Almost (2 page)

As if there's anything to say.

I fire out my
dismiss-the-dumbass
blinks as fast as I can.

And bam-ba bam, bam, bam!

He winces and steps back.

Then, like it never happened—or like he's wised up and is finally afraid of me—the guy executes a 180 to dash across the parking lot. He's making a beeline for the Geekstuff.com's massive front door.

I let out a tight breath, uncurl my aching fingers from the steering wheel and jump out with my bag in tow. I can't gain any ground. He's easily over six-feet-huge and that includes some long legs. I'm only five-four. No way I'll catch him unless I order him to stop. Or run him down like a dog.

Not my style.

I'm all about control, fast smack-downs and keeping people at a distance with my ever-expanding repertoire of rock-solid,
back-off
expressions. (Expressions laced with eye-snapping sarcasm and disdain, of course.) It's been a lot of staring-in-the-mirror hard work. But my skills are perfected.

I've recently convinced
the best therapist in town
that I'm well enough to move on to college. I didn't even have to lie. I simply deleted info, kept the expressions in check, hid my messed up sleep schedule, and POOF: Everyone thinks I'm
cured
.

What I think is that I'm tired of talking about the things that will never be fixed.

As in me. How I'm
almost
better.
Almost
back to normal.

After trying things their way for so long, I got tired of waiting. I've made a ton of progress with faking it, that's for sure. And so far, so good. No, I'm not ‘better’. I'm the same; but none of my pretending seems to make me worse. So it's kind of working. And there's been one huge change that works for all of us. My parents and little sister have never been happier.

Them
, being happy, is about as close to
me
being happy as I'll ever get. It's enough.

If I can make more
progress
(Mom's favorite word) I get to apply to colleges next year. They promised. This means I'll get my life back, head to the dorms and move out from under the parent microscope. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

I'm going to be what they want this whole year:
Just fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

I stop to catch my breath, trying to decipher why Gray Porter chose today to join the ranks of people who mess with me. He's never talked to me once—I'd remember. Because I'm sure I'd never forget those amazing green eyes. Who could forget those things?

As I look around the Geekstuff.com parking lot it takes only seconds to realize the visitor side is completely empty—besides my car and his.

It must be
me
against
him
for the final interview. I suppose he's trying to start the battle early. The guy's taking the front steps two at a time, and I swear he was talking to himself. I wonder if he might be more of a freak than me. Just in case he decides to look back, I hold my position and stare holes into his obviously new, package-creased, button-down interview shirt as he disappears inside the building.

Good luck you poser—you bully. That's the only point you're going to get.

I glance at the time on my iPhone. Five minutes to spare. He's probably watching me from inside the lobby—or maybe he's setting up some sort of trip line.

I start forward at an ultra-slow pace. I'm scouring my brain for any school gossip I might be able to use against him. This kid and I run in completely different circles. His circle is popular and cool, and my circle takes me from school to the teacher's lounge. For excitement, I hit the nearest store with a Red Bull aisle. He goes to parties, and football games and all that other stuff. I never even see this guy in the halls. The only real memory I have of Gray goes back to the day he helped Jenna Shattuck when she broke her arm.

Major broke her arm.

It's one of those mythic school tales. Re-told every year to all incoming students. It happened freshman year, second semester. A few days after I'd come back to school from my ‘special months’ at home. Months spent munching bottle after bottle of anti-depressants and almost going off the deep end. Forever.

Everyone swears they saw Jenna fall. But, I really did.

Back then, I'd been hanging in the bleachers
not
participating thanks to a doctor's note. I hadn't worked out how hide my emotions yet. Not like I do now. I did a lot of looking down that year. Shoe staring. Counting tiles. Grossing myself out by analyzing dirt in corners. That kind of stuff.

I wouldn't talk to anyone, either. Opening my mouth used to make me cry for no reason. Something about feeling air hit the back of my throat set it off. It was humiliating for me and beyond awkward for anyone who came near me, so no one did. I prefer it that way, anyhow.

Jenna tripped and broke her arm during a volleyball game. She fell right in front of my feet. She was hard to miss. Her hand twisted under her, and there'd been lots of snapping. Like someone walking on sticks. When she sat up, her bones had come through the skin in two places near her wrist. Another jutted out higher—above her elbow.

Total freak show. She'd hit an artery.

Jenna never once made a sound. Just blinked and blinked. Blood spattered the gym floor—tons of it—like it was falling from the fire sprinklers, and the teacher screamed so loudly everyone thought
she'd
been hurt. No one else moved or made a single sound for the longest time, including me.

Especially me.

Jenna—probably all of us—had been in shock. I know shock. It's when you can't process or do anything properly during a messed up situation. Often—after—you might not recall one bit of what happened. Jenna still swears she doesn't remember falling.

Gray had been the only one to step up. He sort of saved her.

He took Jenna's face in his hands. Very gently…I do remember that. He tilted her chin toward his so she couldn't see her arm or any of the blood. He also blocked her view of the teacher who by that point, had quieted because she'd vomited under the basketball net.

“Look right here. Right at me,” Gray said, signaling someone to run to the office. He wrapped her arm around the sleeve of his hoodie and applied pressure like some sort of first-aid expert.

“Keep your eyes on me, Jenna,” he said. “The nurse is coming. She's going to get your parents. Just hold on. Stay with me. Eyes on mine. Right here. You're going to be fine, Jenna. Just
fine
.”

