by Pintip Dunn
“Mat?” I ask because there’s a very real chance that he’s having a stroke.
He shakes himself. “The dress is…” He trails off, and my mind immediately fills in the blanks. Hideous? Pathetic? Desperate?
“Passable,” he finishes. His eyes have become opaque and unreadable. “It’s the only thing that makes you look halfway decent. Might as well get it.”
My temper flares. Not least because I used the same word to describe him. “Careful, Mat. You might accidentally say something nice about me.”
My hands are shaking; my chest is tight. That’s when I realize I’m not just angry. I’m…hurt. Silly but true. A small part of me, one that I’m only now understanding, wanted him to compliment me. For once in the last four years.
He lowers his eyes to the bristly brown carpet. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what I’m actually thinking.”
I lift my chin. “Oh yeah? Try me. There’s not a damn thing you could say that would hurt me any more than you already have.”
“Hurt you?” He glances at me and then quickly shifts his gaze to the storage boxes stacked in the corner. “Why do you always assume the worst? I don’t know what’s made you change, but the twelve-year-old Winnie never would’ve acted this way. She wouldn’t have stayed like a mouse in her sisters’ shadows, content to be second—no, third—best. She had so much confidence; she cut her own path. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. And I was more than happy to follow in her wake. What ever happened to her?”
“She lost her best friend!” I shout. “The boy who was supposed to have her back, for always, dropped her like last season’s trends. Did you ever think of that?”
His eyes turn flinty. “Try again. Because the Winnie I knew wouldn’t have let anybody hold her back. Not even her best friend.”
I clench my jaw, hard. But I can’t unhear what he just said. The details won’t unstick from my brain, which means I’ll be thinking about his words, this conversation, later tonight when I’m in bed but can’t sleep. And many more nights after that.
“You’re wrong,” I manage. I can barely hear myself over the blood that’s roaring in my ears. “I was never that confident. Never that strong.”
I stumble backward, although I’m not sure if it’s to get away from him or the truth. Past the navy curtain. Back into the dressing room. Where I can hide away once more.
Except this time, he follows me.
“What did you want me to say?” he asks, advancing. I back into the flimsy wall, across from the full-length mirror. Not because he’s crowding me but because I’m crowding myself. “You want me to say that you’re stunning? That I wish I could take a photo, so that I can look at you all day? That the material is soft and touchable—and as skimpy as it is, it still covers way too much?” His eyes are black and furious and mesmerizing. I couldn’t look away if I tried. “Yeah, I could’ve said all that. No doubt, that’s what Taran’s going to be thinking. But I didn’t, because I have too much respect for you. Even after everything we’ve been through.”
“You’re lying,” I croak.
He raises an eyebrow. “Actually, that’s the most truthful I’ve been all day. Which part do you think I’m lying about? Taran having those thoughts? Or me wishing I could take a photo?”
“You d-don’t actually want that,” I stammer. “You don’t like me. Which means, you’re not attracted to me.”
“Two separate things,” he corrects. “I’m a heterosexual guy. And you’re a beautiful girl, standing within arm’s length of me, wearing a dress that could easily fit into my pocket. I can loathe you all I want. I’m still going to have a reaction.”
My thoughts race. I don’t understand why he’s telling me these things. Where is he going with this? What angle can he possibly have?
He takes a step closer to me. “You think too much. Really, Winnie, it’s not all that complicated. Not everyone has an ulterior motive. Sometimes, a compliment is just a compliment.”
When I don’t respond, he sighs. “Here. I’ll prove it to you.” He picks up my palm and places it directly on his chest, where the only thing that separates my hand from his flesh is the thin cotton of his shirt.
Underneath my hand, his heart drums steadily—no, the beats aren’t at all steady. They’re frantic. Erratic. Skittering off in every direction.
What does it mean? Is he so good of an actor that he has control over his heart rate? Or is he genuinely and sincerely feeling…something?
