Life in the No-Dating Zone (30 page)

When we finally came up for air, he said in a low voice, “Forget dating. Just think boyfriend and girlfriend—best friends who do lots of stuff together.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Okay.”

“And there will be kissing. Lots and lots of kissing.”

“Definitely an advantage of being best friends with Gray Langley.”

“Definitely. And I
know
everything will turn out great.”

I rested my head on his chest. “How?”

“Because I’ve just fallen in love with bowling.”

Love? Yeah, that must be what this crazy swirling sensation was. His voice had rumbled against my ear when he spoke, and I inhaled deeply, trying to breathe him in—every single part of him. But mostly I got that one familiar scent. It made me smile. I took his face in my hands. “And I’ve just fallen in love with popcorn.”

The End

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to thank my genius critique partners, the fabulous writers who ask the questions that keep a story on track and who encourage me when I doubt—Emilie Bishop, Sara Lyon, Kate Martin, and Daphne Riordan. Words can’t describe how much y’all rock!

To the entire publishing team at Swoon Romance, especially Georgia McBride, who loved Claire and Gray’s story. Thanks for making this book possible and for dressing it up with such a beautiful cover!

Thanks to the writing community at Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction program. You have taught me so much and continue to do so. Thanks for the friendship, support, and enthusiastic cheering.

To my church family at St. Clement’s in El Paso and to the ministries we’ve been involved in over the years—thank you. Just knowing you’re around is a huge blessing to me.

To my extended family and friends, thanks for looking interested when I talked about this book, especially if teenage romance is not your thing. Your support means a lot.

And again, thanks go to my immediate family—my husband, Steven, for loving me even through writing craziness, and my sons, David and Topher, who enjoy talking story structure. You make a mom proud. Also, thank you, Topher, for your advice on all things Berger. Thank you, gentlemen, for always making me laugh.

And to God, who smiles on me and laughs with me. I love you.
 

PATRICIA B. TIGHE

The mother of two grown sons, Patricia B. Tighe lives in El Paso, Texas, with her husband and two dogs. Her love of the written word caused her to get a journalism degree from Texas A&M University in 1980 and an MA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University in 2008. When not writing, Patricia can be found walking the dogs or yelling at the TV during an NFL game. Or, if she's really lucky, exploring a foreign country with her extended family.

www.patriciabtighe.com

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www.triciatstuff.tumblr.com
 

Here’s a sneak peek at another great YA title

LOUDER THAN WORDS
 

Chapter One

I hadn't meant to say a word, hadn’t meant to talk about my whacked-out home life—that was nobody’s business but mine—but he was Mr. H. He said he wanted me to open up to him. I didn’t realize he meant my legs.
Bastard.

I pull my limbs in tighter to my chest where I’m perched on the toilet seat in the girls’ bathroom. Every breath is held in check to prevent my hiding place from being discovered. I don't have a hall pass. I didn't think he'd offer one after I wrenched myself out of his arms and ran for the door. I damn sure wasn't going to ask.

He said he understood my unique "situation,” said he wanted to help. Everybody loves Mr. H, the most popular teacher in school. He listens when kids talk to him. He nods and asks gentle questions, never pushes, never judges. Why wouldn't I have trusted him?

Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I looked at him the wrong way, said something more suggestive than I'd intended.

I snatch a shuddery breath of the blissful silence, comforted by my solitude in the bathroom. For now anyway.

Why was I so stupid? I didn't pull away … not soon enough. So that had to be my fault, didn't it?

I can't believe he kissed me. Why'd I let him? I should have dodged him when I first saw him moving closer. I should have pulled away, shouldn't have let it go on as long as it did. But I didn't want to be rude in case I'd misunderstood. Was that my fault?

Of course it was! What was there to misunderstand, idiot? Someone puts their lips on yours, it's not because they fell there and gravity prevented a quick peeling off and retreat.

I press my face into my knees to will away the image, but it only burns brighter in negative, like an x-ray. When I lift up my head and open my eyes, words written with a Sharpie on the bathroom door jump out at me. “Boys suck!” Yeah, they kind of do.

He
kissed
me
. I didn't kiss him. That was his fault.

But how was I so naïve I didn't see it coming? Pathetic, thy name is Ellen. My eyes clamp shut again, to try to squeeze the memories into nothingness. When I feel myself pitch to the right from my precarious perch, I have to open them to regain my balance. I catch a glimpse of my ragged fingernails, their polish chipped and fading, a hangnail on the thumb.

Why me? I’m not all that sexy or pretty—not ugly—but it’s not like I advertise myself. I wear loose T-shirts and baggy jeans. My hair—an explosion of dirty blond corkscrew curls I keep pulled back in a ponytail—couldn’t pass even Bohemian standards of attractiveness. I don’t wear perfume. I bathe, brush my teeth, and don't smoke, but that's it. I barely even move the needle on the female Richter scale.

Why did he do it? Why?

Because he could.

I withdraw the hand I used to regain my balance from the stall wall and uncover where someone has etched in large letters, “Darren G is a douche with a pencil dick.” I know Darren G. He
is
a douche, actually. Tracing the letters with my finger, I wonder how long that took someone to carve. A laugh threatens to burst out, but I squelch it.

On the opposite wall someone has written, “Miss Rice = dumb bitch,” but it has been struck through, either because its writer changed her mind or someone else disagreed.

What if he's angry with me now? What if he says I came on to him? Who are people going to believe? Mr. H or me? A popular, beloved teacher or a quiet girl with only a small handful of friends? A man who's twice my age and a respected educator or a teenager with a mother who is either drunk or stoned?

My heart clicks into a higher gear on the panic meter and my breath comes faster. A tsunami of doubt sweeps me floundering into the cold dark sea where worse horrors lurk.

What if he flunks me and messes up my chances for a scholarship? What if he tries to get me suspended to keep me from saying anything?

What would he suspend me for though? Hiding in the bathroom? Skipping study hall? That's crazy. He’d better not even try to do something like that or I'll … I'll what? Tell? Should I tell? What would I say?

"Mr. H kissed me. Not a European 'luv ya babe' kiss, but a full on, tongue in my mouth, ‘press up against me with his gun drawn’ kiss."

God. How would I even get the words to come out?

The bell finally rings. The swell of voices and the thunder of dozens of footsteps in the halls rush into my brain. I’ve been hiding in this toilet stall for half an hour.

The outer bathroom door opens and two girls in the middle of a conversation about their summer plans take the toilets to my left. They continue to talk in loud voices as they undam a day's worth of soda and frappuccinos. I untuck my legs, letting my feet drop to the floor. Silently I slip out of my stall, out of the bathroom, out of the school. Nobody stops me. Nobody sees me. Nobody cares.
 

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