He - Secret Guy - texted me a few times after lunch before going completely silent. Probably because I ended up reverting to my whole "one-word answer" thing.
Edward sits with his feet propped up in my lap during study hall - just like David did earlier. Except, I'm used to it. There's literally nothing that bothers me about it. (Especially since Edward is in his usual sweatshirt and nylon-ish pants.) He won't stop messing with his hair, which is both bugging me and making me really jealous.
Because, here's the thing: Edward has some nice hair. It's dark and curly and flies up in every direction (like my own straight-from-bed, sandy flopdoodle, but his is hot).s It has so much freaking volume. It's insane. And is, honestly, the best part of him.
And we didn't stay a couple long. Imagine that.
His eyes are unfocused, hazy, and they keep catching on me. Which doesn't make me jealous like the hair does. Just annoyed. I don't enjoy being looked at. I don't enjoy being a focal point. Not of Edward, at least.
This time, when his eyes desperately try to grab mine - which, really, is more sad than exciting or endearing - I hold his gaze for a moment and raise my brows. He smiles, bites the inside of his lip, and looks away.
This has always been us. And, right now, I'm not in the mood.
My eyes drift shut as I pop in my ear-buds, the Hamilton soundtrack slowly building in my ears as I pump up the volume. Suddenly, the pressure on my legs is gone. My eyes flit open to see that Edward has retreated back to himself with this pouty, sour expression.
He always hated it when I didn't pay attention to him. Just more to add to my list, "Why I'm Glad Edward Is No Longer My 'Significant Other'".
Still, I can't just ignore him. He might revoke my present, whatever it is. (If he even has one, which, knowing him, he probably doesn't.)
So I tug one of my ear buds out and give him an unimpressed look. "What?" I ask him impatiently.
It sounds douchey when I say it, but Edward is really a horrible actor. That's why I usually ("usual" means "always") land lead roles in school productions. The dude couldn't even convince you people call him Ed. (Which they don't, thank God. He doesn't need something else to complain about â and he would complain about "Ed".)
He exhales softly; I can smell the apples from lunch on his warm breath as it softly wafts over to me. "Nothing."
"Seriously, dude. You're moping." He is.
The pout turns into a small, slight frown. "I'm not moping."
Now it's my turn to softly exhale. "You are. What's up?"
He just shakes his head and turns to stare at the wall. Edward may be a poor actor, but he sure makes one excellent drama queen.
It's here that the ear buds go back in. He can have it his way.
So what's my surprise? I text Secret Guy as I'm trudging off to my locker.
I'm almost worried I'll have to wait long - then the '. . .' appears, and I'm surprised to realize I can suddenly breathe again.
Do you even UNDERSTAND the meaning of "surprise" ;), he types.
Do you? I respond. Because I'm pretty sure it involves the person who is to be given said surprise knowledge of the surprise.
You've WOOD me once again, he says. Also I feel like you're asking for what some might call a hint....
You think? I'm smiling. He's making me smile. I don't know how to feel about that â smiley, maybe?
What if the hint I give you is REALLY OBVIOUS?
All the better for me.
He hesitates. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm okay.
I'm listening, I tell him immediately. Still, nothing pops up.
I am still listening, I say after a minute. Then, after what feels like an eternity later: You tease.
Finally - finally - he says: I'm a cupid.
I'm staring down at my phone, heart beating rapidly, when my shoulder is rammed into. My head snaps up.
"I'm so sorry," Josiah yelps, catching himself before he trips and grabbing at my arm. But I'm not focused on just his hand. The rest of him is just too distracting: a flash of the smooth flesh of his strong back. Curves of a spine I could delicately trace with my fingers for days. And, finally, that strong hand firmly clamped on my arm.
Screw everything. Josiah straightens and pulls his shirt down so it at least covers his navel. And I mean it: EVERYTHING.
He pulls his shirt down, a slight flush working its way up his pale, freckled neck, and claps me on the shoulder. His eye contact is strong, as usual. I hadn't even considered it, but. . . . God â is Josiah my secret admirer?
"You okay?" he asks. Smiling. So sweetly.
"I-I'm fine," I manage. And, suddenly, I want to be mean. Mean, and cruel, and harsh, all just so he'll leave me alone. Because Josiah can't like me. That's just . . . that's not how things work.
I mean, I haven't thought of Josiah in any way like . . that for ages. And, besides, Josiah is as straight as they come. He's . . . he's Catholic.
Well, now that's an excuse. Crap. Crap. This can't actually be happening. Can it? He can't be my secret admirer.
"Are you sure?" he prompts. His eyes are wide and blue and plain kind; I break our signature eye contact and look down at the floor to see that he must have dropped his phone. "You're all red." I'm not the only one, I realize.