I don’t know. I don’t know!
I lift my eyes, and I lose track of my thoughts. Because his lips are right there in front of me. Perfectly shaped. Pillow soft.
The air around us is hot, humid. We could’ve teleported to a swamp, with all the steam rising around us.
“What, exactly, are you proving?” I whisper. Somehow, my other hand has joined the first one on his chest, and he makes a growly sound in his throat.
This close, his eyes have lost all shade and shadow, so they’re just black. Deep-space black. Bottomless-pit black.
He takes a shaky breath. “I’m proving that one thing has nothing to do with the other. For example, you could kiss me right now. And I’d let you. In fact, I’d kiss you back. But that wouldn’t change my feelings toward you. I’d still loathe you just as much as I did before.”
I narrow my eyes. Because I don’t believe him. I could never kiss my sworn enemy. Even if his chest is warm and solid under my fingertips. Even if his lips are soft and inviting—and inches from my own.
“I’m going to call your bluff,” I warn.
“I dare you,” he says in a strangled voice.
I trail my fingers up his neck, and he sucks in a breath. He settles his hands hesitantly over my hips, on top of the thin silk, and wow. He’s on to something. This silk does cover way too much.
I move forward, backing him up until he’s against the chair in the corner, the one that’s covered with ugly sweaters and cringe-worthy dresses. If this were a rom-com, I’d make him sit and straddle him right about now. But it’s not. And no matter what he says, I’m not that brave.
Our breaths come out uneven and jerky. Me, because I don’t know how far I can push this. And him…well, I’m not entirely sure why.
“May I…may I kiss you?” I ask, because I really do want his permission. But also because I’m stalling.
He nods helplessly. His mouth parts. I lean closer. A couple more inches. Closer still. Only a few centimeters separate us now.
My brain scrambles. Am I really going to do this? In the name of what? I’m no longer sure what I’m trying to prove. All I know is that I want to kiss him. This guy. My sworn enemy. My former best friend.
“How’s it going back here?” A cheery voice drifts through the navy curtain. Argh! The salesperson.
I spring away from Mat as though he were a hot stove. And in a way, he is. Because heat courses through my body. My palms burn where they were pressed against his shirt. My lips tingle, although the only thing they’ve touched is the air he’s breathing.
“Doing great,” I babble to the salesperson. “I found the perfect dress. Let me take it off, and then I’ll be out to pay.”
I’m looking right at Mat when I say these words. So I feel his breath hitch; I see his eyes flicker. I don’t wait to see what other reaction he might have.
Instead, I push him out of the dressing room before I act as foolishly as I did in my kiss dream.
Chapter Thirteen
I almost kissed Mat. I almost kissed Mat. I almost kissed Mat.
The words run in a loop through my head, numbing my brain, freezing my soul. Just like the frozen yogurt that’s entering my mouth.
We’re sitting at one of the round laminate tables at the mall’s food court, my emerald dress neatly folded inside a bag hanging from my chair. I wiped down the surface of the table, but under
neath my forearms, I can feel the stickiness that clings to all food-court tables everywhere.
Unlike the relative quiet of the dress store, the food court is packed. Wall-to-wall people load up on grease-on-top-of-grease food. At the next table, a family with more ponytails and Band-Aids than I can count crowd around two large pizzas. Next to them, a couple barely older than us gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes. The air is saturated with the scent of fried food. Like the stickiness of the tables, I’m pretty sure the smell has bonded with the air molecules. You could bulldoze this mall, and I’d still smell overly salted fries.
I take another bite of Froyo. And try to ignore the boy sitting across from me, the one who refuses to be ignored.
For example, I ordered lychee-flavored Froyo—my favorite. And of course, he has to get coconut—my second favorite. It’s maddening. So what if he’s not doing it on purpose? These are the flavors of our childhood. And now, all I can think about are the fresh kernels of corn they serve with coconut ice cream in Thailand and wish that I could take a bite of his yogurt.
