“Natalie, be straight with me. How starving do I need to be to eat this?” Dad asks.
“Forty-eight hours trapped in your car at the bottom of a ravine, at least,” Natalie replies.
Dad nods, his suspicions confirmed before turning to me. “Then this can go to book club with your mother,” he says. “I’m going to put it in the fridge and throw some bagel bites in the microwave. Beck, now that you’ve rejoined the land of the living, my AxGx offer still stands!”
“What’s AxGx?” Natalie asks.
I shake my head. “Just this show he’s into,” I say. I start padding toward the stairs in my sock feet, Natalie following close behind. As soon as we’re in my room, I flop down on my bed. Natalie, standing on my rug, reaches into her purse and pulls out a cellophane bag.
“I brought provisions,” she says, and holds up the clear cellophane bag filled with my very favorite candy. Which means she definitely knows, and is here for a very specific reason. Because we each have our pick-me-up junk food, something we’d never eat in front of anyone else. It’s something we deploy when we’re in desperate need of cheering up. Like when Natalie’s mom decided to try Whole30 and made the whole family play along. Or when they killed off Rivers on Golden Hours (RIP, you golden vampire god). It’s a never-fail, please-send-help, pull-in-case-of-emergency option when things are looking really low.
And as I stick my finger through a hole in the flannel boxers I usually sleep in, I know things are really low.
She tosses me the bag of circus peanuts. They bounce next to me on the bed, and I snatch them up and tear the paper top off the bag, pull one out, and take a sugary bite.
“Delicious,” I say as the sugar melts over my tongue. Because as low as I feel, I can already tell my pick-me-up is working. Just a little.
Natalie shakes her head, walking over to the bed and nudging my hip with her knee. I scooch my butt over, and she flops down next to me. I offer her the bag, and she plucks one out, but clearly only for observational purposes. She holds it up and closes one eye to stare at it closely with the other. “A neon orange marshmallow that’s shaped like a peanut but tastes like bananas. It makes no culinary sense.”
“A chicken potpie made with neither meat, dairy, nor wheat. Now that makes no culinary sense.”
She drops the circus peanut back into my bag. “You’ll get no argument from me there.”
“And you have no room to talk, Ms. Sixlets. Who eats bootleg M&M’s?”
I munch in silence for a few minutes, squishing the peanuts between my thumb and forefinger before taking a bite. Somehow they just taste better when they’re this dense little sugar bomb. It’s weird, I know, but it’s a technique I’ve honed over several years of bad days and road trips (the only other acceptable time to eat circus peanuts).
“Soooooooo,” Natalie says after my fifth circus peanut. And I’m almost a little glad she’s talking, because I know from experience that after the sixth, my stomach starts to get very angry at me. Not that it deters me from eating the whole bag and ending up filled with sugar and deep regret. But I guess that’s just part of the fun. At least “filled with deep regret” matches my current mood. “I’m guessing you heard?”
“Heard? Oh no,” I say, swallowing both the bite of circus peanut and the cosmic bitterness that’s lodged in my throat. “I saw.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah. Tamsin and Mac. Sucking face in the parking lot of Margaritas last night. It was hard to miss.”
She groans. “Oh god.”
“How did you find out?” All manner of dark thoughts flash through my head. Like how long has this been going on, and how long has Natalie known, and was everyone just keeping it from me? God, fit me for my tinfoil hat.
“I started to suspect when they kept touching each other during the game last night. Nobody needs to hug like that after every single touchdown. Then Tamsin called me this morning to spill the details.” Of course Tamsin didn’t tell me. I’m Natalie’s friend, and Natalie is Tamsin’s friend. Is it the transitive property that says I’m only Tamsin’s friend by default? I don’t know, I’m not particularly good at math. But it sounds right.
“So last night was a first?” I ask, testing the waters of how much I actually want to know.
“Yup.”
Well, at least that’s good news. My friends haven’t been carrying on or concealing a torrid love affair behind my back while I was stuck in pizza hell. But it’s cold comfort. I still ended up in a wet pile of trash watching my crush make out with someone else. “But not a last?”
