Awkwardly Ever After (16 page)

The kind of girl who could tell the most popular guy in school,
I want to ask you random questions about your life between make-out sessions. And then I want to snuggle against you while I introduce you to the awesomeness that is
Battlestar Galactica.
But mostly I want you to choose me, not because you're hoping it will sabotage your chances for prom king, but because despite the weird way we started hanging out, we somehow sort of . . . click.

I wasn't that girl, though.

“I'm not looking for anything serious with you,” I said uncomfortably, as I tried not to notice that the temperature in his green eyes seemed to drop several degrees.

“Okay. So we keep it light. Pizza and movies. We can see where that goes.”

“No, we can't. I'm not . . . look, Spencer. You're a nice guy and all—”

“Feel free to stop there.”

I plowed on anyway. “You're just not my type, okay?”

It was quite possibly the biggest lie I'd ever told.

“W
ell, this should be good. Why exactly am I not your type, Isobel? Let me guess, it's because I don't wear glasses or skinny ties, right?” He leaned back against the armrest of the sofa as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if our tongues hadn't been dueling only minutes earlier. As if he hadn't been affected in the slightest by the absurd amount of heat we had generated together.

Maybe all of that was true, and I was the only one with a slight ache in my bottom lip where I suspected he had nipped me at some point. At least that's what I was guessing had happened. The details about that particular moment were a little fuzzy.

“It doesn't matter. I don't know why we're talking about this, since you don't even do girlfriends. That's not how you operate. You have hookups and flings and . . . whatever else you want to call them, but they aren't real relationships.”

“I thought you weren't looking for anything serious with me.” He crossed his arms and I couldn't help imagining how that gesture would look if the shirt went missing again. The tendons of his forearms tightened and I wanted that strength focused on me. Holding me up. Pinning me down.

Never letting me go.

“I'm not. And I'm not going to be writing your name in my notebooks surrounded by little cartoon hearts. Which should save you the trouble of coming up with a new
it's not you, it's me
speech to deliver this week. We're friends. Just friends. I won't be one of the crowd. Case closed.”

That drew him up short. He paused to collect himself, and when he spoke his words were layered with a frost I hadn't heard in them before. “I enjoy joking and teasing and yeah, having sex. I'm not ashamed about any of it.” He looked pointedly at me. “Can you say the same, Belle?”

“That's not my name and this isn't about me.”

“Sure it is. I have no idea where you came up with that bullshit about being my friend, but that's not why you're here with me right now.”

“Oh yeah?” The words came out defiant, but a small part of me—okay, a large part of me—really wanted to know where he was going with this. “Then why do you think I'm here?”

“Because you want to study me, observe me in my natural habitat. Ask pointed questions so you can categorize my flaws and use them as an excuse to keep your distance, because you're too afraid to actually connect with anyone
human
.” He sat upright and crossed his arms across his chest. “But you couldn't say that outright because that would make you pathetic, right? Especially because you've got nothing to gain by sharing your endgame. It might even skew the study results. You couldn't let that happen.”

“And you could have just told Fake and Bake that you weren't interested! You didn't have to concoct some elaborate scheme to sink your reputation, and to hell with the girl you take down with you in the process!”

“I really don't like the way you play doctor.”

“Well, I don't like the way you play frat boy. So I guess we're even.”

I hadn't expected that to shut him up. I thought he would raise an eyebrow and then make some quip about how fraternities were the training ground for the American political system. But he didn't, probably because we both knew that it was my shorthand way of calling him an arrogant, overprivileged jerk. Both of us fell silent and the room became thick with the words we had spoken, and even worse, the ones we had implied.

Spencer ran a hand through his hair in tense frustration, but nodded, “If that's what you think of me, I see why I'm not your type. You shouldn't have any problem keeping your mouth to yourself. Wouldn't want to become infected with frat boy.”

I felt lower than scum.