Minutes pass. The family finishes their pizza—with only two tantrums that have to be bribed with freshly baked cookies—and leaves. The lovebirds have given up all pretense of cheesy coupledom and just attack each other’s lips.
And we still don’t speak.
Mat’s eyes have lightened to a nice shade of dark brown, although that could just be the fluorescent lights. He pushes his half-eaten Froyo to the middle of the table and takes an all-too-familiar speckled notebook and measuring tape from his messenger bag.
I scowl. “You know keeping a record of our dates is a pointless exercise, right?”
He shrugs. “Tell that to your parents.”
“Take the measuring tape,” I persist. “Are we supposed to record the distance between us now? Or before?”
In the dressing room, I don’t say. Where the distance between us was not quite zero but pretty darn close.
But if I’m trying to draw a reaction from him, an acknowledgment of what happened between us, then I fail. Miserably.
“Now’s probably as good a time as any.” He stretches the tape between his end of the table and mine, but when his fingers graze against my hand, I jerk out of his reach.
Indifferent, he releases the tape and jots the number in his notebook.
Infuriating, thy name is Mat.
“What are you putting under Topic of Conversation?” I ask. “Are you going to say we discussed kissing?”
He looks up, his eyes distant. “Is that what you want me to do?”
I clench my teeth. Clearly not. If he wrote that down, my life would be over. Forget dating. I wouldn’t even be able to leave the house, period. It would be like being under quarantine. He knows this. Which is why I don’t give him a real answer.
“That depends,” I say, as sweet as the Froyo I have yet to take a bite of. Come to think of it, he hasn’t eaten any of his, either. “What grade would you give me?”
He lifts his brow. “For promising a kiss and not following through? Hmm.” He looks up at the soaring ceiling, as though searching for an answer among the scattered skylights. “C-plus.”
“What?” I yelp. “Why is my grade going down? Some teacher you are.”
“I’m not your teacher,” he says. “Just your evaluator. Or your, um, dater. Er. Datee?” He shakes his head, puzzling over the term. No wonder. Such a concept shouldn’t even exist. Leave it to Mama to dream up new scenarios for the English language.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “If Mama thinks you’re making me worse at dating, then she’ll yank you from the job. And then where will you and your three-month trek across Asia be?”
Even as I say the words, I want to snatch them out of the air. What am I doing? I want Mama to replace him. I wish I could date someone else, such as Taran.
But it’s too late.
“You’ve got a point,” Mat says thoughtfully, scrawling a big, bold “B” in the notebook.
I huff out a breath. I’m so annoyed—at him and myself—that I grab a clean spoon and stick it in the middle of his Froyo, scooping up a gigantic bite and not even bothering to hide it.
“Hey! What are you doing?” he protests.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t used the spoon,” I say testily. “You’re not getting my germs. Besides, we always used to split our food. Remember? Not just with Froyo but also with pizza rolls. You preferred the plain cheese, and I liked pepperoni, but we’d trade a couple of pieces for variety’s sake.”
For a moment, all I hear is the loud din of conversation around us. A crumpled napkin lands squarely on our table, and a grade-school kid rushes up, a baseball cap turned backward on his head. He apologizes profusely and carries the napkin over to his true target—that trash can ten feet away.
Ignoring him, Mat leans forward, his hands clasped on the greasy surface. “Yeah. That was fun. I kinda miss trading with you,” he says, so softly that I can’t be sure I heard him correctly.
I miss you, I think. I miss watching Frozen together for the millionth time. I miss how you would always give me the last Sour Patch Kid, even though I’d already had more than my share. I miss saving the red ones for you, even though I liked them, too.
But I don’t say any of this out loud. Instead, I take a deep breath. Give myself a pep talk. And try to remember the words that I’ve practiced on countless sleepless nights.
