balking, so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings just in case he was being straight with me after all. I said slowly, “Well, for starters, from some of the things you said in the hall on Friday, I was thinking you might ask me to the Poser concert, but you haven’t said another word about it.”
I watched him closely as I said this. He watched me too, his dark eyes giving away nothing but anger.
I swallowed. “You’ve said Chloe invited you here for my victory party. I saw you out on your deck during the competition, so I know you remembered it was going on. But you haven’t asked me anything about the contest, either.”
His lips parted. I watched his soft lips (at least, I remembered them from seventh grade as soft) and waited for him to explain himself. But after a moment he closed his mouth again, and his dark eyes glinted harder.
I had desperately wanted to be wrong about Nick. I had wished he honestly liked me. But his silence and his anger were convincing me otherwise. That made me angry. And when I got angry, I was anything but silent.
“You’ve pretty much ignored me for the past four years, except to insult me or to throw something at me. Then suddenly you want to make out just when our friends get together? You don’t act like you’re very fond of me. You act like I’m convenient. You would have made out with any chick you happened upon in the sauna, from the hotel maid to the lady in room 3B. I’m not sure I do want to end our trial separation. We have irreconcilable differences.” By the time I got all of this out, I was shouting at him. I’d known I was angry at him, but I hadn’t realized I’d been storing up that much resentment for four years.
Apparently, neither had he. His hand suddenly tensed on my tummy, and I suppressed the urge to say oof . Nick and I had been pressing into each other on the bench, our thighs touching. Our heads were coming closer together with every word we uttered. If someone had interrupted us just then (which they wouldn’t, because we would hear the hall door squeak first), they would think we were about to kiss. They would never understand how much tension rode on every word as Nick looked into my eyes and the following words slid out of his mouth and straight into my heart like slivers of glass: “You have a lot of freaking nerve.” He sat back against the wooden wall, sliding his hand off my tummy and his thigh out from under my hand (nooooo!).
Clearly I couldn’t read Nick as well as I’d thought. I hadn’t wanted to make him angry if he really did care about me. I’d only wanted him to get his hands off me if I didn’t mean anything to him. Now that it appeared I did mean something, and I’d hurt his feelings, my goal now was to get his hands back on me. “I’m not trying to make you mad,” I said quickly. “I’m not even saying I’m right. This just seems very sudden, and I wanted to talk about it with you a little mo—”
“Forget it, Hayden.” His skin glowed with sweat in the low light of the sauna, and his dark hair stuck to his forehead in wet black wisps. He breathed hard like the football team had just given him a good workout. Or like I had. And he looked like I’d slapped him.
But even without the hurt expression on his handsome face, I would have known I’d seriously wounded him because he called me Hayden instead of Hoyden . Like my mother using my full name, Hayden Christine O’Malley, it meant I was in big trouble.
He went on, “I can’t believe you would say something like that to me.” He folded his big arms on his bare chest. “I mean, even if you don’t care about me , I can’t believe you would be that much of a bitch to anyone . That’s just cruel.”
The thing to do then was to make a snappy comeback and stomp out of the sauna, never to return. I got called the B-word a lot, undeservedly in my opinion, just because I had red hair and I said what I thought, perhaps a tad too loudly.
But all I could do was sit
I watched him closely as I said this. He watched me too, his dark eyes giving away nothing but anger.
I swallowed. “You’ve said Chloe invited you here for my victory party. I saw you out on your deck during the competition, so I know you remembered it was going on. But you haven’t asked me anything about the contest, either.”
His lips parted. I watched his soft lips (at least, I remembered them from seventh grade as soft) and waited for him to explain himself. But after a moment he closed his mouth again, and his dark eyes glinted harder.
I had desperately wanted to be wrong about Nick. I had wished he honestly liked me. But his silence and his anger were convincing me otherwise. That made me angry. And when I got angry, I was anything but silent.
“You’ve pretty much ignored me for the past four years, except to insult me or to throw something at me. Then suddenly you want to make out just when our friends get together? You don’t act like you’re very fond of me. You act like I’m convenient. You would have made out with any chick you happened upon in the sauna, from the hotel maid to the lady in room 3B. I’m not sure I do want to end our trial separation. We have irreconcilable differences.” By the time I got all of this out, I was shouting at him. I’d known I was angry at him, but I hadn’t realized I’d been storing up that much resentment for four years.
Apparently, neither had he. His hand suddenly tensed on my tummy, and I suppressed the urge to say oof . Nick and I had been pressing into each other on the bench, our thighs touching. Our heads were coming closer together with every word we uttered. If someone had interrupted us just then (which they wouldn’t, because we would hear the hall door squeak first), they would think we were about to kiss. They would never understand how much tension rode on every word as Nick looked into my eyes and the following words slid out of his mouth and straight into my heart like slivers of glass: “You have a lot of freaking nerve.” He sat back against the wooden wall, sliding his hand off my tummy and his thigh out from under my hand (nooooo!).
Clearly I couldn’t read Nick as well as I’d thought. I hadn’t wanted to make him angry if he really did care about me. I’d only wanted him to get his hands off me if I didn’t mean anything to him. Now that it appeared I did mean something, and I’d hurt his feelings, my goal now was to get his hands back on me. “I’m not trying to make you mad,” I said quickly. “I’m not even saying I’m right. This just seems very sudden, and I wanted to talk about it with you a little mo—”
“Forget it, Hayden.” His skin glowed with sweat in the low light of the sauna, and his dark hair stuck to his forehead in wet black wisps. He breathed hard like the football team had just given him a good workout. Or like I had. And he looked like I’d slapped him.
But even without the hurt expression on his handsome face, I would have known I’d seriously wounded him because he called me Hayden instead of Hoyden . Like my mother using my full name, Hayden Christine O’Malley, it meant I was in big trouble.
He went on, “I can’t believe you would say something like that to me.” He folded his big arms on his bare chest. “I mean, even if you don’t care about me , I can’t believe you would be that much of a bitch to anyone . That’s just cruel.”
The thing to do then was to make a snappy comeback and stomp out of the sauna, never to return. I got called the B-word a lot, undeservedly in my opinion, just because I had red hair and I said what I thought, perhaps a tad too loudly.
But all I could do was sit
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