Bellamy dated? I thought that wasn’t allowed?
I suppose it’s fitting, knowing what I know now. I’m sure she did all kinds of rebellious things. Firstborns are like that.
“Waverly’s cool, too.”
“Not really.” Claire sticks her hand out, admiring her neon pink nails.
I slam my locker. “At least she’s not a stuck-up bitch.”
I don’t wait for her to react. I head straight into Chem and take my seat next to Waverly. Waverly might be difficult, but she’s not malicious. And in some weird, fucked up, spiritual way, we’re technically family.
I’ll stand up for her because it’s the right thing to do.
I’ll stand up for her because people can be shitheads sometimes for no fucking reason.
I’ll stand up for her because no one ever stood up for me.
“Hey.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “Are we not speaking?”
She turns to me. “What’s there to talk about?”
“I dunno. We can talk about what a bitch Claire Fahnlander is.”
I don’t usually make it a thing to talk shit about other people because it’s generally a huge waste of my time, but in this case, I’m making an exception. Waverly’s lips crack into a smile, which disappears in a flash.
“You shouldn’t say that about people,” she scolds me, but I know she’s amused. I can tell by way her eyes spark. I’m simply saying what she’s too polite to say. Besides, she can’t stay mad at me forever, and just because I won’t fuck her doesn’t mean we can’t try to forge some kind of friendship. We’ve got plenty in common. We’re in this weird family together, and we’re both trying to make it to the end of our senior year. We both hate Claire-fucking-Fahnlander.
There’s no reason we can’t at least try to be friends.
Claire ambles in just before the bell rings and flips her hair over her shoulder as she takes her seat, refusing to acknowledge me. Waverly and I exchange glances and stifle smiles. Her eyes widen and squint, and I respond with an extra wide smile and a wink. We have a thing now, she and I. We can communicate without words.
I’ve never had that with anybody in my entire life, and now I have it with her.
CHAPTER 14
I never thought I’d say this, but Jensen Mackey isn’t all that bad.
I take back what I said. I don’t hate him.
He’s arrogant, sure. And mouthy. He’s opinionated. Brash. Crude.
But he’s also funny and intelligent. He’s one of the smartest people I know. And the guy can draw like nobody’s business.
Plus, he hates Claire Fahnlander. Almost everyone is afraid to hate her, to cross her. But not him. I’m not sure Jensen is afraid of anything.
We silently agree to pretend like nothing happened. It’s easier that way.
For all intents and purposes, we never confessed a thing to one another that night in the hallway his first week here, and for all intents and purposes, I never threw myself at him, begging him to kiss me in the dark of his room the night he snuck out.
He’s been here a few weeks now, and for the last couple of them he’s walked a straight line, and I’ve kept my nose clean. We graduated from high school, even walking next to one another thanks to our last names.
The waters have been… oddly smooth. Not a single ripple in the pond. Which is good, because one rogue event can destroy my chances of leaving for school this fall.
I just need to keep walking that straight and narrow path my father has laid out. Demonstrating that I’m responsible and virtuous is my one-way ticket to freedom.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about Jensen still. I think about him all the time. I just don’t let it show. He can read just about anyone like a book, but I’ve gotten pretty good at making sure he can’t read me. He’d have a field day if he knew I thought the world of him.
And we’re friends now.
Weird.
But it has to stay that way. My future depends on it.
***
The rumble of his truck outside signals the six o’clock hour. He’s just finished putting in his time at the garage. His dark hair is disheveled, his hands greasy. Uncle Rich has been letting him do oil changes ever since he had a few guys walk out on him a couple weeks ago.
My belly flutters the way it always does when I see him for the first time each evening after a long day at school.
Jensen enters through the garage and heads upstairs to wash up. I set the table, making sure I put his favorite cobalt blue cup in front of his spot. He hops down the steps, two at a time, a minute later. His shirt is white and clean, his hands are washed, and his hair is combed.
He cleans up well, as usual.