“I’m sorry I told everyone you had a crush on Denise Riley.” Once I start, the words tumble out, one after the other. I’ve rehearsed this apology so many times that the speech comes automatically. “I’m even sorrier that I knocked your binder over so that everyone saw that you carried a picture of her. It was immature and petty, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I know my actions are pretty much unforgivable. But I hope you’ll forgive me anyway.”
He startles. “Oh, I had forgotten about that.” He stares, unblinking, for several long seconds. “Is that why you think we stopped being friends?”
My mouth falls open. And stays open. “Um. It’s not?”
“No. It didn’t bother me, because I never had a crush on Denise. I just told you that because I didn’t want to admit who I really liked. Carrying her photo was just part of the ruse.” The tops of his cheeks redden to a rusty brick.
“You lied to me? Why? Who did you have a crush on?” My thoughts whirl like a hurricane. “Forget it. Not important. What I really want to know is: if it wasn’t my betrayal, then why did you avoid me?” I lick my lips. “Why did you stop being my friend?”
He wants to answer, I can tell. His lips part, and the words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, in the depths of those opaque eyes. He just has to lower his walls, if only for a moment, and the truth will come rushing out.
But in the end, he just shakes his head, keeping his answers where he’s always safeguarded them. Locked up tightly in his heart.
“Fine.” I collapse against my flimsy plastic chair, frustrated. “You don’t have to answer me. But are we really not going to discuss what happened?”
His forehead creases. “What do you mean?”
“The dressing room!” I exclaim. “Where we almost kissed. Where we most certainly would’ve kissed if we hadn’t been interrupted.”
His eyes deepen. The air turns soupy once more. It’s the only explanation for why I can’t get a proper breath. The physical spark between us flares, and all of a sudden, I’m intensely aware of just how much distance separates our hands. And I don’t even need the measuring tape.
“Winnie! Is that you?” A familiar voice invades my thoughts.
I blink, and my best friend materializes next to our table. Her long, elegant neck is draped with multiple strands of shiny beads, and her sleek bob curves around her cheeks.
Chib-peng. I totally forgot that I asked—okay, begged—Kavya to “bump” into us
at the food court so that she could rescue me from what was sure to be an unbearable date.
“Kavya,” I say weakly. “What are you doing here?” I don’t even have the energy to make my question convincing.
Which is probably why she doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, she turns to Mat, scanning him from his floppy black hair to his beat-up loafers. “Hi, Mat,” she says demurely.
“Hey.” He smiles at her.
She pauses a beat to melt under his attention—and then zeroes in on the shopping bag hanging from my chair. “Did you find a dress for Taran’s party? Let me see.”
Without waiting for a response, she picks up the bag and slides out the dress. “Oh, Winnie,” she says, her voice hushed and reverent as she unfolds the garment. “It’s gorgeous. Taran is going to love it. And get this. After some intense digging, I’ve discovered…” She pauses dramatically. “That his favorite color is green.”
Mat snickers. “Those are some hard-core detective skills you’ve got. How many victims did you have to torture to get that top secret information?”
She tries—and fails—to hide her delight that Mat’s actually talking to her. He’s teasing, sure, but it’s clear from his tone that it’s out of affection, not malice.
“I don’t believe in torture,” Kavya says primly.
“Neither do I.” His gaze searches my face until I meet his eyes. Until I know, as well as he does, that we’re both thinking of that moment when he implied that it was torture for him to pick out clothes for Taran to enjoy.
“What’s your favorite color, Mat?” Kavya asks.
He turns back to my best friend. “Are you giving me a firsthand demonstration of your supersleuthing?”
Her eyes twinkle. “Answer the question. Or I’ll have to kill you.”
“Who wants to know?” he counters.
“Winnie,” my traitor of a best friend says.
“Hey!” I protest, hands up. “Leave me out of this.”
“Well, it’s not green. That’s for damn sure.” He picks up his Froyo, jabbing his spoon so hard that it goes right through the Styrofoam. I stare, fascinated. Are we still talking about favorite colors?