“I would have helped you anyway. You didn’t have to pretend to be my friend.” I looked away out the window. I felt trapped. Wished she would take the calculator and go. Why is she still here anyway?
Ainsley was silent for a long moment, and when I finally turned back to her, she was glaring at me.
“I can’t believe you,” she said, obviously furious. “Is that what you really think of me? That I’d pretend to be your friend just to get something from you?”
I felt a wash of embarrassment. “Well, no. Not intentionally, I guess—”
“So you think I accidentally used you?”
I couldn’t understand what was happening. “I, uh, I guess not?”
“You guess not,” she muttered, crossing the room to smack me in the arm. Hard.
“Ouch.”
“Shut up,” she spat, reaching up to poke me in the chest. “For a genius, you can be a real idiot, Oliver.”
“Hey!”
“First of all,” she said, emphasizing her words with more pokes. “I wasn’t pretending. I am your friend. Or I want to be. Second”—another poke—“you really hurt my feelings when you cut me off like you did.”
I felt nauseous, the realization that perhaps I’d misread the situation twisting my stomach in knots. “I’m . . . uh. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” She poked me again. “I thought you didn’t want to be friends with me.”
“What?” I laughed at the absurdity.
“ ‘People like you aren’t friends with people like me,’ ” she said, mimicking me in what I thought was a pretty unflattering way. “What was I supposed to think?”
“Um, that I was letting you off the hook?”
She smacked me in the chest again with an exasperated groan but grinned at me sideways before turning her attention to the cuffs of her shirt. “Third, I broke up with Ian.”
“You what?” Something curled in my chest. Something warm and fizzy that I was pretty sure was hope.
“After what he did to you? What else could I do?” she asked. “But it wasn’t only that. I mean, hitting you is pretty unforgiveable, but it was more than that. I think it was just the catalyst I needed to see what I had to do.
“Ian is . . . he’s a good guy, despite recent evidence to the contrary,” she added with a wry smile. “But we’re going in different directions. I’ve recently realized we want different things. I’m not ready to become someone’s wife, let alone someone’s mother.” She shuddered. “Maybe someday, but not now. And not with Ian.”
Stunned, I turned to sit on the edge of the bed. After a moment, Ainsley sat next to me, her lime-green tennis shoes bright against the dark carpet. For an instant, that bright green color made my mind flash back to our paint fight in the school parking lot. I’d thought things were going so well then. I’d hoped—
Well, it didn’t matter what I’d hoped.
“You said I was just your tutor,” I said quietly.
“What?”
“When you were talking to Ian that night.” I hazarded a glance her way. “You told him I was just your tutor.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “That’s because I know Ian. I knew he was jealous of you, and I didn’t want him to make things difficult for you.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Ian was jealous . . . of me?” I choked out. “Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re incredibly smart, and you can do whatever you want, obviously,” she said, like it was something I should have already known. “You’re going to make something of yourself—something amazing—and he realizes that. Ian’s future lies in his family’s car lot, and he talks about it like it’s great, but the truth is, he doesn’t have a lot of other options. You do.”
It took a minute for her words to sink in. “Oh.”
Ainsley snorted slightly. “Yeah. Oh.” She bumped me with her elbow. “You’re an idiot.”
“You said that.”
“I felt it needed to be repeated. For emphasis.”
My lips lifted in a half-smile. “Okay.” I glanced at her sideways. “Sorry. For, you know, the whole being an idiot thing.”
“It’s okay.” She tapped her fingers on her knees for a second, chewing on her lip like she was thinking. “So we’re okay, then?”
I nodded. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She stood up, fiddling with her hair, her cheeks pink. She glanced at me and opened her mouth like she was going to say something else, then shook her head. I was about to ask her what was wrong, but she took a deep breath.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? You coming back to school?”
I smiled, finally feeling a little relief from the nausea and confusion of the weekend, the grief and loneliness of the past few days. We were friends. That was . . . that was good.