I shudder as I remember the sound of his voice. Kind. Confident. Worried. Afraid.

Today, after the close-up view of that dude's green, green eyes, I now understand why Jenna hadn't moved the whole time. He'd hypnotized her with those things.

I shake my head and sigh. Gray's not a bully. He's the opposite, which is much, much worse. He's a hero. Hero guys tend to win stuff even if they aren't qualified.

He's probably here at this second interview because he pulled off something impressive and cool-headed yesterday, but what? Kitten rescue? Toddler running in front of a bus? The CEO choking on a mini-solar phone charger? Let's hope not.

I hadn't even considered the possibility of losing this internship to someone else.

But what if? What if Gray wins it? I can't let that happen. I can't. I won't.

I take in a few more long breaths and switch my expression to
serene
and
confident
as I hop up the curb leading to the front steps. Confidence beats any other emotion when trying to convince people you've got things handled. I need Geekstuff.com to believe I've got what it takes, and now I need Gray to believe it too.

How hard could it be to return his lame attempt at a shake down with one of my own? All I can do is what I know. Fake it, stay awake, smile and see what happens.

The Geekstuff.com people can find out
after
they hire me they've picked the lemon.

As for Gray Porter? He can
suck it
on the way out.

The stinging in my forehead intensifies to remind me the guy inside the lobby is already one point ahead. I reach up and find a huge, warm lump above my right eye. It's bad—like a mutant spider bite—and it hurts.

Of course it does. Fine. He's two points ahead. I'll give him two.

I pull more bangs loose so the lump is covered, and I add Gray Porter to my ‘hate list,’ right between seashells and parties. I feel instantly stronger. My hate list hasn't changed in years.

Total proof of progress! If only I could share this one with my mom. But she doesn't know I like to keep lists. Either way. I'm calling it.

One point for me.

Chapter Two

Gray

Does she remember? Does she remember me?

“I should've left her alone. I can't learn.
I can't learn
,” I say, not even trying to whisper as bile settles at the back of my throat—more with every step
Jess Jordan
takes in my direction. I couldn't be happier the lights in the lobby of Geekstuff.com are off. Because it's Sunday, it appears no one is waiting to greet me for the interview.

To greet
us
. Holy shit.
Me and Jess Jordan
.

I cringe, hating the idea of being trapped in this room with her.

I push away the images of the party that changed—no—
ruined
—both of our lives freshman year.

Does she remember? Does she remember me?

“I did the right thing to wake her up,” I say even louder. As though noise could drown out my questions, hide my cowardice and undo what I did wrong out there in the parking lot. What I didn't do right at that party years ago…

Goose bumps plaster my arms as I replay the promise I made to this girl's parents three years ago:
Stay out of Jess Jordan's radar and don't go near her. Ever.
A promise I'd kept faithfully for three years—until today.

Of course I'd kept it. Her psycho mom told me if I approached Jess, the girl would suffer a serious setback. Or a flashback, or... something terrible.

I would have promised anything back then. Hell, I'd offered to do way more, but her parents wouldn't let me. They only wanted me to stay away from their daughter. I didn't want to risk Jess suffering any more hurt, so I agreed to never approach her.

Only, crap! I just did
way
more than approach her. I accidentally scared the hell out of her. Then, I blinked at her like a gaping asshole. And ran. Let's not forget
that
classy move.

My pack's heavy. Full of mock
product ideas
required for this interview today. Mine are hockey pucks in various duct-taped configurations. And, I'm pretty sure they suck, but I didn't want to show up empty handed. Who knew they'd sound like an exploding bomb when slammed into her Jeep? It's not like I slam my backpack into random vehicles to test the sound it's going to make.

She's getting closer. I swallow and scan the room for exit signs.

“If I'd left her there asleep. If I'd walked away…then what?” I mutter, glancing quickly over my shoulder to make sure I'm still alone. I contemplate leaving again, but this makes me angry with myself and unfairly, at her.

I want this internship. I can't afford to walk away from an $8K payoff and perfect working hours for me. ME. This is about me! Me. Me. Me.

Not Jess Jordan
.

I'd figured Jess had parked behind the dumpsters to pull some sort of surprise attack. At the very least she'd been trying to eye the competition. It's why I'd shown up early. I'll admit that. I'd wanted to call her bluff. Let Jess know her car had been spotted.

But then…
hell
. I saw her. Sleeping away in that Jeep, blanket and all. Acting as though she didn't have a care in the world.

I must've been struck with temporary insanity. That, or a giant alien magnet had drawn me straight out of my car and right to the side of hers.

She'd been so far gone, I'd spent three good minutes peeking over her dash watching her breathe. All that time, I tried to convince myself to leave her there. Jess, missing this interview, should've been my personal gift from fate. A gift I well deserved after all the bullshit I've had to eat because of her—that night—that party.

I'd almost had myself talked into bolting, when she'd smiled in her sleep. Held out her hand like she was having a strange dream.

After that, I couldn't leave her there alone. Wouldn't.

What went down at that party years ago wasn't her fault. It wasn't my fault, either.

Not directly.

But I'm not one to repeat my mistakes—that's for sure. Maybe I screwed up by freaking her out; but I wasn't about to leave Jess Jordan needing something from
me
ever again. I run my hand through my hair and manage to swallow the tight ball of what feels like dry,
scared-shitless-dirt
lodged at the back of my throat.