“Nope.”
I sigh. “Well. There that is.”
“I’m sorry, Beck. I really didn’t see this coming.”
I bark out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, me neither.”
I pop another circus peanut in my mouth, letting the sugar melt on my tongue and blinking back tears. I manage to win the battle, but only just.
“Are you going to be okay?” Natalie asks. “I mean, is it too early to say that you can do way better than Mac?”
I take a deep breath, ignoring the protestations of my stomach (which are due to equal parts artificially banana-flavored sugar and the rotating image of Mac and Tamsin in full-on make-out mode). I blow it out and nod my head, flopping onto my stomach and looking over at my best friend, who showed up as soon as she heard and brought me my emergency parachute junk food.
“He thinks the Beatles are just ‘whatever,’” I say, channeling my best Tristan channeling Mac. I try the sneering tone on for size, try to settle down into it like a comfy chair. I don’t need Mac. I can do better than him.
Except I do.
And I’m afraid I can’t.
“Yeah, who needs that?” Natalie says, burrowing into my shoulder. And at least, for now, I have this. I have my best friend. So I’ll let her think this is fine. Just fine.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
By Monday, I manage to part myself from my pajamas and clean myself up. My hair no longer looks like a family of field mice are hosting a family reunion there. I walk into school not looking like I spent the weekend in a self-loathing sugar coma, trying to mask my pain with colonial history and what ended up being an epic Apex Galaxy binge with Dad (I finally got to Ataria’s return, and the buser boys were right—she’s epic). I pop my locker open to retrieve my chemistry book and feel like maybe I’ll be able to get through the day without replaying the image of Mac licking the inside of Tamsin’s mouth.
But when I slam my locker and pivot on my heel to head to first period, I realize that wiping away that one image isn’t good enough, because I’m staring at the Groundhog Day of make outs at the end of the hall.
Tamsin is pressed up against her locker, Mac leaning in and ducking his chin so he can kiss her, one hand bracing himself over a shoulder against her locker, the other resting on her hip. They look like a movie poster for a teen romance, one I’d definitely watch if it came on at 3 p.m. on a Sunday and I’d already seen that episode of House Hunters International. And in that moment I know that I have to get far, far away, because there’s no way I can control my face. I can feel my lips pursing, the corners turning down like I’ve just stepped in dog crap. Before I can bolt, I see Ms. Stone come rushing across the hall to break them apart. PDA is strictly against Brook Park High rules, and I never thought I’d be so grateful for that. She waves the manila folder in her hand between them, and Mac leans back with a grin. Tamsin ducks her head, her cheeks turning red.
Well, isn’t that just a sight.
For the next week, I have to watch them hold hands in the halls, whispering and giggling like they’re in their own private romantic comedy. And as soon as the last bell rings at the end of the day, they’re sucking face like he’s about to ship off to war. It’s deeply disgusting.
And, curiously, all the attention he paid to me is gone, too. All the flirting, the quiet little jokes, the accidental and not-so-accidental contact. All of it disappeared into the ether, replace
d by constant attachment to his new girlfriend. Which makes me wonder what all that was for, anyway. Because he definitely was being flirty. I don’t think I was being crazy to think he might like me, too. But the more I flip back through the mental slideshow of my interactions with Mac, the more I realize that there’s one constant to all of them: Tamsin was always there. Which makes me wonder if it was all just show. Was he trying to get her attention? Because that’s a really shitty thing to do.
I can’t believe I ever liked him.
I can’t believe I still do.
Friday rolls around, and the football team has a bye week. Everyone seems antsy, trying to come up with replacement plans. Parties, movies, date nights. By last period, the whole school is basically a walking social calendar.
I, of course, don’t have that problem, because I have a date with Hot ’N Crusty.
“Do you want to try and meet up with us?” Natalie asks. “You can text me. I can let you know where we are. I’m sure we’ll still be hanging out.”
