I have to hold in the laugh that bubbles in my throat. What perfect irony. Weeks of strategizing, and what ends up catching Andrew’s attention is the one act I didn’t do as part of my reinvention—the reinvention I just gave up. I’m marveling at every way in which that kiss backfired when I notice Andrew leaning in, his lips nearing mine.
I pull back, surprising myself. It’s so quick I don’t have time to think about what I’m giving up, what fantasies or long-formed plans.
Yet the moment I draw away, I know how right the choice was. I never considered how long it’s really been since I’ve fantasized about that perfect night with Andrew. A while, I guess.
I can tell the rejection surprises Andrew, too. His forehead creases, and his eyes narrow. “I thought you wanted this,” he says, his voice more baffled than vulnerable.
“I did,” I reply, searching my own feelings. I can’t deny Brendan’s changed things. But even without Brendan—because honestly, I’ve no reason to hope that will turn out—I can’t convince myself to want what I used to with Andrew. “It’s just . . .” I say finally, “I don’t think you like me. Only the girl you think I’ve become.”
I remember what Andrew said about The Taming of the Shrew in class. How it was a good thing Katherine was compelled to change. I had grabbed on to his words like driftwood from the shipwreck of my apology to Paige. But I know how wrong they are now. Katherine has a husband by the end of the play, and she’s better liked, but she’s not herself. She’s only who Petruchio tames her to be.
And in an unpredictable rush, I’m angry. I’m angry my plan worked. I’ve won Andrew, but he only wants me because I’ve twisted myself into a new shape. I can admit that because of Brendan—of how I could’ve felt for Brendan. I liked him in a real way, and I wanted him to like me in a real way, too. It’s exhilarating, and crushing.
With Andrew it wasn’t that. From the very beginning, for both of us, it was never real. Andrew’s the guy who worked on paper, who represented everything I thought I wanted. Everything I told myself I wanted. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from kissing Brendan—other than how nerdy junior boys can be unexpectedly proficient kissers—it’s that you can’t pick or predict the person you’ll fall for. You can’t figure it out with a list or a plan.
“If we were meant to be together, you wouldn’t have wanted me to change first,” I say, hearing a charge in my voice.
“Cameron, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, sounding urgent. “I’ve always liked you.”
“No, you haven’t,” I reply, not hesitating. The thoughts fit together in my head with perfect clarity. “You liked the idea of being with Cameron Bright. But when you had the chance, you realized you wanted someone else. Someone nicer. I’m not that person, Andrew,” I declare. “I’m done hiding my opinions and not being honest.”
Elle’s words ring in my ears. I haven’t forgiven her for the way she delivered them, but she wasn’t wrong. I’ve apologized and done things for people just to please Andrew. Of course he’d like me for that. But those things didn’t come from me. What he likes is only what I tailor-made for him, wrapped up in a pretty bow. In trying to be better than my mother, I’ve made exactly her mistakes. I’ve given away pieces of myself in desperation to be with a guy with whom it’ll never work out.
“You want me agreeable, and even-tempered, and . . . tamed,” I tell him. “I won’t be.”
“When did I ever say I want you tamed?” he interrupts me indignantly.
“Remember what you said about Kate in The Taming of the Shrew?” I go on. “You said it was a good thing she was tamed by the end of the play. You said she was a better person for it.”
Andrew’s watching me in undisguised surprise. “Yeah,” he says gradually. “I was talking about Kate. In Taming of the Shrew. A play.”
I falter, his words catching me off guard. He has a point, but . . . “You called me a bitch, remember?” I ask, grasping for the point.
Andrew winces. His eyes grow confused, as if he can’t understand how such a short word can have such power. Because of course he can’t. “I—” he says and swallows. “Yeah. I did. I apologize for that, Cameron. It was wrong of me. You were horrible to Paige that night,” he reminds me, not that I need reminding. “But I know you’re not really that person. I needed time to forgive you for what happened with Paige. I respect how you apologized and were cool to Paige’s brother. I never needed you to change who you are, though. I wanted you before everything with Paige, and I want you now.”
