How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (20 page)

I watched the king roll back and forth a little before it came to a stop. “Not really. A little tired, I guess.”

“Busy week. Kind of thought you might bring your girl by today.”

“She’s not my girl.” I clenched my eyes shut and sighed heavily. “Sorry. But Ainsley’s got a boyfriend. And it’s not me.”

“Ah. I’m guessing this has something to do with your recent inability to avoid walking into walls.” When I said nothing, Hank reached to swipe the rest of the chess pieces off the board so he could flip it over. “So you’ve given up.”

“I’m not giving up,” I said. “I’m being realistic.”

Hank leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach, eyeing me shrewdly. “But I thought things were going so well. From what you said, you two had become friends.”

“I thought we were.”

“And you don’t anymore?”

I sighed. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It doesn’t make any sense to keep trying when I know nothing’s going to happen.”

Hank raised an eyebrow.

“Man, that sounds a lot worse when I say it out loud.”

He hummed noncommittally.

“But she and I . . . I mean, it’s such a cliché to say we come from two different worlds, but it’s accurate.”

Hank pursed his lips.

“I guess maybe I feel kind of stupid,” I said. “I was so convinced that I only had to show her what she was missing and things would all fall into place. Pretty arrogant, when you think about it.”

“Mmm hmm. So it’s about your ego.”

“No!” I rolled my eyes. “Okay, maybe a little. But more than that, I think it’s about realizing what’s important.”

“And Ainsley’s not important.”

I started to rearrange the pieces into the storage recess in the back of the board. “Of course she’s important. Every person is important in the grand scheme of things.” I was babbling, but I didn’t care. “But I have to think about my future, and I understand now that Ainsley’s not going to be a part of that. So I’m cutting my losses, I guess you’d say.” I fitted the last piece into place and folded the board, locking it securely. “She’s got her own future to think about, and I’m barely a footnote in it. So, really, it’s all for the best.”

“Right. All for the best.” Hank sounded skeptical.

“I really should go,” I said, standing up quickly. “Viney’s coming over, and I have stuff to do.” I grabbed my coat and backpack. “I’ll see you next weekend.”

“See you,” Hank said. When I got to the door, he called out, “Oliver?”

My shoulders tightened. I stopped, but I didn’t look back. “Yeah?”

“If that’s really the way you feel, that it’s not worth it? That Ainsley’s not worth it? Then you’re probably right,” he said quietly. “It is for the best.”

12.
Admit When You’re Wrong

Be mature. If you screw up, say you’re sorry, doofus.

Viney left Sunday afternoon, and I forced myself through a family taco dinner. We’d started eating together a little more often lately, and it was important to my mom that we all sit around the kitchen table and talk.

Whatever. It was better than sitting in my room and contemplating the misery of my love life. Or lack of love life.

I ate, despite the fact I really wasn’t hungry, because I figured if my mouth was full, I wasn’t expected to talk. I knew I was being pathetic, but the weekend would be over in the morning, and I’d have to go back to dealing with, well, life, so I figured a little wallowing wasn’t out of the question.
 

The bruise on my face had faded a little. It was still black and blue, a sickly yellow-greenish color along the edges, but my mom hadn’t followed up on her threat to talk about it. At least not yet. She played along, even though I knew she wasn’t fooled for a moment, and addressed most of her questions to my brother.

“Sherlock, any big cases lately?” she asked.

My brother dutifully pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Jimmy Henderson was the one who let the frog loose in class. The case of the missing hamster is still under investigation.”

“They still haven’t found Mr. Nibbles?” my dad asked.

He shook his head. “The cage door was left open, but nobody is taking responsibility.”

“Tough case,” Dad said, nodding seriously.

“Indubitably.”

“Anything else?” my mom asked, passing him the salsa.

Sherlock flipped a page. “Oliver is gay.” My dad choked on his taco.

“I’m not gay!” I mumbled through a mouthful of food. My mom reached out to pat my hand but addressed Sherlock.

“Sweetie, why do you think that?”

“Who cares why? He’s wrong!”

Mom shot me a significant look. “Perhaps it will be easier to convince him of that if we discuss it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss!” But I knew she was right. If there was one thing I knew about my brother, he was determined. And stubborn. And logical to a fault. Okay, so that was actually three things, but they all worked together—against me, in this case.

“It was elementary, actually,” Sherlock said, turning to his notebook.

I bit my tongue, my cheeks flaming as he went through his “evidence.” I noticed my dad covering his mouth, his shoulders shaking slightly. I glared at him, but I had to give him credit for at least
trying
not to laugh. Even though he failed miserably.

When he was done, Sherlock shot me a victorious look before turning to my mother expectantly. I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it.

“Sherlock, first of all, we need to have a talk about respecting your brother’s privacy—”

“Thank you!” I glared at my brother across the table.

