In Real Life (22 page)

“What are you talking about?” I know damn well what he's talking about.

“You and Jordy. What the hell, Hannah?”

There are so many things I want to say in response, but my brain can't even process all of them. I wanted to get his attention, to make him feel what I've been feeling, but I wasn't prepared for
this.

“Jordy is disgusting.”

“He's your friend.”

“Which is why I know how gross he is. I know how he is with girls.” He takes a step back from me, like he wants to put as much distance between us as possible. There's an empty blackjack table behind him, though, and he backs up into it.

“Why does it matter who I kiss?” I should be able to make out with the entire cast of
Thunder from Down Under,
and he shouldn't have a word to say about it. “You kissed Frankie. I had to stand there and watch you—”

“That's different. Frankie is my girlfriend.”

“I
know,
okay? That has been made very clear to me since the second I arrived. Frankie is your girlfriend. Frankie is kind of a big deal in Vegas. Frankie knows everyone. Frankie and her fans. Frankie and her tiny body and enormous boobs. Frankie and her phone. Frankie and her blog. Frankie is so goddamn nice that I can't even be pissed off at her for any of this.” I search around for a desperate second, looking for something to throw because it seems like a perfect time to hurl a large object through the air, but there's nothing within reach except for the chairs tucked into the blackjack table. I figure the people behind the ceiling cameras would probably frown on that kind of scene, so I lamely flap my arms up and down.

Nick stares at me, his mouth slightly open. I shouldn't be reacting like this. I shouldn't be saying all these things about Frankie. It's not that I don't like her. I do. And that's the problem.

You're supposed to hate the girl who is with the love of your life, and I can't bring myself to do that.

“Pissed off at her for any of
what
?” Nick asks. He steps closer to me, just barely, and I can feel that some of the anger that was pulsing through his veins earlier has started to dissipate, and something familiar I can't place is creeping in. “Exactly what are you upset about?”

Jordy clearly realized I'm not coming back to him, and he chooses right now to wander out of the bar, eyes darting around the casino floor until he spots us. He shuffles over, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his head.

Honestly, I had already forgotten about him.

“Hey, beautiful. There you are.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say in the least convincing voice ever, waving my hand to indicate Nick standing next to me.

Jordy shakes his head and laughs. “Couldn't this wait, Cooper? Hannah and I were kind of in the middle of something.”

When neither Nick nor I reply, Jordy stops laughing and his eyes dart back and forth between the two of us. I wonder what he notices. Our body language—both of us with arms crossed tightly over our chests. Our faces—Nick's still full of hurt and betrayal and a flicker of that something else, me clenching down on my teeth to keep tears from springing up.

“Oh, shit,” Jordy says. He's obviously noticed it all. “Dude, you didn't tell me you guys had history. I thought you were just friends.” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and stares at me for a second or two, then takes a step closer to Nick, lowering his voice to a whisper and jerking his head in my direction. “Is she—?”

“Yes,” Nick says, cutting him off. He doesn't meet Jordy's eyes; instead, he focuses on the carpet, where he's kicking his shoe into the ground over and over.

With the way Nick introduced us back at New York–New York and the questions Jordy asked earlier, I'd assumed Jordy didn't know anything about me. But it appears I was wrong; he definitely knows something. Jordy gives Nick a fist bump and says good-bye; then he turns and head nods in my direction. “It's been real, Hannah.”

I watch Jordy walk away for only a second, and then I turn back to Nick. His face has desperation on it, and it's searching mine, as if I have an answer I don't realize I'm holding.

“Am I what?” I ask. “What was Jordy talking about?”

That familiar something flashes on Nick's face.

“He just knows that … He knows…” His voice is quiet now, almost every trace of that anger gone.

Stomach flip-flopping, I stare at him, waiting for him to finish. I step closer.

“He knows I've had feelings for someone for a long time, but I would never tell him anything about it.” He sticks his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looks directly at me. “He was wondering if that someone was you.”

My mind is reeling. Lo told me she could tell from my stories that Nick had the same feelings for me as I had for him. And somewhere in the back of my head, all these years, I've always known he did.

And he tried to tell me. That night of the party. I know he did and I wouldn't let him and I told him I would never have those feelings for him and to just forget about it.

“You said yes.”

He nods.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

For a fleeting second, I imagine us having a moment. Him crossing the distance between us, pulling me into his arms like he did at the top of the Eiffel Tower, confessing every feeling he's ever had. But instead—I don't know how or why—his anger returns. It's not loud now, but this quieter, controlled anger hits harder. “Oh, come on, Hannah. This isn't news. I've been in love with you for years. Years! And you always push me away, like I'm not real.”

“I didn't know—”

“God, I tried to tell you and—”

“But you were drunk—”

“But I meant it, Hannah. And you had to know. All our conversations. You're the last person I talk to before bed and the first person I talk to when I wake up. Every day, for years. You know it's always been you.”

He's right.

I know. I've always known.

“I try to meet you, you cancel. I give you hint after hint, and you just tell me about the guys you're dating. Of course I had to get drunk to tell you how I feel! There's only so much rejection I could take from you. And what else was I supposed to do? Sit around forever and wait for you to figure it out? And then you show up here out of the blue … Do you know how many times I've wished for this? How much I wanted to drive to you, or to look up and see you standing here?”

I can't even look at him. I hang my head and whisper, “No. I don't.”

“All the time. I've dreamed about this so much. But when I don't drop everything for you, when I don't cheat on my girlfriend with you, you run off and make out with the grossest guy you can find. Were you trying to make me jealous? Because it worked. Congratulations.”

“This is massively unfair. Don't you dare put this on me. You didn't even tell me about her,” I say. “You lied to me.”