It’s exactly what I wanted to hear. It’s everything I wanted to hear. And it’s not enough.
“I don’t think you do, Andrew,” I say decisively. “I don’t blame you, but I can’t be the girl you want. I’m going to say the wrong things sometimes. I’ll apologize when I do, but it’s going to happen. I know there are people out there who are gentler, or more open-minded, or have more discretion than me—wonderful people. You want one of them.”
It’s unbelievably freeing to admit. I’m really, genuinely over Andrew. Not just Andrew himself but the idea of him, of the relationship I’ve worked toward and worried about and driven myself crazy for. I’ve defined myself for my entire life by my goals, my accomplishments. Recognizing there’s nothing to this goal other than proving I don’t let my dreams pass me by, I feel weightless.
Andrew opens his mouth, but I’m not finished yet. This isn’t only about what he wants.
“I’m not the girl for you, and you’re not the guy for me.” I nearly smile as I say it.
Andrew closes his mouth, his rebuttal forgotten. I watch his expression shift from apprehension to acceptance and then agreement. He nods, his eyes on mine, and whatever this thing was between us is finally ended.
I could stay, could try to mend the frayed edges of our friendship. I walk to the door instead. There’s no need to draw this out. If he thinks I’m rude for walking out, fine. I don’t care what Andrew thinks. Not anymore.
I open the door and pause. “You already know nice girls,” I say from the doorway. “Girls you have real friendships with.”
He looks puzzled. I push down the urge to put my opinion gently. I won’t be doing that any longer.
“Andrew, don’t be an idiot,” I tell him. “There’s one girl we both know who’s nothing but accepting. She’s kind and generous, and she would never do anything to make someone feel bad. You actually talk to her, too, which, by the way, is what people do when they care about someone.” His confused expression only deepens. I don’t restrain the frustration from my tone. “You tell her about what’s worrying you on the team. You get lunch with her after pep rallies?”
He jolts a little, realizing who I mean.
“Bye, Andrew,” I say and walk out the door.
Outside, I roll my eyes with weeks’ worth of pent-up sarcasm.
Thirty-Two
I’VE AVOIDED BRENDAN FOR THE ENTIRE WEEK. For one thing, I definitely don’t want to hear him detailing his plans with whatever sophomore cheerleader asked him out, and furthermore I’m nervous he’ll realize the kiss was for real, and he’ll be horrified. It hurt enough he assumed the kiss was a stunt. I couldn’t take outright rejection.
But today is Friday, the day I agreed to go to Grand Central Market with him. Which means I can’t avoid him any longer.
Unless I can come up with an excuse. I finish my sit-ups for the cross-country workout—frustratingly, not a run. I really needed the wind on my face and the pavement under my feet to help me come up with what I’m going to tell Brendan. I get up, grabbing my water bottle, and head for the locker room. I could fake food poisoning, I guess. Or an assignment I forgot. He’d understand.
I round the corner, and there he is, leaning on the wall next to the locker room. For a moment, I forget my excuses, and I’m only watching him exchange nods with a couple people passing by. Worse, he looks good. Obj
ectively, there’s nothing new about him. He’s still too tall, with curly hair that’s a little too long. But kissing him has made me painfully aware of all the really obvious ways in which he’s hot. His, dare I say, chiseled jaw and warm eyes. His nonchalant posture, as if he doesn’t care about impressing anyone. His smile, open and genuine.
Just more reasons I can’t go through with this.
With a deep breath, I walk up to him, thinking of my excuse. “Hey, you ready?” he says before I can speak.
He glances up, and our eyes meet.
The excuse dries up on my tongue. I’m voiceless with the realization of how much I hated not talking to him. “Yeah,” I say, finding words. “Just give me ten minutes to clean up. I apologize in advance if I stink.”