“—but I think it’s important that we discuss this as a family.”

Perfect
.

“Now,” she said, “I think I speak for your father when I say that
if
either one of you were gay, it would not affect how we love or treat you in any way.”

“Oh God.” I let my head fall to the table, barely missing my plate of tacos by swerving at the last minute.

“It’s true.” My father nodded, solemn except for the obvious twinkle in his eye. “You both have our unwavering support in all things.” He patted my shoulder.
 

I think I groaned, but I was too overcome by mortification to know for sure.

“But, honey,” Mom said, “did it ever occur to you that there might be another reason for all this so-called evidence?”

“Like what?”

“Kill me now,” I muttered.

“No need to be so dramatic,” Sherlock said reproachfully. “You heard Mom and Dad say you have their support.”

“I changed my mind,” I said, moving to get up out of my chair. “I’ll kill him instead.”

“Sit down, Oliver,” Dad said sternly. His lips were twitching again, so it kind of ruined the effect. “Sherlock, your brother isn’t gay.”

“But the evidence—”

“The evidence has been
misinterpreted
,” Mom said, reaching out to push back his hair. “Your brother is interested in a girl.”

“I can’t believe this.” My eyes flashed to the stairs, gauging the chances of making it to my room before my parents could stop me.

“A girl,” Sherlock said, his eyes considering as he went back over the page in his notebook. “That didn’t even occur to me.”

“Thanks.” I turned my pleading gaze on my dad. He seemed more sympathetic. “Are we done here?”

“Which girl?” Sherlock asked, pencil poised over his pad. All eyes turned on me curiously, and my brother’s took on a shrewd glint. “It’s the homework girl, isn’t it? The BFF, what was her name?” He flipped through his notebook.

“It’s none of your business!” I stood up abruptly, my chair clattering against the tile floor. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Oliver—” The pity in my mother’s eyes made my stomach clench.

“I’ve got homework,” I said, picking up my plate as my brother watched me carefully.

“But—”

“Sherlock!” My dad finally intervened, thank God.

I scraped and rinsed my plate in record time, grateful that nobody said anything more until I’d escaped to the refuge of my bedroom.

Later that night, I was lying in bed trying, and failing, to get some reading done for school when there was a quiet knock at my door. I considered feigning sleep, but who was I kidding?

“Come in.”

My mother opened the door, a tentative smile on her face. “You okay?”

I nodded.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She stepped into my room, and I froze when I noticed what she held in her hands.

“What are you doing with that?” I asked.

“This?” She held up my List Notebook, a sad smile on her face. “I found it in the trash. Not sure how it got there.”

“It got there because I put it there,” I said stubbornly.

“Why?”

I shrugged, not meeting her eyes.

Mom took a seat on the edge of my bed, watching me for a minute. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “And I don’t need to know, if you don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you,” I said quickly. “I just don’t want to talk about it period, right now. I’m tired of talking about it. Tired of
thinking
about it.”

“I understand.” She toyed with the corner of the Notebook. “But I think you should keep this.”

“It’s stupid.”

Her eyes flashed. “It’s
not
stupid.”

“Lists, Mom. All it is it a bunch of ridiculous lists.” I practically spat the words. “Who
does
that?”

“You do.”

“Not anymore.” I tossed my book onto the nightstand to emphasize my point. “It’s time I grew up.”

“Oliver, listen to me, please.”

I huffed but turned to her expectantly.

“Growing up doesn’t mean giving up on your dreams.” I looked away, and she ducked her head, trying to meet my gaze. “I don’t know what happened with Ainsley.” She rolled her eyes when I stiffened. “Yes, I know something happened—give me a break, I wasn’t born yesterday.

“Like I said, I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know one thing. And it’s something I thought your dad and I had instilled in you since you were little, but it seems like you need a reminder.”

A lump appeared in my throat out of nowhere. I swallowed. “What?”

She leaned in to tap her fingers once on my cheek. “Don’t let anyone—
anyone—
take your dreams, Oliver. You are exactly who you are supposed to be. You don’t need to change for anyone.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” she asked quietly. “This isn’t just a notebook, Oliver. It’s your hopes, your dreams, your goals. And it’s how you make sure you make them happen. Throwing it away is like throwing
them
away. And I think that’s a mistake.” She stood up after a moment and crossed to my desk to open the bottom drawer.

“I’m not saying you have to use it—not right now, at least. But I’m going to put it in here for now, okay? For safekeeping.” She watched me until I nodded, then put the notebook in the drawer and closed it gently.

“It’s late,” she said. “You better get some sleep.”

“Okay. Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Oliver.” She crossed to the door and flipped off the main light, the reading light on my nightstand casting the room in shadow.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I could see her smile in the light from the hallway. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Think about what I said, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

She shut the door behind her, and I reached over to turn off the light, pretty sure I would be able to think of little else.