“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t know how to read you. And you’re kind of intimidating.”
Wait, he thinks I’m intimidating? Mind. Blown. Until we started talking in science class a few weeks ago, Ben Griffin seemed as far away and as impossibly out of reach as a star. And even though I know him a little better now, it still kind of feels that way.
He reaches over and gently twists a strand of my long red hair around his finger. The thought that he might be nervous is way too much for my brain to take in.
“Your hair is awesome,” he says. “It looks just like a sunset.”
And, okay, it’s kind of a corny thing to say, but maybe I like corny. Maybe it doesn’t always have to be clever banter.
I swallow. “Thanks.”
His blue eyes lock on mine. He slides his arm around the back of the couch, and then slides a little closer to me, and we’re kissing and oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening.
Ben Griffin is kissing me. And I’m kissing him back! I am kissing Ben Griffin and he is kissing me and I’m pretty sure that I’m going to spontaneously combust.
For one second, Alistair and his lopsided smile hijack my thoughts and I wonder what it would be like to be on this couch with him instead, but I quickly push the image away. He probably has his hand up Camila’s shirt by now.
And speaking of hands up shirts …
Ben’s fingers are warm against my lower back. He stops kissing my mouth and moves to my neck. Somehow, I find myself lying on the couch, Ben stretched out on top of me. I’m so lost in my feelings, so lost in Ben, that I don’t realize we’re not alone until someone clears their throat.
Ben jumps off me. His blond hair is sticking up in all directions, his T-shirt is wrinkled, and he’s breathing hard.
Alistair’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his face all hard angles. “Marisol’s not feeling well. I’m taking her home. You coming?”
I sit up, tugging my sweater down so that it covers my stomach. My head is spinning. I’m not sure if I’m light-headed from the vodka punch or from kissing Ben.
“I’ll make sure she gets home,” Ben says.
“That’s okay,” Alistair says. “I brought her, so I can take her—”
“No, it’s fine,” I interrupt him. “I’m going to stay a bit longer.”
He frowns. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
This is the second time tonight one of my friends has questioned my judgment, and honestly, it’s super annoying. “Yes, I’m sure,” I snap.
Alistair scowls. “Fine, whatever.” He turns on his heel and leaves.
“Wow, he really doesn’t like me,” Ben says.
I shake my head. “He really doesn’t.”
He laughs and laces his fingers through mine. “Well, I guess that’s fair enough. I was kind of a dick to him when we were kids.”
I like that he’s acknowledging that he treated Alistair unfairly in middle school. I just wish Alistair had stuck around to hear it. Maybe it would make a difference to know that Ben is sorry.
“So.” Ben runs his thumb lightly over the back of my hand. “Winter formal is coming up. I was wondering if you’d go with me.”
I stare at him and the world stops. Ben Griffin is asking me to winter formal. Ben Griffin, captain of the basketball team, hottest guy in school, is asking me to winter formal. Me! To winter formal!
I can’t keep the smile off my face. “I’d love to.”
“Perfect.” He leans over and kisses the tip of my nose. “It’s a date.”
We make out some more, Ben’s hands tangled in my hair, my fingers moving without direction, the just-barely-there scruff on his cheeks burning my skin, until I’m dangerously close to curfew. Ben runs upstairs to his room to grab his keys so he can take me home. I head back into the kitchen and find Alistair by himself at the table, building a pyramid of Solo cups. Everyone else has migrated to the great room.
“You’re still here,” I say.
He shrugs. “I came back after I took Marisol home.”
“I told you Ben would drive me. You didn’t have to come back.”
“Yes, I did.” He places a cup at the very top of the pyramid. It wobbles for a moment before toppling over, bringing all the cups crashing to the floor. “Drinking and driving don’t mix. That’s why I ride a bike.”
I stare at him, confused.
“Pretty in Pink?” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Not everyone has every movie they’ve ever watched memorized.”
Alistair sighs. “What are we doing here, Em?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he says, bending down to collect the cups. “Since when do you care about anyone in this crowd? Just look around. We don’t fit in here.”
Maybe he doesn’t fit in, but I could. Ben asking me to winter formal is proof that I belong. I could be part of the popular crowd.
“You didn’t seem worried about that when you were kissing Camila,” I point out.
“She kissed me.”
“You didn’t stop her.”
His lips quirk.
“You aren’t even trying to talk to anyone,” I say. He could have joined everyone else in the other room. He could have made an effort.
He shakes his head. “That’s the thing, Em. I don’t want to try. Not with these people.”
I don’t want to fight with him—why bother, when he’ll never understand where I’m coming from? He’s determined to be sullen and moody, to act the part of Emo Teen. He’s not going to give Ben or anyone else a chance. Which, ironically enough, makes him the condescending snob.
Ben comes into the kitchen, twirling his car keys. “My Jeep is blocked in.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Alistair came back for me.”
“Oh, great.” Ben smiles at him. “Thanks, buddy.”
Alistair ignores him. “Are you ready to go?” he says to me.
I nod.
Someone calls Ben’s name from the other room. He leans over and gives me a quick kiss, then leaves to join his friends.
Alistair and I don’t talk much on the ride back to my house, but the silence between us says everything.
CHAPTER
2
Alistair is sitting at our regular table at Bonus Round when I arrive the next morning, which isn’t a surprise. He usually gets here first because he likes to set up the game. Settlers of Catan is our thing. The honeycomb board is spread out; the playing cards are shuffled and neatly stacked to the side, along with three mismatched mugs.
The shop smells like coffee. The Harry Potter soundtrack is on in the background, just below the sounds of dice hitting game boards and the grinding of the espresso machine. Alistair doesn’t look up as I approach the table, a clear sign that he’s still upset with me about last night. He doesn’t get mad often, and while I don’t want to discount his feelings, I don’t really understand them. This whole situation is weird, but maybe it’s just us adjusting to me really liking someone—especially when that someone is a person he hates.