The Fine Art of Pretending (14 page)

Or if he wants to do it again.

Nope, definitely not thinking about the kiss.

“Brandon, about last night—”

“Listen, last night was—”

We both stop, and I laugh nervously. “Go ahead.” Biting my lip, I cast a glance toward the doorway. The last thing this conversation needs is a couple seventh-grade eavesdroppers.

“Okay.” Brandon swallows and rubs his palms on the front of his jeans. “I just wanted to make sure… I mean, we’re cool, right? Things kinda got sketchy last night, but I don’t want any weirdness between us.”

Oh
.

Not what I expected, but infinitely better than hearing that kissing me was like making out with his sister. And this works perfectly with my plan anyway. Brandon and I are just friends. Awesome. Good to know we’re on the same page.

“No,” I tell him. “Yeah. We’re cool. Zero weirdness.”

I force a smile to prove my point, and we stare at each other some more. With absolutely zero weirdness.

The seconds drag on in silence.

“Well, that’s good,” he says, visibly drawing a breath. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”

Thankfully, the doorbell rings, saving us from any further non-weird comments. Baylee races down the steps, Kaitie on her heels, and squeals erupt from the family room. Brandon laughs and shakes his head. “There’s my cue.”

For a second it looks like he wants to say more, but he turns on his heel and jogs up the stairs. And I go and greet eight giggling girls.

Head in the game, Reed
.

BRANDON
BRANDON’S ROOM, 8:45 p.m
.

I
crack my knuckles and look at the sketch I’ve been working on since my forced seclusion a few hours ago. We agreed my presence at the estrogen-fest downstairs would be weird and complicate things. I’m just not sure what it would complicate more: whatever it is that girls do at these things or my friendship with Aly.

Sketching is a trick a counselor suggested after Dad got sick and I became the man of the house at thirteen. I do it to deal with feelings I can’t or won’t talk about. If I were in a self-analytical mood, I’d find it interesting I took out the pad tonight, but something tells me that kind of thinking can only lead to more problems.

No surprise after the past week, this sketch is of Aly. Two different Alys to be exact, a sort of before-and-after morphing into one girl. The first Aly doesn’t have on any makeup, her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she has on track pants and her ratty
Block This!
T-shirt. The second Aly’s hair falls around her shoulders, her eyes are smoky, and she’s in cut-off shorts and a bikini top, her daily uniform on the camping trip.

Staring at one makes me feel happy and relaxed. The other confuses the hell out of me. She’s the same girl with the same cute nose and sassy smile in both pictures, so the answer is obvious.

The damn makeover is the problem.

A mouthwatering scent wafts through the crack in my door, and my stomach grumbles. I glance behind me at the clock on the nightstand. For two hours I’ve sat here with nothing to do other than fixate on the girl messing with my head. I deserve some of those snacks I helped put out earlier. Getting up, I throw my pencil across the room and follow my nose to the kitchen.

At the entrance, I stop outside the door. I’m starved, but the girls are huddled around the butcher-block island, and curiosity has me waiting. Aly turns from the oven and lays a tray of piping hot cookies on the counter. I’m so hungry I could eat the damn tray.

“Girls, it’s imperative you learn this now.” She levels them with a mock-serious expression, and her rapt audience leans in. “Boys are gonna come, and boys are gonna go. Unfortunately, some friends may even do the same. But dessert, y’all, will
never
let you down.”

I smother a laugh as Aly’s signature smile breaks across her face. She grabs a spatula, pries off a gooey chocolate chip cookie, and plops it on a plate. My stomach grumbles again, and I step forward to snag one. Then I hear:

“Boys suck!”

And I jump back. What the hell? But no one is even looking in my direction. Apparently, the statement was in regards to the suckiness of boys in general, not me in particular, but going in there now would be like stepping on a live grenade. Not happening, grumbling stomach be damned.

“But not Brandon, right, Aly?” I halt mid-backtrack as Baylee’s friend Britney leans her cheek on her hand. “I hear y’all are dating now. He’s so
hot
.”

Baylee pretends to gag, and Kaitie scrunches her nose. Aly laughs, and, curious how she’ll respond, I press against the door jamb, still out of sight. This I
have
to hear.

“My older sister said he’s a heartbreaker,” another girl interrupts. I think her name’s Ashley. “She says Brandon changes women like he changes underwear.” She gives the group a smug smile before turning to Baylee. Her smile withers. “No offense, Bayls. Or-or you, Aly.”

My sister looks to the ground, fidgeting with her sleeve, and my hands clench at my sides. I have reasons for hooking up, but it’s none of this girl’s business. And my sister doesn’t need to be hearing shit about me from her own friends. I want to go in there and say that very thing, but the look in Aly’s eyes stops me.

Her gaze sharpens before the hint of a smile tilts her lips. Resting her elbows on the island, she leans in like she’s about to confide a secret. “Brandon
is
pretty hot, huh?”

My eyebrows shoot up. That’s not what I expected her to say.