“You're a gr—”

He laughed hoarsely. “I think we can both save the canned speeches. Although for future reference, if you're going to go with the whole
it's not you, it's me
thing, you should work on the delivery.”

I stared at him and part of me was so close to telling him the truth. That it was,
absolutely, positively, unequivocally
him. That I couldn't handle the pressure of dating the most popular boy in school because sooner or later he would want to trade me in for a hotter model and my self-esteem would bottom out. That eventually one of his “friends” would make some nasty comment and he would laugh right along with the rest of them.

Fifteen points, guaranteed.

“What is it that you want, Spencer?” I asked instead. “Do you actually want to be with me?”

“I always want to be with a pretty girl.”

My stomach plummeted and the tiny bit of hope I'd had that he would say, “Yeah, Belle. That's exactly what I want, because you're smart and funny and I happen to find you insanely hot,” withered up and died. He was Spencer freaking King, the boy with the smirk and the charm set to stun. The guy who left the sex cranked up to eleven. And I was an idiot for ever thinking otherwise.

“Great. You go enjoy that, hotshot. Really, knock yourself out.” I hauled myself up off the couch and headed right past the pool table. “See you around.”

“Wait, what about the pizza and—”

“I think it's probably for the best if I don't stick around. But hey, look at it this way, now you can throw one of your famous parties without a buzzkill messing it up.”

I heard his footsteps as he followed me down the hallway, but I didn't slow down. I needed to get out of this house with its stilted photos and a guy who made me question whether I knew the first thing about human interactions.

“Belle.”

I needed to get away from him so that I could cry without thinking about my point score. I didn't even want to know what value the Notable crowd would assign this level of mortification.

My first kiss had been with a guy who was using me to tank his social standing.

I could practically see the points racking up with every step I took as I passed the kitchen and unlocked his front door.

“Look, it's getting dark. I can drive you home. Just let me leave money on the porch for the pizza and I can—” I could hear the concern in his voice, but I knew if I so much as glanced over at him, it would be game over. My eyes would well up and he'd know how shaken I was by whatever it was we had started on the couch. Or maybe it had started in the Yogurt Shack . . . or during that car ride home from Mackenzie's house. The where didn't really matter anymore.

“Thanks, but I'd rather walk it.”

“Yeah, well, I'd rather make sure you got home safely. If you don't want anything to do with me, that's fine. I can call Logan or—”

I ground to a halt. “Believe it or not, there are people
I
can call. People who don't care about the kind of car I drive, or the house I live in, or the type of parties I throw. And they like me exactly the way I am!”

I don't know why I shouted that last part. It wasn't as if he had ever implied that I needed a Cinderella-esque makeover. He knew better than to suggest that with a few pounds of makeup, a new wardrobe, some Photoshop, maybe a little airbrushing here or there, I could pass for a Notable.

That was the whole reason he had chosen me in the first place. No amount of trappings would ever allow me to crash his social strata.

Just to prove my point, I whipped out my cell phone and called Sam before I could talk myself out of dragging her into this mess. Not that it would bother Sam in the slightest to tangle with a Notable. That probably sounded to her like a lasting high school memory she'd enjoy reminiscing over someday.

“Isobel!” she answered cheerfully. “Great timing. What's your position on breaking and entering?”

“Um . . . I'm trying to keep my record clean. Listen, any chance you could give me a lift?”

I walked toward the street, refusing to glance at Spencer, even though I could feel his presence right behind me. I had seen enough horror movies that featured girls wandering outside at night—who were found brutally dismembered in the morning—to feel a twinge of relief that I wasn't alone. It had grown pretty dark while we were inside . . . making out.

I had to force myself to pay attention to the phone call, although the chill in the air didn't feel quite so cold anymore.

“Sure. I can be at your house in ten minutes. I'll see you—”

“I'm at Spencer King's.” I blurted out the words, knowing that there was no subtle way to ease
that
into the conversation.

Her tone instantly became sober. “Are you okay, Isobel?”

