A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(43)

"What's this?" I say, my brow pulled in as I stand and shift my bag over my shoulder and unfold the page with one hand.

"Your workout," my dad says as he walks away. I watch him, my lips  parted, caught in their usual pose-the one that's ready to defend myself  and argue with my father. Only … that's not what this morning was about.

"You ready?" Taryn says next to me. I begin to walk alongside her and  read through the routine my father clearly just jotted down in pen-a mix  of upper body, legs, and core with specific goals set for two weeks,  four, and then six. He made plans. He has expectations. And not just  gruff, unattainable ones I'll never meet. These were made with thought.

"Told you," Wes says, suddenly by my side. I startle, and begin folding  the paper quickly, stuffing it in the back pocket of my jeans.

"Told me what?" I ask, suddenly aware that he's next to me, near Taryn and TK, and Kyle and Levi are behind us.

"That your dad loves you," he leans in. I stop for a second and consider his words, what just happened.

"This is about me beating the competition. That's all," I say, shaking my head and looking at my feet.

"No," Wes says, his thumb under my chin, pulling my eyes to his. "It's  about him believing in you and knowing you're better than the  competition."

I lean my head to the side and purse my lips, still not ready to give  into his argument, when without warning, he leans in close and brushes  his mouth on mine, running his thumb along my bottom lip and holding the  side of my face while he looks at me.

"It's also about you being too stubborn to consider I might just be  right," he says, his mouth raised on one side. I let out a breathy  laugh, and immediately blush at the sound of Levi Ooooooooing behind us.

My face falls lower, and I start to tuck my chin into my chest, but Wes  quickly trails his hand down my arm to my hand, his fingers linking with  mine before he tugs gently on my arm to walk with him.

"This might seriously be the first time I've seen a guy hold Joss's hand and not get punched in the face," Kyle says behind me.

"That's because you're usually the one trying to hold her hand, Kyle.  And no girl wants that-we'd all punch you in the face," Taryn says  loudly.

"Ha ha ha," Kyle says back. He's acting like it's no big deal, but I can  tell his feelings are hurt. I look over my shoulder to check on him. He  smiles with tight lips and winks at me. I mentally do my best to send  him an apology. I'm caught between wanting to hide holding Wes's hand in  front of him and wanting to showcase it to the world.

He doesn't give me a choice, not letting go until we have to part ways  and move to our separate seats in our English class. I catch a few  stares on our locked fingers before he lets go, and I know it's only a  matter of seconds before McKenna knows. I watch a friend scurry over to  her seat, in the front corner-a few rows away from Wes and me. She  glances at each of us while her friend talks, but quickly pretends not  to care. Inside, I gloat.

The rest of the day, the feeling of having someone like Wes claim me as  his publicly, lingers-and I find myself walking the halls a little  taller, feeling less of a need to put off a vibe that warns people to  stay away. It's a different kind of confidence. I feel … beautiful.

At lunch, rather than leave campus with his brothers, he tosses the keys  to TK and stays behind, sitting with Taryn and me. The way Taryn looks  at both of us makes me blush, and eventually Wes leans forward, pressing  his lips on my cheek in front of her, almost as if he's trying to break  the ice and let the awkward out of the bag.

"So you two are really actually … together?" Taryn says. I glance to Wes, not sure how to answer.

"Until she tells me otherwise," he says, grabbing a fry from my plate and popping it in his mouth. I grimace at him.         

     



 

"If you steal my food, that might happen sooner rather than later," I  threaten, teasingly. He reaches for another fry and holds it at his  lips, and I lower my brow. "You sure about that?"

He pauses with it there for a few seconds and opens his mouth, about to  bite into it, but closes quickly and places the fry back on my plate,  brushing his fingertips together to get rid of the left-behind salt  kernels.

"Nope," he chuckles. "Pretty much not sure of anything at all."

