. And it backfired big time
.

Backfired? I can’t stop thinking about how sexy those piercings are. Not the whole getting-pierced-for-a-girl thing, but the fact that they are there. Right there. Under his bright green Yogurtland polo, there’s a badass guitar player with nipple rings.

I can’t think of a wiseass remark. My mind is going to the next time I see Wesley—I may be the one trying to strip him after he gets done playing his guitar at Phantom’s. My phone goes off again.

You fell asleep, didn’t you?

No. I’m just processing
.

What’s there to process?

A sour taste builds in my mouth. Reagan can get guys to do anything without meaning to. Talon even got pierced for her.

Wait …

What did Talon pierce?

It takes a while for him to write back. And I have no idea why because the message isn’t long.

His tongue. But it closed up ’cause he took it out that same weekend. Sorry to disappoint you
.

For some reason, it doesn’t sound like he’s teasing me in his usual Wesley-fied manner.

Why would that disappoint me?

Girls dig that shit. And I didn’t want you expecting a tongue ring when you finally get who you want
.

I would have noticed a tongue ring by now. And even though I totally deserved that, my heart squelches against my breastbone and my fingers fire back at him.

Good thing you have those nipple rings for Reagan, then. I’m sure she’ll totally see how badass you are that you had to hide them from your mommy. Or are you going to leave that part out?

What the hell are you talking about, Mickey?

That damn rumpled shirt! And the kiss that you said didn’t happen but which I’m starting to think actually did. I’m talking about how I fell in love with your stupid ass, and I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take the Reagan talk. The Talon talk. The who-likes-whom-and-why talk.

I take a deep breath and wipe the frustrated tears leaking from my eyes. I’m not going to fight with Wesley. Or fight more. Because at the end of the day, I love him. He’s my best friend. And as sappy as it is, I want him to have what he wants. Even if it’s not me.

Nothing. I’m just teasing
.

I send that, then quickly send another.

And don’t call me Mickey
.

I’m tempted to leave a winky face with that, but I don’t have the energy to fake it, even via text.

He doesn’t text back. After a half hour of silence, I put my phone on my desk and curl up with my blankets. Love totally sucks. It never sucked this bad with Talon. Was I ever in love with the guy? Or was I just some silly girl who couldn’t let go of her high school crush? Because now I’m a messed-up wreck who can’t find it in me to hate Wesley longer than two seconds even when he’s pissing me off.

I wish he’d text me back, but maybe it’s better he doesn’t.

The door opens, and I hear a relieved sigh in the quiet room. I feel Reagan’s butt hit my mattress, then she wraps her arms around me and snuggles into my back. I tighten up, holding my breath and hoping she doesn’t bring up Wesley.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” she whispers into my curls.

I shrug because that’s what we do. She does something wild and I let it go. Always.

“No, Kayla.” She sits up and pulls me onto my back so that I have to look at her. “Be mad at me. Get mad at me.” Her eyes glisten with tears, and I try to pull anger out, but I don’t have any for her anymore. I’m just mad at myself.

“I’m not mad, though.”

“You should be!” she shrieks, and I jolt back into my pillows. “I do horrible things. I make you uncomfortable. I make you
cry
. Why aren’t you mad?” She drops her face into the mattress next to me. “Yell at me. Scream. Beat me up. Tell me I’m a bitch. Please!”

I stare at the purple-highlighted hair on the back of her head, which is going up and down at a rapid pace with her hitched breathing. She doesn’t realize that I don’t blame her for any of those things. I blame my own damn self.

I smile at her defeated-looking form. Then, with all the strength I have left, I shove her off the bed.

“You bitch!” I scream when she looks up at me with round eyes and open mouth. She rubs her elbow where it hit the floor.

I let a wide grin spread on my lips, and she blinks past the tears in her eyes and laughs. Then she’s on her feet and tackle-hugs me.

“Thank you,” she says over my shoulder.

I squeeze her tight, aware she doesn’t even know 10 percent of what I’m dealing with, but that’s okay. She doesn’t go back to her bed. We cuddle like we did when we had sleepovers in high school, and after a few minutes she sighs and stares at the ceiling.

“You ever feel like you’re doing the right thing, but maybe you’re going about it the wrong way?”

I want to shout,
You ever feel like someone’s reading your freaking mind?
but I keep it to myself.

“More often than you’d think.”

She turns to look at me. “So what do you do about it?”

Let it backfire, then cry into my pillow.

“I guess I just hope everything turns out okay.”

She gives me a sort of smile. “Yeah.”

We go quiet for the night, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to fall asleep before her. My eyes are sneaking closed, and she’s still staring at the ceiling. I try not to let my mind go to Wesley, and how much he likes the girl next to me, and how she’ll probably get to see those nipple rings. I try not to think about Wesley at all. Because it hurts my heart, and I just got my face to stop hurting and I don’t want it to get snotty and raw again.

My breathing evens out, and I slip into a dreamy haze filled with sexy cowlicks and chin dimples. Guess I can’t escape him.

Progress Report: February 10

So I didn’t send this journal up in flames like I thought I would. I had the lighter ready, but it had one of those child-safety things on it and I’m a doof and couldn’t get it to work. So after days of contemplating calling Mom and asking her to start a fire, I decided to take out my pen instead of asking my parents to travel thirteen hours just so I can burn a book.

I messed up bad. I shouldn’t call this a progress report. More like a decline report. Instead of helping Reagan fall in love with Wesley, I fell for him instead. Meanwhile, Talon uses me to make Reagan jealous, Wesley ignores me altogether, and Reagan goes along like nothing has changed.

Note to anyone who decides they want their best friend’s significant: suck it up and deal, otherwise you end up like me—surrounded by your friends, but feeling 100 percent alone.

(Even when the guy you love is singing a love song to someone else.)

“You tricked me.”

My face probably contorts into the ugliest thing ever as I glare at Reagan in the driver’s seat. She told me girls’ night tonight, yet she parks us right outside Yogurtland, where I can see Wesley’s van like it’s under some spotlight.

She points across the street to Phantom’s, her eyes widening like those creepy baby dolls who look all innocent until you turn out the lights and they start moving on their own. So maybe Chucky traumatized me as a child. Reagan’s still not going to use that look on me.

“It’s open mic night. I want to sing and dance with my girls. I promise.”

What bullshit. I cross my arms and glue myself to the seat. “I’m not going in there.” Open mic night also translates to Wesley being here after his shift at Yogurtland. I don’t want to watch them sing together, especially if it’s a love song Wesley chooses as an excuse to serenade her.

My nails dig so hard into the skin on my arms, I may draw blood.

Reagan gets out and opens my door. She grabs me by the elbow and tries to pry me from the spot. I may be small, but I’m tough when I’m determined.

“Come on, Kayla! Just us girls, I promise. We won’t even look at the guys if you don’t want to.”