“I did lie to you, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I didn't tell you about Frankie, because I kept holding out hope that one of these days you would feel the same way about me as I feel about you. And I didn't tell you about the band, because I was ashamed, and because I didn't know how to explain.… So, yes, I lied. And, believe me, I am so sorry. But I was so in love with you and I didn't know what to do about it and I didn't want to give you any reason not to fall in love with me back.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, further messing it up. “But it obviously didn't matter. And then I met Frankie, and she's this cool girl who actually
wants
to be with me, so…”

My mind works overtime with all the things I can say to him right now:
I've been in love with you, too—I just didn't realize it until today. I completely understand why you lied, and I lied, too. I forgive you. Will you forgive me? Let's sit down and talk about this.

But each declaration brings up a huge unknown. What will happen? And even more than that, does it even matter anymore?

I lost control of this situation so long ago, and this realization makes my stomach clench and my mind free-fall. I panic. Whatever I say right now will change everything.

But now he says he
was
in love with me. Past tense. It's pointless to tell him how I feel now.

I am done lying to myself, though, and to him, so I can't tell him I don't have any feelings.

Anything I might say is totally wrong and messy and will change too much.

Nick is still staring and still not talking. He wants a reply from me. A reaction. Something. But I don't know what to give him, and I can't stand there with this between us.

I take back control the only way I know how to.

I leave.

I turn and run. I run through the casino and dodge the tourists walking through and I run until I get to the elevator, where I jab the Up button and rest my arm on the wall, struggling and panting and trying to forget the hurt on Nick's face.

Running from him, from the truth, is probably the wrong thing to do. In fact, I know it is. But it's easier than telling him how I feel and having him reject me.

I'm going to leave Las Vegas a loser, but at least I didn't gamble my heart.

 

CHAPTER

24

I stumble into our empty hotel room and don't even bother turning on any of the lights. The small lamp between the beds was left on, and that's enough for me. I flop myself face-first on one of the beds and cover my head with a pillow, trying hard to forget the fight I just had with Nick. I didn't care about kissing Jordy, not at all. I kissed him in a moment of weakness. A moment of sadness and loneliness and jealousy and spite. Talk about all the wrong reasons. All I wanted was to make myself feel equal to Nick. If he's kissing someone who isn't me, I should be kissing someone who isn't him. It's only fair.

But then I got the chance to tell him how I felt, and I didn't. And I ran away.

I've ruined everything. Worse than losing the potential Nick as a boyfriend is losing the real Nick as my best friend.

I press the pillow harder over my head, trying to drown out the replay of our fight in my mind, but it doesn't work. So I try to replace it with our moment alone, arms around each other at the top of Las Vegas. But that seems so long ago now, like we were two different people.

After about five minutes or so, the lock on the door beeps and the door swings open. There's laughter, but it's muffled by my pillow, and I can tell it's Lo. And it sounds like she's with someone. Oscar, I'm sure, unless she found a new guy in the last hour and upgraded. With Lo, that wouldn't surprise me one bit.

Talking to them sounds like torture. Lo by herself, sure—I'll sit her down and tell her everything. But I can't deal with Oscar. And I don't want him knowing my business. Especially since he'll run and tell Nick all about it. No way.

Pulling the pillow down tighter, I try to sink down into the mattress. I pray they'll see me on the bed, think I'm sleeping, and go somewhere else to do whatever they came up here to do.

“Mmmm,” Oscar says. “Come here.” Lo laughs and I hear a rustle and a thump on the bed and some moving around and—oh my God, they are making out.

I have no idea what to do. They don't know I'm here, and here they are, kissing like the world is about to end in this room in the dark.

I've been in a room with Lo when she was kissing a guy before, but it had been more of a “seven minutes in heaven” kissing-game sort of situation. Not anything like this. Not with her thinking she was alone with a guy and not even knowing I was there.

I feel like I know everything about my bestie, but, sweet Lord, I don't want to know this much.

The pillow can't possibly be pulled down any tighter over my head, and it's not drowning out the sounds of Lo and Oscar kissing, no matter how hard I mentally recite the alphabet or sing the state capitals.

“Come on,” I hear him say, and then she laughs again.

No, Lo,
I think.
Don't do it.
But I don't say anything, because what can I say?
Hey, guys! I'm here and I'm not asleep—and, Oscar, please stop slobbering on my best friend.
I'm tired and too sad to come up with an appropriate response, so I just sit there on the bed with the pillow over my head.

Oh no. No no no no.

Then Oscar starts talking. “Seriously. Seriously. Oh my God, seriously, Lo. Seriously.”

For the love of all that is good in this world, he can't
seriously
be narrating their make out session, right?

But Lo just giggles while Oscar makes slobbery noises and says, “Seriously. Seriously. Oh my God, seriously.”

I can't. I can't lie here while my best friend makes out with this guy who keeps saying “seriously” over and over.

That's my line, Oscar, because I am wondering if this is seriously happening to me right now.

Ding ding ding.

That's my text notification. And it's such a habit, after spending the last four years texting Nick like it's my job at all hours of the day and night, for me to grab my phone without thinking about it. Instinctively, my arm reaches out to the table without remembering I'm supposed to be asleep.

My clamber for my phone stops them in their tracks. Lo squeals and fumbles around in the dark, and Oscar says, “Hannah?”

“Sorry,” I mumble, like it ain't no thang, me lounging in the bed next to them while they're kissing like the
Titanic
is going down. “I got a text.” If I act like it's perfectly normal that I've been here this whole time, maybe we can all get through this with no major incident.

“Hannah!” Lo screams. So much for staying incident-free.

“God, Hannah,” Oscar says, sounding quite put out. “You were supposed to be asleep.”