“And you’re right, Ashley, he does date a lot of girls. But he
never
leads them on.” Aly directs this at Baylee, and a grateful smile tugs my mouth. I should’ve known she had my back. Then a sort of faraway look crosses her face as she breaks off a piece of cookie and licks the chocolate from her fingers, staring at the bare wall over their heads. “It’s not as if the boy can help that he’s easy to fall in love with.”

The grateful smile freezes on my face as cold hits me square in the back.

Shit
.

Freshman year, I knew Aly wanted more, but I thought she was over that by now. I hope she is because my feelings are still the same. During Dad’s illness, Aly was my rock. She came with her parents to the hospital with a never-ending supply of mindless games and homemade cookies. The night he died, she shot hoops with me for hours without saying a word. Our families were close so I’d always known her, but those months bonded us. She was the one bright spot to emerge from that hell.

After months of watching Mom cry in that hospital room and a year seeing her battle being a widow, I learned what love really does—it leads to misery. Friendships last. Relationships end. Three years ago, I refused to screw up the one good thing I had going. And I still won’t. My friendship with Aly is way too important to mess with.

Aly shakes her head and focuses on the girls again with a smile. “Not that
I’m
in love with him or anything.” She rolls her eyes like that would be absurd, and my lungs inflate again. I lean against the doorframe in relief. “I’m just saying that, despite the number of girls he’s dated or his reputation, Brandon’s one of the good ones.”

That almost makes me laugh out loud, but I choke it back before I give myself away. One of the good ones. That expression exists for guys like Drew. But for someone who
changes women like he changes underwear
? Not so much.

At this point, the girls can keep their cookies. I’ve heard enough. I turn with the intent of hightailing it out of there, and the hardwood creaks under my foot.

“Hey, no boys allowed!”

Heaving a sigh, I walk in palms up and say, “Just grabbing a snack.”

Aly’s cheeks glow pink as she nibbles the corner of her lip. Fidgeting with her ring and staring at the ground, I know she’s worried I heard what she said. It’s wrong to tease her, to flirt and push the issue with preteen witnesses, but I can’t help myself.

“These smell good,” I say, coming to a stop in front of her. Placing a hand on the counter near her waist, I reach around for the tray with the other and whisper, “They smell like
you
.”

I probably shouldn’t have said that.

A soft puff of air hits my neck as Aly gasps. The warm cookie I’m trying to snag sticks to the pan so I twist it, but the action only brings me flush against her. Breath hisses between my teeth as I shift my hand to her hip. The heat from her body seeps through the thin material of her shirt, and I fist the soft cotton.

Looking down, I see the pink of Aly’s cheeks has turned a vibrant crimson. Slowly, she lifts her gaze to mine, and her eyes crinkle.
So damn beautiful
.

Giggles from the audience kill the mood—thank God—and I unclench the thin material of her shirt. I swallow hard and grab a handful of her special double chocolate chip cookies, this time prepared to stay locked away until morning.

“It’s 2:00 a.m.and I’m bored outta my mind.”

Talking to myself is not a good sign. Since leaving Aly in the kitchen, I’ve spent hours going through our yearbook, determined to find Aly another guy to set her sights on. Anyone other than Justin. The problem is that the rest of the clowns at our school aren’t good enough either. So that leaves me with Plan B: getting her to realize she’s not a
Casual
and calling an end to this charade.

How I expect to convince her of that is still a big fat blank.

Sprawled across my bed, tossing a baseball over my head, my eyes keep darting to the sketch I pinned to the wall. I broke my personal rule of never hanging my work where anyone can see it, but this one feels important. Like it somehow holds the answer to my problem.

I pitch the ball again, perhaps a little too forcefully, and it bangs against the ceiling. Starving isn’t helping my mood. After those stolen cookies hours ago, I ventured back down only one other time, to grab a few slices of pizza, and ended up interrupting a spa treatment. Why girls like coating themselves in green goop, I’ll never know. About an hour ago, after what felt like hours of non-stop pounding bass and preteen giddiness, things started quieting down.

The girls have to be asleep by now.
All
the girls.

If I sneak downstairs, grab a couple slices of pizza, and come right back, no one will ever notice. I slowly crack open my door and listen.

Silence.

Carefully, I make my way down the stairs and step over mounds of passed-out girls on the floor before padding into the kitchen. The pizza box on the counter calls my name. I flip the top, grab a slice, and look out the window.

The woven hammock strung between the two oak trees in the backyard is gently rocking back and forth. I lean closer and see a pair of bare legs push off the ground. Even with the dappled moonlight filtering through the leaves of the trees, I know it’s Aly.

My eyes shift between the hammock swaying softly under her body and the sanctuary of my room. Where I
want
to go and where I
need
to go. Pizza box in hand, I hesitate and then turn and walk out into the cool night air.

I’ve never been good at doing what I should.

Aly doesn’t see me coming. She’s staring up at the stars in a simple tank top and shorts, her hair piled on her head in a messy ponytail. She’s sexy as hell.