Awesome, so I can see my friends, but only if I’m cool with watching the new royal couple suck face all night.
But I don’t want to explain all that to Natalie. First of all, it sounds pathetic. And my rational mind tells me that the first step to getting over this is to pretend it doesn’t bother me. Fake it till you make it (out of this black hole of suck). I assured her I was over Mac, that my attraction to him was temporary and circumstantial. That I’m happy for Tamsin. That they really do make a cute couple. It’s obvious they belong together.
Well, I’ve certainly got the faking-it part down.
I shrug. “We’ll see. If I don’t get out too late, I’ll text you,” I say, but I already know I won’t. There’s no way in a frozen hell that I can act normal around Tamsin and Mac, especially not if we’re all hanging out on the couches in the basement. I can’t imagine having to watch whatever action movie Colin throws on just to avoid having to see the pair of them spoon.
No thank you please.
* * *
The night passes in a tomato-scented, sticky-floored haze. I mostly spend it in a deep funk, taking orders with the fakest of smiles and sleepwalking through all my work. I don’t even realize it’s time for my fifteen-minute break until Julianne taps me on the shoulder and I jump a good ten feet in the air.
“It’s just your break, jeez,” she says. The sound of her disdain sends tears pricking at my eyes, which is embarrassing, a fact that only makes me want to cry more. And then something amazing happens. Julianne seems to unwind. Her brows, usually knit together in a permanent display of frustration, and the corners of her mouth, which seem to fall naturally into a grimace, all seem to release at the exact same moment. “Hey, are you okay?”
It’s just enough to bring me back to myself, to swallow the tears and square my shoulders, letting out a long, low breath.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I offer her a smile, and to my total shock, she returns it. I grab one of the red plastic cups from the stack next to the soda machine and fill it with water, then shuffle through the kitchen and to the back door. When I get to the parking lot, I drop down on the curb next to the dumpster and take a deep breath of garbage stank and think yup, this tracks.
But of course I can’t just sit out here and enjoy some lukewarm water that vaguely tastes like Sprite while sucking in the scent of hot dumpster. Of course, it would have to be interrupted by the sound of a glorified tin can on wheels, chugging along with Tristan behind the wheel. He throws the van in park next to the dumpster and mercifully shuts off the roar of the engine.
Excellent.
He gets out with only a grunt by way of greeting. But tonight I’m fine with it, because all I feel like doing is grunting, too. Whatever moment of bonding we had the other night is long gone. That was clearly a one-time show. So when he goes inside to retrieve the next delivery, I go back to my water and my sulking.
But then the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I see a familiar forest-green Range Rover glide through my peripheral vision. Tamsin’s car stops at the front door, and she hops out. She appears to be on a mission, and my heart leaps into my throat wondering if she’s coming to see me. She never bothered to confide in me the details of her hookup with Mac. I think their walking love story through the halls of Brook Park High did that enough. And besides, as we’ve plainly established, Tamsin is not my friend. She’s just a friend by proxy. So I never got the details, even if I wanted them. I just absorbed the news like every other rando at school.
And then I see that her passenger seat is occupied. Mac, of course, because heaven forbid they spend a moment apart. The engine is idling, and I can hear the thudding beat of whatever dance track she’s got playing in there. Mac’s gaze travels the parking lot, and before I can leap up and hide behind the dumpster, he spots me. A look crosses his face that I can’t name, and then he’s getting out. And then he’s walking toward me. Oh god, he’s coming to talk to me. And when Tamsin comes out, she’s going to talk to me, too. And then I’m going to have to talk to them together, and seriously, what god have I angered? There’s approximately zero chance I’d get through the encounter without saying something embarrassing … or worse, crying.
I know he’s seen me and I know he’s already on his way over here, but I can’t help it. My fight-or-flight response kicks in, and I jump up from the curb and spin on my heel, ready to bolt back into the restaurant. He won’t come in the back door to the kitchen to follow me, surely. And even though it’s, like, six levels of awkward to run away, that’s a problem for later. My problem for now is figuring out how to avoid talking to Mac, which is a problem I can solve. By running away like an absolute chicken.