Wes pulls his own plate closer, folding his slice of pizza in half and  eating nearly a third of it with the first bite. I watch as he chews,  his long body stretched under and above the table, his legs jutting out  into the aisle. He's outgrown this place already, and he's only  seventeen.

"So does this mean … you'll be going to the dance on Friday?" My stomach  drops the moment my friend puts that out there. I could kill her.  Literally, my mind is racing through the millions of ways I want to  punch her or push her into traffic, and my face is red and beating.

"You know I hate dances," I blurt out, realizing too late that I cut Wes  off, his lips held open, about to speak. He was going to ask? He wants  to go to the stupid dance with me? I will never know now, because I'm a  stubborn cuss who sucks at this whole boy thing.

"Oh, believe me, Joss … I know," Taryn says, finishing her last bite and  standing from the lunch table. Her eyes glide from me to Wes and back  again, her eyebrow raising a tick just to let me know I fucked up with  that one. I raise both of mine and push my lips together tight to signal  to her that I know.

Taryn leaves us alone, and the tension makes me slink down a little in  my seat. I can tell Wes isn't looking at me. He's feeling the tension  too, and it's sucky, and I hate that it's over a stupid dance.

"I just don't really do the whole dress-up thing," I blurt out.

That made it worse.

I spare a glance at Wes. He smiles tightly and nods, but I can tell from  the deep inhale that slowly fills his chest that he's still  uncomfortable, maybe disappointed? I turn my attention to my things,  pretending to straighten notebooks and papers in my backpack as I unzip  and zip again. Wes steps away from the table with our trash, and I  exhale the second he's gone. When he comes back, he looks around at the  tables nearby, his eyes not quite making it to me.

"So you have a game today, yeah?" he asks, still not fully engaged.

"Yeah. You guys are off, right?" I respond, pulling my bag over my  shoulder. He reaches for my hand as we begin to walk and a heavy breath  falls from my chest in relief that he's still proud to be with me, even  if I throw baby fits over school dances. His hand squeezes mine tightly,  as if he senses the inner turmoil I'm feeling. Everything about the  last two minutes feels so utterly teenager, so unlike me. I need to get  back to me-to feel home.

"I bet you ten bucks I can hit the ball over the fence today?" I throw a  challenge out there. It's meaningless, but the goal somehow gives me  something else to think about-something other than dances and my dream  boy and … dreams.

I look up at Wes as we pass through the cafeteria doors and into the hall, his lip pinned in his teeth and his brow bunched.

"So, all I get is ten dollars if you don't pull this off?" he chuckles.  "I mean it's not like I'm pitching to you. It doesn't feel fair."

"Silly Wes," I say through a breathy laugh, shaking my head as we step  into the photo lab. "If you were pitching, I guarantee I would hit one.  That wouldn't be fair. That would be like taking on a T-ball team."

I spin around at my desk, dropping my bag in my seat and folding my  arms, standing toe-to-toe with him. My lips are tingling, and I comfort  the itch by letting a smirk slide into place. This feels more natural.  This is how we are. This is how Wes and I need to be. We're races and  tickets and dares. And maybe some kissing too.

Wes steps close enough that his head is nearly resting on mine, and I  have to look up at him. I love looking up at him. The right side of his  mouth curves into a grin, and he shrugs one shoulder, adjusting the  weight of his bag slung over his arm. The noise of more students  bursting through the door causes him to turn and look at them, but he  comes back to me quickly, his smile reaching both sides of his mouth  now.

"All right, Joss," he says, taking two steps back and leaning against  the tabletop of the desk across from me. He folds his arms and lowers  his eyes, and his smile switches into something almost devious. "I'll  take that bet … with a twist. You hit one over the fence today. And if you  don't, you are going with me to that dance on Friday."         

     



 

Well, shit.

I pull my top lip into my mouth and suck. Half of my body is jumping up  and down, dying to go to this stupid dance. The other half is pissed,  and wants to hit the ball over the fence and prove that I don't need  dances and dresses and hearts and boys showing up at my door with  flowers.