Now she looks stricken. “I’m sorry.” She grabs her water bottle and unscrews the lid, not looking at me. “I’ve no right to tell you what to do.”
“No, Aud.” I reach across the table and put my hand over hers. “You’re right.” I nod, and my eyes burn. “You’re absolutely right, and I’ll try harder, okay?”
“No. Dammit.” She jerks away, her cheeks so red her freckles look like ink dots. “Not for me, too, okay? You don’t get to do it to please me, too. You need to do it for yourself.”
“Aud…”
“Honestly, Tess. This isn’t funny. You’re gorgeous. Every single guy on campus wants to get into your pants.” Audrey counts her arguments on her fingers, one by one. “You have so many interests, archaeology, folklore, mythology, history. You’re fun, and can dance like a goddess.”
She stops counting and wags a finger at me. “You rock, woman. Don’t let anyone, and especially your parents, tell you otherwise. Decide what you want to do with your life, with yourself. Would you rather finish your studies and work for your dad, doing every day something you hate? Would you rather wait forever for Dylan to notice you while the world is full of wonderful boys waiting to meet you? Would you?”
Christ. Is she right? Am I really wasting my life? Have I waited too long already?
Then again, how long is too long? I’ve struggled to please my parents since I was little. I tried to get Dylan to notice me since I was ten, when I discovered boys. Even more since he went out with me for a few months, showed me what happiness was like and then dumped me and never looked back.
Ignoring me, just like my parents have always done. Yeah, seen like that, it really looks pathetic. Why, then, have I always felt, deep inside, that he has feelings for me?
“Speak of the devil…” Audrey frowns, and I twist around to see.
Sure enough, there is Dylan, and like always my breath catches at the sight of him. He’s standing at the cashier, clutching his tray, his dirty blond hair falling in his face. His broad shoulders stretch the soft black sweater he’s wearing tight across his chest, and his faded blue jeans hug his trim hips and long legs.
He turns toward the tables and takes a step—then he stumbles, and his plate falls and crashes to the floor.
I’m already halfway out of my seat, fear clenching my gut, to go to him—when a brunette in a miniskirt walks up to him and puts a hand on his arm. He says something to her, lost in the din of the cafeteria, and she smiles, hooks her arm with his and walks with him to a table.
I sit back down, my heart hammering. Holy crap. I really thought he’d hurt himself for a moment… I look at the brunette, the way she keeps brushing herself against him as she talks to him.
When will I learn? He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me. I cling to the memories of him, the way he made me feel. Cherished. Loved. Protected.
“Jesus. Sometimes I really hate him,” Audrey whispers, glancing in Dylan’s direction, then back at her plate. “For being so cold with you. And sometimes I want to kick you for crawling back to him every time.”
Her words sting like barbs.
“I don’t crawl,” I mutter. I have my pride, even though it’s a small, frightened thing. “He’s my friend above all. What should I do, let him fall?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
A tiny bit of anger flares, warming me. “What I know is that you don’t like Dylan. He wasn’t the most supportive of friends when Asher was down.”
“Jesus, Tess. You know that’s not it.”
“Everyone says he’s in a tough spot right now, remember?”
“And then what? Do you think when everything’s fine for him at home he’ll run to you?”
“I don’t…” A knot is lodged in my throat, and I swallow hard. This conversation hurts in ways my parents’ coldness never has. “Just drop it.”
Audrey’s eyes flash. “Do what you want. I certainly can’t tell you what to do or not do.”
Yeah, but she doesn’t have to. I see the disappointment in her gaze, barely hidden behind the fury. And just like every time, that terrible guilt eating at me—for not being what everyone expects, for failing my family and friends, for not being pretty enough, clever enough, good enough—rears its ugly head and forces me to do things I don’t want to do.
Like sit straight and not look back at Dylan flirting with the brunette. Pretending to be strong.
It’s only later, after Audrey has left and I’m gathering my tray, that I allow myself to look at the table where Dylan is sitting.