“Are you okay?” James asks. “I called your name like ten times.”
I crane my neck to see the lines of concern etched into his forehead. Seeing that while breathing in the familiar scent of his family’s laundry detergent makes me less angry than I was while I was being manhandled, but I’m not entirely calm.
He rubs the tops of my arms in comfort.
I should brush him off, but I know he means well, and it’s nice to be cared for.
There have been plenty of rumors over the years about James and me dating because he and I are just as comfortable in public with linked arms as we are in private watching movies curled up on the couch.
It’s the platonic kind of love and support that can only come to fruition as a result of seventeen years of friendship.
He attempts to stop the untruths, but it’s gestures like the one he’s making now, and our close proximity, that don’t help to quell the spread.
I find it interesting that Dylan hasn’t bought into it—or maybe he has and he was just trying to feel me out. A sinking feeling grows in my stomach at that thought.
“Damn,” I say to myself through gritted teeth.
I never clarified with Dylan about my feelings for James, and now he thinks he has some deep dark secret he can hold over me. Then again, I doubt James would take anything Dylan has to say at face value since his hatred runs so deep.
Still, I feel like I should try and sidestep it with him.
As much as I don’t want to, I have to come up with a plan to deal with Dylan. He’s not going to let this—or what he needs from me—go easily.
“Was he bothering you?” James asks.
There’s an edge to his voice, like he’s hoping I’ll say yes so that he’ll have a reason to hate Dylan today, and it makes me pause to consider it.
Bothering me? No.
Being himself? Always.
If he had approached me and genuinely asked for help, I would have had no problem making the time for him in my schedule. But he just grated at me in a way that told me I should stay far away from him.
“Harper,” James says sternly. “Are you okay?”
I nod my head, but he isn’t having it.
James pulls at his mess of a tie. “I hate how he just walks around like he owns the place. Just because his family is rich and his dad is on the school board doesn’t give him the right to just do whatever he wants.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say.
If he’s this wound up about me merely being in his close proximity, I’m not going to even bother to tell him about our conversation.
“Is he even in our study hall? I’ve never seen him before.”
“That’s what I said!” I admit with exasperation.
James leans back against the wall and pulls me closer to him. I awkwardly shuffle so I can stay on my own two feet.
In the romance novel of my dreams, I would slide up, step on my tiptoes, and we’d kiss until all of our troubles ceased to exist, but in my reality, I only allow myself to reach up and brush his unruly hair off his forehead.
It falls right back down when I drop my hand, making us both laugh.
At the very least, I’m successful at making James break down his inner tension.
“Did he make you uncomfortable?” James asks.
“No,” I say quickly. “But even if he did, I can handle myself. It’s not like I’m totally innocent.”
He laughs at that. It's one of those loud rolling ones where his eyes half-close.
I chew my bottom lip and wait for him to collect himself.
Unfortunately for me, James knows all the details of my very limited dating history.
It all pretty much starts and ends with a rushed make-out session last fall with Finn, my Homecoming date.
It’s not that I wasn’t interested in dating anyone up until then. I was just busy stacking my schedule with advanced classes and extracurriculars to make my college application more appealing.
Last September, I met Finn on a career day for high school seniors at one of the culinary magazine offices downtown. He and I hit it off during the lunch break over a mutual interest in a few authors and a bag of potato chips.
Frankly, I was surprised when he asked for my phone number, but I figured it was good to connect with someone who had similar interests. It didn’t necessarily occur to me that he was interested in something more than building his network until he asked me out on a date.
We went out a few times before Audrey pointedly nudged me into asking him to Homecoming.
Honestly, I didn’t see what the big fuss was all about with going out with someone.
Each date was a nerve-racking experience where I had to mentally flip through a list of topics that would be suitable for both of us, and I stressed the entire time over who was going to pay the check.
I much prefer to stay at home and watch reruns or eat mall food court Chinese food.
When our texts fizzled out after the dance was over, I wasn’t upset about it.
Of course, James fulfills the high school jock stereotype and has been on more dates than I can count. I don’t know how he manages everything while being so disorganized, but I force myself not to stress out about it.
I’ve been privy to the ins and outs of his relationships as well as the source of jealousy for almost all of his girlfriends. No matter how many times he tells them we’re just friends, they don’t buy the explanation and eventually have a meteoric breakup in his front yard.
I watch from my window and wait for him to storm over and vent to me.
“You’re so cute, H,” he says, lightly pulling on one of my curls.
Cute.
Cute.
Innocent.
Cute and innocent.
First, I get Dylan coercing me into doing his schoolwork, and now, I get James, my supposed best friend, patronizing me.
Neither of these things was in my planner.
The hallways start to empty, and I still have a way to walk to the science wing before the bell rings.
“See you at lunch,” I tell him flatly before I’m off to Physics.
“Don’t forget your Spanish homework,” James calls down as I walk away.
Leave it to him to practically scream in the middle of school that he’s cheating by copying my work.
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it, then I spend the remainder of the day stewing.
It doesn’t help that I can feel Dylan’s presence in the cafeteria as James doesn’t even attempt to figure out conjugations on his own, and in my English class, the very subject he needs help with.
James texts me with a heads up that they’re trail running today, so his practice is going to be a little longer than usual.
I’m usually more than fine to stay after school to study or get more yearbook work done, but today, I’m resentful that I have to wait around for him while my secondhand Honda CR-V sits in the driveway at home.
James has been carting me around since the minute he got his license, even though it was the same day I got mine—his love for driving is a sharp contrast to my excessive nervousness behind the wheel. My dad assured me I’d get more comfortable the longer I practiced, but it hasn’t happened yet.
By the time I head to the yearbook office after school, my annoyance has turned into an anger that won’t ease up.
I snap at everyone who asks me questions about copy and layouts enough times that people start to leave me alone.