Brendan grins. “I mean, it’s every guy’s nightmare to be one-on-one with a sweaty Cameron Bright.”
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, walking past him. I’d thought he was flirting with me when he said things like that. Now I know he’s not.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I’m showered and we’re halfway to downtown. We’re in my car, and Brendan’s reading me directions from his phone in the passenger seat. I’m trying my hardest to not be awkward, to pretend there’s not this new place in my heart for him. Brendan’s certainly not acting differently. I just have to force myself not to look at, think about, or remember the feel of his lips.
Easy.
Focusing on the road helps. But for the first time in Los Angeles history, there’s no traffic, and we hit every green on Wilshire Boulevard, a street I thought I could depend on for endless bumper-to-bumper purgatory. I’m dreading our arrival. I don’t know how to act on this decidedly non-date, and the question has me on edge.
Before I’m prepared, we’re entering downtown. Of course we find parking immediately. On the street, too. We don’t even have to use one of those inconvenient eight-dollar public parking lots with peeling paint on the fences. We get out of the car in front of a cheap electronics store, the cluttered, nondescript kind with ten-year-old cell phones and blinking lights in the windows. I’m about to force a conversation when Brendan’s phone pings with a text. While we walk, he types a reply, grinning.
“Is that Paige?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. “Say hi for me.” I try to keep my voice disinterested and fail.
“No, it’s Eileen Roth,” he says. “Do you know her? I started tutoring her in Computer Science.”
“Eileen doesn’t take Computer Science.”
He looks up, a hint of wariness in his eyes. “She’s doing independent study. She wants to take the AP exam without being in the class. I didn’t know you kept tabs on random junior girls’ schedules, though.”
I bite my cheek, fighting the irritation gathering in my chest. I know I should drop it. But the words fly out of me before I can contain them. “Come on, Brendan. She’s flirting with you.”
He blinks, bewildered. “No, she’s not. We’re just scheduling a tutoring session for Saturday night at her house . . . Ah.” His eyes widen with understanding. “Clearly, I’m bad at interpreting signals.”
CLEARLY, Brendan.
We’re walking past rows of mirrored skyscrapers with escalators and marble staircases in their street-level lobbies. “What are you going to do?” I ask, no longer holding the impatience from my voice.
“Do?”
“Are you going to this ‘tutoring session’?” I form air quotes with my fingers.
He drops his eyes. I’m certain it’s because he knows I like him and he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. “What do you think I should do?” he asks delicately.
“I don’t know, Brendan!” I can’t believe this. We haven’t even gotten to the place for this not-date, and already we’re discussing Brendan’s other romantic prospects. “If you like her—if you want to hook up with her—then go. It’s none of my business.”
We round a corner cluttered with bicycles. “Did I . . .” He begins again after a pause. “Did I piss you off somehow?”
“What could you have done to piss me off?” I fire back.
“I don’t know,” he replies. I wrack my brain for ways out of this conversation while Brendan ushers me into the warehouse-looking building on our left, under an open metal garage door.
Whatever I was about to say, it’s instantly forgotten.
I find myself in the front of a huge, high-ceilinged room crammed with tiny restaurants, food counters, and people. I’m overwhelmed. Not only by the smells and sounds—the hot, baked aroma of egg-biscuit sandwiches, the sweet-sour spice of Thai noodles, the clatter of cooking pans and sushi knives—but by the signs, the lights, the letters. While hipsters holding gelato cups and old women carrying fresh bread pass me and Brendan, I study the rows of dozens of vendors packed into the warehouse, noting my favorite details. The fishtail logo over the sleek, modern seafood stand. The trendy coffee shop’s handwritten menu. The bold red-and-white lettering of the pupuseria—whatever a pupuseria is.
Brendan’s voice is gentle beside me. “It’s great, right? I knew you’d love it.”