Only just as I reach for the door, it flies open, Tristan pushing it with his back, the giant delivery bag that keeps the pizzas warm held out in front of him. When the door is open wide, he spins, ready to let it fall shut behind him—except I’m in his way. The corner of the pizza box catches me right in the chest, and I groan. I’m not sure if it’s because it hurt (it did) or if it’s because I know I’m caught (which also hurts, but more metaphorically).
I thought I managed to contain the sound, but I guess I don’t because Tristan’s eyes go straight to mine. I wonder if he can see the terror on my face. I’m sure it’s all there. My dad has always said that my greatest weakness is that everything I’m thinking and feeling is displayed on my face like a ballpark scoreboard. And when Tristan looks over my shoulder to see Mac coming toward me, his eyes flip back to mine. I know for sure that I look like I’m being chased by a serial killer in the climax of a horror movie. Attack of the Shameless Flirt.
And I’m about to become a victim.
I brace myself for the awkward conversation I’m going to have, but then Tristan shifts the warming bag onto his shoulder like a tray. He steps forward, the metal door clanging shut behind him, his free hand reaching for my hip. It rests there with a warm pressure that I can feel through the scratchy cotton of my I’M HOT ’N CRUSTY T-shirt. The chill of it races through my veins like the time I had to get a saline IV before getting my wisdom teeth out. He leans in close, but stops just short of his lips brushing mine. I can feel his hot breath, which smells like spearmint, as he whispers, “Is this okay?”
I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff being asked if it’s okay to be pushed off. And you know what? I think it is. I give a little nod, because if what I think is about to happen is going to happen, all of a sudden I really want it to happen.
I suck in a breath as his lips press to mine. My very first thought is I hope my mouth doesn’t taste like flat Sprite, and it turns out to be my very last thought as my mind clears like the surface of Pearce Lake. I shiver, which sends my body closer to him, my hands pressed to the center of his chest. His I’M HOT ’N CRUSTY T-shirt is still scratchy, but more worn in than mine. He tastes like spearmint and smells like matches and auto grease and pepperoni. My hands, operating completely on their own, go to his face,
resting at his jaw, which is slightly stubbly.
The kiss isn’t particularly long or deep. I doubt an observer would call it passionate. But it knocks the breath out of me all the same. And when he pulls back, I feel the absence almost as much as I felt the kiss itself.
He’s just inches from my face now, then he rests his forehead to mine, his eyes locking in on me. “I hope that was okay,” he says. Then his eyes flick over my shoulder to where Mac was just standing.
Mac. I completely forgot about Mac. I forgot everything. I forgot my name.
“Yeah,” I whisper, because it’s the only word that I can extract from the mush of my brain.
He steps back, the sudden space between us feeling like a giant canyon. He gives me a final up and down. “You sure you’re cool?”
I nod, and then ever so slowly turn to look over my shoulder.
Where I’m met with the back of Mac’s head as he walks away.
He’s walking away.
He saw Tristan kiss me and peaced out completely.
If my head wasn’t swimming, my heart pounding, I’d be wondering what the hell that means. But instead, I’m too busy wondering what the hell this means. Because Tristan Porter just kissed me, and holy wow was it good.
“I’ve gotta go,” Tristan says. I whip around and see him nodding to the delivery bag still held aloft on his shoulder. “Before this gets cold.”
“What the hell just happened?” I ask. The words fly out of my mouth before I can run them through any kind of mental filter.
He shrugs. “I dunno, you looked like you needed saving.” He nods toward Tamsin’s car, where Mac is now parked in the passenger seat. The front door to the restaurant flies open and Tamsin bounds out, a pizza box in her arms. She climbs into the driver’s seat and passes the box to Mac, and Mac must not say anything about me, because she drives away without ever once looking over.
I turn back to Tristan.
“So you kissed me?”
It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story Page 9