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” She nodded and headed toward the door. “Don’t forget to study your vocab,” I added.
She wrinkled her nose. “I hate vocab.”
“Who doesn’t?” When she rolled her eyes, I laughed. “I’ll quiz you on it during free period.”
Her eyes widened. “So you’re still going to tutor me for the SATs?”
I shrugged and looked away, feeling my neck heat. “I’m . . . not as busy as I thought. I can probably spare some time if you want. I mean, if you haven’t already got somebody—”
“I don’t have anybody else,” Ainsley said quickly, her face reddening. “I mean. I hadn’t really had a chance to call anyone. And I was kind of hoping you’d change your mind, anyway. So . . .” She flashed a quick glance my way before focusing on the toes of her shoes. She heaved a breath and smiled. “So . . . good.”
“Yeah. Good. Okay.”
“Okay.” She laughed a little, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I should . . .” She gestured toward the door, then shook her head slightly. “Bye, Oliver.”
Remembering my manners, I shot to my feet as she reached for the doorknob. “I’ll walk you out.” In my haste, I stumbled over, well, nothing really, typical me—and banged my shin on the corner of my bed. I bit down to hold back a pretty unmanly whimper.
“Are you okay?” Ainsley took a step toward me, but I waved her off.
“I’m fine.” I smiled and hoped it didn’t look like a grimace.
“Oliver, it’s okay. I can find my way out.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes and her whole face was kind of red. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, so I sat back down and waved weakly. “Bye,” I said as she walked out, shutting the door behind her.
So . . .
Okay, then. Embarrassing, clumsy shin-banging aside, that really had gone pretty well. We were friends. I could do friends. I mean, it was better than nothing, right? And over time I was sure I’d deal with the whole being-in-love-with-her thing. People did it all the time.
Besides, I wasn’t too proud to admit I’d rather have Ainsley as a friend than not have her at all. The misery of the weekend had proven that to me, if nothing else.
I flopped back on my bed and stared up at the ceiling unseeingly, considering these recent developments. Ainsley did like me. I wasn’t just her tutor. We were friends. She’d broken up with Ian.
I smiled. All good things. Hank would have been proud.
With sudden determination, I got up and rummaged through my drawer for my List Notebook. I opened it to Ainsley’s page and tossed it on my bed before reaching for the bag of potential birthday gifts and dumping it on my bed as well. I considered it all with a slight frown.
Okay, then. We were friends. Friends gave each other gifts. So I was going to pick one gift to give Ainsley for her birthday and take the rest back. That was rational. That was reasonable.
I’d pick the best gift—even if it wasn’t perfect, since I’d pretty much figured out there was no such thing—and give it to her as a friend.
Friends. Yeah. That was fine.
That was good.
I ignored the hollow feeling in my stomach and sat down in the midst of my collection, shoving the CDs aside—I’d settled on a couple of options, thanks to Viney’s sister, Angela—and consulted my list. My dad had come through on the software, and it was nonreturnable, so maybe that was a good—
A knock at the door distracted me from my thoughts. I figured it was my mom, coming up to see how I was after Ainsley’s visit, and thought maybe she could offer some insight and help me finally make a decision.
“Come in!” I called out distractedly, flipping through the pages of the Seven Wonders of the World book. “Mom, would you rather get a book with pretty pictures or software that could help you create pretty p—” I looked up, stunned to find Ainsley standing in my doorway.
“I forgot the calculator,” she said, weakly waving toward my desk as her gaze flittered over the pile of stuff on my bed. I jumped to my feet and floundered, trying to cover it up, stuff it back in the bag, flip the comforter over the whole mess—anything—but she took a step forward, and I froze, my heart pounding.
“What is all this?” she whispered, her gaze zoning in on my List Notebook.
No. Nononononono.
“It’s nothing!” I reached for the notebook, but she beat me to it, stopping me with a glance as she laid her palm across the open page.