“It’s amazing,” I breathe. I walk into one of the aisles, pulling my phone from my bag instinctually. I begin to take photos, then turn, finding Brendan watching me, smiling softly. I feel my breath catch. Everything about this feels like . . . not a not-date. It has me beginning to question if it might be more.
“Paige showed me one of your designs,” Brendan says, walking up next to me. “You’re really good, you know. Like, professional.”
“It’s just a hobby,” I hear myself say automatically.
“It could be more than a hobby,” he insists. “If you wanted.”
For the first time, I don’t shake off the thought. I’ve enjoyed design, I’ve just never let myself wonder if it could be more. I’ve kept myself focused on Econ, on the path that would lead me closer to my dad’s life. I didn’t want to consider other paths, other places I could go. I didn’t want to consider whether other things could fit me better.
But here in this place, with Brendan looking encouraging beside me—looking like he believes in me—I’m considering it.
It would mean giving up the connection to my dad I’d hoped and planned for. It would mean giving up a world of chances to be closer to him. I don’t know if I’m ready to do that.
“Do you want to get food?” Brendan asks.
I’m suddenly starving, at the mercy of the incredible smells surrounding me. “Wow, yes.” I put my phone away. “Is there anything you can eat here?”
Like it’s nothing, Brendan takes my hand.
“Let me show you. It’s on me,” he says.
I don’t remove my hand. I follow him into the market, wondering for the second time what this is to him. He was just talking about going over to another girl’s house, I remind myself. But the way my hand feels in his, I’m having a really, really hard time convincing myself this isn’t a date.
Thirty-Three
AN ENTIRE WEEK GOES BY WITHOUT CLARIFICATION on the date-or-not-date question. Brendan took me to his favorite place and bought my dinner. He was perfectly friendly, but only friendly. He tried to explain Game of Thrones to me, and we placed bets on Paige’s next hair color once she grows enough back to dye it again. He didn’t take my hand again.
Things were normal at school, or whatever this new normal is. I had lunch with Brendan in the robotics room once while he worked on his game. Elle continues to ignore me, and I’ve given up trying to engage with her.
It’s Friday night, and I’m for once eagerly anticipating an entire weekend alone in my apartment. I don’t have a single social obligation, which admittedly is because I’ve managed to alienate my friends, reject my only dating prospect, and propel my crush into such new heights of popularity he’s sure to have dozens of plans from which to choose.
I f
orce the thoughts from my head. I’m not wasting the weekend on self-loathing and other useless emotions.
I could hang out with Paige. But she’s picked up the vexing habit of dropping casual references to Brendan, and I’m not interested in hearing about his wonderful weekend plans or what he’s probably doing with Eileen Roth. In the midst of a completely ordinary conversation yesterday—or as ordinary as Paige is capable of—about why I “need” to watch some show called Boys Over Flowers, she just had to mention that Brendan got a ride home with someone else yesterday, thereby giving her Boys Over Flowers time. He and I haven’t talked about whatever he’s doing in the dating realm after our awkward conversation outside Grand Central Market.
Every time Paige says his name she gives me this curious look. I don’t know if she wants me to demand information or break down in tears or what, but I get the feeling she might be the only person—other than Elle—who knows the real reason behind the kiss, and now she’s torturing me until I admit it. As if admitting it would change anything. It would only put Brendan in the position of having to reject me.
Regardless, knowing Paige, if I texted her she’d probably invite me over to witness firsthand whatever date Brendan will be on. Not something I need visual evidence of.
I kick open the door to our apartment, ready to collapse on the couch and watch something mindless and without even a trace of romance—Animal Planet, I think—when I’m stopped short by the sight of my mother wearing my old Homecoming dress.
It’s a little too small, especially in the chest, and the length’s shorter than acceptable for a work event. Her curled hair bounces down her back, and her eyes are painted gold and brown in a way that’s pretty if a little ostentatious. She’s pulling on a pair of very high strappy stilettos.
I’m almost afraid to ask. “Where are you going?” I say from the doorway.
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