Yet another question I had no idea how to answer. I was definitely on a losing streak and I had a feeling that I was in for the mother of all inquisitions when Sam showed up.

“Fine,” I said, because it seemed like the right thing to say. It wasn't as if I could share any of the details with Spencer less than three feet away.

Well, since you asked, Sam. I'm starting to wonder if I've got a bizarre case of Stockholm syndrome. I know that technically Spencer King didn't kidnap me, but honestly, I have no idea why else I'd feel this kind of . . . attachment to him.

“Give me eight minutes to get there.” Her words sounded muffled and I heard a thump that might've been a shoe or a protest sign; knowing Sam, they were equally probable. “I'm on my way.”

“Do you need directions?” Worst-case scenario, I could always hand the phone over to Spencer.

“Nah, I know where he lives. I nearly protested one of his parents' fund-raisers, but—seven minutes!” she interrupted herself and disconnected.

Leaving me alone with Spencer.

Not that we hadn't been alone before, but walking with him at night felt way too personal. And . . . too tempting.

I shivered slightly as a cold breeze lifted the hair at the back of my neck. It would have been so simple to burrow into Spencer for warmth. So easy to pretend that I could do this lighthearted, casual fling thing too. That it wouldn't bother me in the slightest that his so-called friends would mock us behind our backs. Or to
my
face.

“She'll be here in a matter of minutes,” I informed him with a calmness I didn't feel. Part of my brain must have stalled on the idea of initiating take two of our kissing experiment. Considering the explosive results we'd gotten from our first try, I wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to walk away from a second round. I wasn't sure I'd even want to leave. “You can go now.”

“Not until your friend shows up.” He moved forward as if he had nothing but time. “So, how do you want to play this tomorrow?”

I blinked, feeling at a disadvantage with the darkness and shadows partially concealing his face. “I don't know.”

“Do you want to keep pretending to date me? Drop it entirely? Do you want to go to—”

“I. Have. No. Clue.” I enunciated each word, just to make sure they'd sink in.

“Well, that clears things right up for me. Thanks, Belle.”

“You want me to be clear?” I nearly choked on the last word. “Seriously? Because
I'm
the one with questionable motives here? I still don't have any idea why you want to avoid the stupid crown in the first place!”

Spencer crossed his arms, and again that ridiculously attractive tendon in his forearm tightened. The unfairness of it made me want to hate him. “My brother was prom king.”

I pulled up short and then shifted so that I could get a good look at his face. The dim glow of the moon didn't do much to facilitate a close examination, but he didn't look like he was kidding. The patented Spencer King smirk was nowhere to be seen.

“Okayyy . . .” I said slowly. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don't want to follow in his footsteps. Ever. It's a slippery slope in my family. As soon as they start raising their expectations for me, they'll want to get me applying to Ivy League schools and interning for local politicians.”

“Still not seeing the problem,” I said. “I'm pretty sure prom king is a one-night deal. You don't actually have to rule the place . . . well, not any more than you already do. And I'm positive you could come up with hundreds of ways to disappoint them that don't include
me.
”

He raked a hand through his hair, which appeared to have darkened to a burnished gold hue at night. “I repeat: It's a slippery slope. As for the rest . . . you just sort of happened.”

“I happened?” I could feel my brow furrowing. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means, you happened. Don't overthink it.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically. “Because that's something I'm really great at doing. I just flip a switch and—”

“I want to be a firefighter,” Spencer interrupted. “And the only way my parents are going to sign the forms for me to take the fire safety class next year is for them to believe I'm incapable of doing anything more impressive.”

“Well, that's crazy—” I coughed and tried again. “I mean, speaking as your friend . . . I don't see why they'd have a problem with it. Firefighters are . . .”
Hot.
“. . . essential. They provide a vital service to the community. And you're obviously going to be great at it. So your parents should be thrilled.”

It was kind of hard to tell with the darkness settling in, but I thought I saw his mouth curve into a smile. “What makes you so sure I'd be good at it?” he asked slowly.