“ ‘Things I Know About Ainsley.’ ”
Oh, this was bad. This was all kinds of horrible, terrible badness.
“I wanted to get you a birthday present,” I stammered, watching in horror as she read down the list. I fought the urge to snatch it away, knowing I’d only make it worse. She fingered the green mittens.
“For your hands. I mean, of course they’re for your hands. They’re mittens.” I rubbed my face, wishing I could be somewhere—anywhere—else. “Because, you know, your hands are always cold. Yeah, you saw that on the list, didn’t you? Duh. So I thought—” Her fingers trailed over to the CDs. “Those are stupid, right? I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll take them back.” I slid the CDs away and managed to get them in the bag. “I couldn’t decide what was best, so I went a little overboard, but I was going to pick one—” She picked up the coffee cup in one hand, the software disc in the other.
“Um . . . yeah. The cup is spill proof. So you can use it at your aunt’s salon, if you want.”
She blinked slowly at me. “And this?” She held up the computer disc.
I swallowed thickly. “It’s Photoshop. Because you said you might be interested in graphic design, and I thought it might help you decide for sure. I mean, it’s an old version—”
She’d put down the cup and the disc and was flipping through the book.
“It’s all the Seven Wonders,” I said, knowing I was rambling but unable to figure out what else to do. I had to convince her I wasn’t crazy. Wasn’t some kind of obsessed stalker, despite all the evidence to the contrary. “New . . . Industrial . . . Underwater . . . Ancient, although you can’t visit the ancient ones because they don’t exist anymore—”
“Oliver—”
“But you can see what they looked like, or at least an artist’s rendition—”
“Oliver—”
“And I know,” I said, the frantic pounding of my heart echoing in my head as I clutched at my hair. “I know this is weird. God, I’m weird. I just wanted to get you something, and this”—I waved at the pile of gifts, my notebook, as if to encompass everything that was my weirdness—“this is how I do it. Just can you not . . . don’t be creeped out—”
“Oliver.” Ainsley’s eyes were wide and dark and much closer than I realized. Somehow in all my rambling, I’d missed the fact that Ainsley had rounded the bed to stand right in front of me. Still, I couldn’t stop.
“I know I kind of go overboard, but it’s really not that big a deal—”
“Oliver—”
“I’m sorry—”
“Oliver,” she said, reaching up to grab the sides of my face, “shut up.”
And then she kissed me.
Ainsley kissed me.
Her fingers slid up and back, tightening in my hair as she tilted her head, soft lips moving over mine. I was paralyzed, shocked, my brain unable to catch up with what was going on. I didn’t even think I was breathing.
Pretty sure I wasn’t, actually, because when Ainsley pulled back, lips parted in a soft gasp, I inhaled sharply, my vision a little blurry around the edges.
What?
“What?” My brain, evidently, was still having problems keeping up.
Ainsley stared at me for a few shaky breaths, then jolted, pulling her hands away like she’d gotten an electrical shock. She took a step back.
“Oh. Oh wow, I’m sorry,” she said, lifting one trembling hand to touch her mouth. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“What?” Why was that the only thing I seemed to be able to say?
“I should go,” she backed away, bumping into the edge of the bed. “I really should . . . I’m sorry.”
And finally my head cleared enough to realize that Ainsley was leaving. She was leaving. Because . . .
Because I didn’t kiss her back. Because she thought I didn’t want it. Want her.
She was right. I was an idiot.
And Ainsley was almost to the door.
“Ainsley, wait.” I crossed the room, and she whirled around, her hand on the doorknob.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. I saw all that”—she waved toward the bed, her voice trembling, and I realized she was on the verge of tears—“and I thought—”
For once, I didn’t think it through. I didn’t consider all the options or make a list of pros and cons. I just reached up, cupped her face in my hands, and kissed her. I knew it wasn’t the best kiss—I couldn't remember a single item from The Elements of the Perfect First Kiss, and let's face it, I had no experience to speak of. Well, no experience except for one ill-fated behind-the-swing set encounter with Lucy Fitzsimmons in kindergarten—but I hoped I made up for my lack of technique with an abundance of enthusiasm.
