“I’m not quite sure about that.” I chuckle sardonically as flashes of our hometown whip past the passenger window.
Sawyer is all control and blunt maleness in the driver’s seat, and it almost hurts to look at him. Because my lord, he’s attractive when I’m sober, but he’s extremely attractive when I’m drunk. Dangerously so, because I’m considering leaning over the console to touch the divot where I know his dimple flashes on his cheek when he smiles.
Not that he’s smiling now. His thick brown eyebrows are slanted over those stern green eyes, and the muscles of his bicep pop with barely held restraint under his T-shirt sleeves as he one-hands the wheel. His knuckles are thick and I’m not sure why hands and fingers are suddenly the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, but as he grips the leather, I’m stunned to discover that they are.
“Why’d you do it?”
His voice is barely above a whisper, and it’s the first non-confrontational sentence he’s spoken to me in two years. It’s simply a question, and I can tell from the tone in his voice that he’s not asking why I doused his car in female menstrual products. He’s asking about two years ago, about us coming out of that closet and the entire landscape of our friendship changing.
My gaze swings to him, but he’s facing forward, as if trying to solve a puzzle out of the traffic lines painted onto the pavement.
How am I going to explain to him that I found his list? That I read his private thoughts, where he skewered me and broke down every confidence I ever believed in.
In two years, I’ve never come clean. It strikes me now that Sawyer thought I ended our friendship randomly, out of the blue. It is, now that I think of it, pretty unfair that he has just been left hanging with no excuse or reason from me.
But then I think of his pros and cons, and my heart breaks all over again. And I transform into that warped, damaged person I’ve been all along. No party or faux-acceptance from my peers can make me shiny and new.
“Clearly, if the past two years have taught us anything, it’s that we never had anything in common. We were forced together because of our parents, and I’m glad, for one, that we ended that charade. I mean, look how much you despise me. Isn’t honesty better? I just did us a favor.”
The lies coming out of my mouth deal blow after blow to my already damaged heart. I’m spitting untruths, but I’m doing myself a favor. Haven’t I always known that if I didn’t cut him out before he did the same to me, he would have wounded me beyond repair?
If I had fallen in love with Sawyer, and then he eventually ended whatever was between us, I wouldn’t have recovered. And that was what inevitably would have happened. I just made the move before he could.
“You’re right, I do hate you. Don’t forget that.”
Those words sting like a bitch, like an iron on my skin that leaves a brand.
Sawyer pulls the truck to a stop, and we just stare at each other. A jolt of electricity seems to hit the car, crackling between us until I’m not sure whether it’s hate or intense lust floating through the air. I’m not sure if he’s about to verbally dismantle me again, or kiss the living daylights out of me. And I’m not quite sure which I’d prefer.
I have to be the one to look away first, securing that tiniest bit of power. That’s what this is between us; the ultimate power struggle each time we interact. Who cares less, who cares more, who can wound more severely.
Though it’s difficult, I move my chin until my eyes aren’t gazing into his, but at the road in front of us. The alcohol and tension must be clouding my brain, because the fifteen-minute drive home felt like two seconds.
There are at least two blocks left before my house. He dislikes me so much that he’s going to make me walk home in the pitch dark, but that shouldn’t surprise me.
Neither of us says another word as I wrench open the door and hop out, the night swallowing me as all of the unanswered questions left between us still linger in the cab of his truck.
8
Sawyer
“No, dude, you have to put the chips between the mayo and the cheese, not on the meat.”
As I take the first bite of my lunch, my friends are busy arguing over the correct layering of a sandwich.
Glavin demonstrates the proper way to put together a turkey sandwich, and by the time he’s done, it looks like the thing should be something Guy Fieri is trying on Diners, Drive-ins and Dives.
“I don’t even know why we’re eating lunch here. The whole point of being a senior is so you can go off campus during this period. I really wanted a slice of pizza,” Matthew says begrudgingly, eating his own mediocre ham and cheese.
“We’re here because I need a date to homecoming and want to scope out the prospective fresh meat.” My best friend rubs his hands together.
I roll my eyes. “That’s why I’m sitting in this fucking cafeteria? You asshole. You could have just macked on one at her locker and been done with it.”
He shrugs, his eyes lingering over the long tables full of underclassmen girls. “Yeah, but what would be the fun of that? Here, I can put on a show. Besides, what do you care? Hailey has all but spoken for you.”
Annoyance flits at my temples like a gnat. “I haven’t even asked her, I don’t know why she’s going around spreading that shit.”
Truth is, I have no desire to take a date to homecoming. I’m an eighteen-year-old male, there is no way I’m tying myself to one girl when I can swap grinding partners the entire night. Hailey isn’t my girlfriend, I’m not shelling out for flowers, and I’m not ending the night with some promise of more in our future.
“Who are you taking?” I ask Matt.
He’s busy texting under the table, though no teacher would ever dare take the cell phone from our star quarterback. They probably wouldn’t take mine either, or I’d be able to charm my way out of it. Unfortunately, the jock stereotype and favoritism of the popular crowd is one hundred percent accurate at Chester High School.
“What?” He barely glances up.
“Who are you asking to homecoming? Or are we flying solo together?”
Matt shoots his head up, clearly done with whatever he’s doing on his phone. “I’m going to ask Blair.”
I nearly choke on the sip of Gatorade I just took. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, fuck off about your vendetta. It’s so old. And she got really damn hot. So I’m going for it.”
“The hell you are.” I set my roast beef sandwich down with authority.
“She’s fair game! And she’s currently the hottest chick in the senior class. Since I’m the hottest guy, it only makes sense.”
Glavin chimes in, “Hey, I don’t know about that now …”
“Blair is off-limits. And she’s weird, you don’t even want her. You only think so because it’s … because it’s odd or a challenge or some shit.”
I’m barely keeping my temper in check, especially because Matt challenged me on this at the party the other night. And the two of them could barely stop bugging me when we met up to throw a football around on Sunday afternoon in the park. They wanted to know if I’ve seen her tits, when I was only trying to explain how much I despise her.