I thought maybe I was doing something right because Ainsley made this little breathless sound, grabbed on to my upper arms, and kind of . . . melted against me. I slipped one hand around her waist to hold her up, my fingers brushing against the soft skin where her shirt had ridden up under her coat.
Okay, so maybe the melting was a little mutual. My knees were definitely shaking when, quite a while later, I pulled back to catch my breath. Ainsley’s eyelids fluttered open, and she licked her lips. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated with only a slip of blue around the edges. A sure indicator of attraction, according to—
“Oliver?” Ainsley whispered, lifting up on her tiptoes, her breath teasing my mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Stop thinking so much.”
She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I pulled her close to kiss her again, happy to oblige.
14.Tell Her How You Feel
Lay it on the line. Don’t be a coward. Be honest. Man up, Holmes.
Three Weeks Later
I glared at the mirror and pushed and prodded at my hair. I really needed to get it cut again. With a shrug, I gave in to the inevitable—it was as good as it was going to get—and checked my teeth one last time before I turned out the light and headed downstairs.
“Wow, you look nice,” Mom said, curled up next to Dad on the sofa as they watched some reality show. “Big plans tonight?”
Big plans? Well, since I’d been making them for weeks, I guess you could say so.
I shrugged, playing it off. “Dinner. Cake. Presents. The usual.”
“You need any money?” Dad asked, reaching for his wallet.
“No, I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”
Mom smiled at me. “Well, tell Ainsley happy birthday from us. And we’ll see her next weekend.”
“Yeah, okay. I will.”
“Bye, honey. Have a good night.”
I left them to—whatever.
I’d never admit it out loud, of course, because being a teenager, it was pretty much required that you be grossed out at anything that might indicate your parents have a love life, but it was nice to see them like that. Holding hands and touching hair and making out in the kitchen. Okay, so that happened a little too much for my tastes, but it was kind of nice. Reassuring. Good.
Of course, that didn’t prevent me from complaining about having to rent a tux for when they renewed their vows the following weekend. Sherlock and I would be standing at my dad’s side—dual best men, or whatever—which meant I’d have to give a speech.
Perfect. I’d gone through about fifteen drafts so far, and they all sounded stupid. Ainsley said I should just speak from the heart. Right, has she even met me? But like Hank used to say, sometimes a man has to take action and not worry so much about the consequences. So I tried not to worry about it too much.
Anyway, it had been almost a month since the whole laying-it-on-the-line episode when I’d finally manned up and kissed her, and things were good. Better than good, actually. Great. Amazing. Pretty close to perfect. We spent a lot of time together—a lot. Ainsley was doing really well preparing for the SATs, and Ian had even begrudgingly apologized for hitting me. After what Ainsley had told me, I couldn’t even stay mad at him. I’d gotten the girl in the end, after all.
But after three weeks of planning, it was finally Ainsley’s birthday, and my nerves were acting up again. After much research, I’d planned a romantic evening—dinner at Ainsley’s favorite restaurant, a glitter-topped cupcake filled with this chocolate cream that she said was to die for—her words, not mine—and presents.
Presents. Yes, plural.
She’d seen them all, of course, and in the end, I couldn’t narrow it down to just one. So I’d wrapped them all in shiny paper, not even worrying about the dent to my college fund. Hey, I had a whole new list about how to get scholarships. It’d be fine.
I pulled up to her house, the familiar flip of nervousness in my stomach making itself known yet again. Ainsley whipped open the door just as I lifted my hand to knock, and I almost fell forward in surprise.
Ainsley giggled. “Hey.”
How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You Page 16