"I . . . was . . . I was running." Why do you do this to yourself? I chide myself. You freaking idiot. There's no way he likes you. I look down at the phone lying on the ground and open my mouth to say something, but Josiah beats me to the punch.
"Well, I'll see you," he says cheerily, then races off down the hallway.
His phone is still on the ground.
I pick it up and just stare at it for a moment.
You should totally give it back, I think to myself. I couldn't even use it to see if he's actually my secret admirer. (Probably.) It's not like you know his password.
But . . . what if he was texting me? I'm certain I have Josiah's phone number already saved in my phone. So, what would he have been texting me on?
I mean, if I don't give it back right away, he'll never know. Probably.
After a moment of indecision, I turn my phone on and scroll through my contacts. Josiah. I do have his number. Still, maybe this is a different phone. A friend's or something.
I text his number: So, what're you up to? like the socially inept person I am.
The phone I'm holding in my hand - Josiah's - dings.
Maybe he's not my already-way-too-secretive admirer.
And now, I'm just standing in the middle of a flustered high school hallway like an idiot. Kids are splitting around me like a herd of malevolent water buffaloes around an awkward, obstructive rock.
I'm an idiot.
I shove both phones in my pockets and continue the fairly taxing march to my locker. David is leaning against his own, his puffy jacket covering his dress. Which I'm totally fine with - at least I'm safe from his infamous collarbone.
Now I just have to worry about those freaking legs of his.
He nods at me as I approach my locker, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket and leaning towards me over-exaggeratedly. "So," he hisses, like we're in front of an audience, "any leads?"
As I'm opening my locker, I roll my eyes and keep my eyes focused on what I'm doing instead of acknowledging Mr. Thighs. David pokes me in the side. "Niiiick," he whines. "Do you have any ideas?"
Giving no answer, I give him a dead-eyed glare. "The suspense is killing me," he says, as if that is going to make me talk. Because I exist to appease him, apparently.
"That makes me not want to tell you," I mutter just loud enough for him to hear.
His hand flies to his chest. I'm pretty sure he's mocking me. "You want me to die?" he asks, his face contorted into a wounded puppy-dog look.
I sigh and turn my entire body to face him. He leans in so closely that, if we were the same height, our foreheads would probably be touching. "They're a cupid," I tell him, my heart's BPM definitely accelerating way too rapidly.
David's eyes light up excitedly. "Really? That's so cool."
Yeah, I think, for you. It's not as if I can handle any more cupids.
"Cool," I echo. "Totally."
"I mean, think about it," David says. "All of the cupids are pretty hot." I don't want him to see that I'm blushing, so I turn my undivided attention to my locker and use the door to hide my flushed cheeks.
"Do looks even have to matter?" I mutter.
Just like they did this morning, David's fingers curl around my locker door and pull it back so I can see his jubilant, smiling face. "I mean, no, they don't. But how many cupids do you know?"
Brow furrowed, I meet him straight on; his eyes are practically laughing at me as they bore into mine. "One." Josiah.
"I'm going to assume that's me." Then, it's like he tries to smirk, but his face wasn't built for it, so his nose just wrinkles. (Which is actually way more endearing than what he was probably going for in the first place.) "But, okay - here's my point: If you're looking for a relationship that has nothing to do with looks, I think that you might want to look for someone who you've known for quite a while."
I just shake my head, sure that he's trying to get at me. "We went over this earlier. It's probably just a prank. And until I see the pony with the ribbon tied around it's neck that says 'not a prank, Nick' on it, it is most definitely a prank."
"A pony," David echoes, clearly amused. "Poor guy. He's got some high expectations set."
"You need to be more cynical," I tell him impatiently. Like I've been wanting to do for over two years. "Not everyone is nice or honest or good, David. Some people are just. . . ."
"Evil? Horrible? Awful?" He's got his arms crossed now; I can see his feather boa peeking out from beneath the collar of his jacket. "I have more words. Do you want to hear more words?" I could probably find a thesaurus. Would you like one?" He's always smiling. It kills me.
My eyes roll to about infinity-and-freaking-beyond. "Some people are just bad, okay?" I mutter, snatch my jacket and my bag, and walk off down the hallway.
There's a pounding of footsteps behind me, and a tap on my shoulder, and I swear to God that, as cute as David is, and that however much it would pain me, I will literally kill him. Like, seriously. The dude needs to take a hint.
"Nickie," chirps a friendly voice. My head barely turns, though I do manage a slight smile, all my melodramatic homicidal urges washed away. Missy's voice is one thing and one thing only: chirpy. Seriously. I have never met anyone more chipper than Little Miss Stevens.
"Hey," I say plainly, because I'm not cool enough to rock a hilariously intense "hello", and no where near funny enough to say "'sup". (I don't have "'sup" merit. I probably never will.)
Missy and I have known each other for quite a while. Before high school, I was really into orchestra. We sat next to each other. And she lives maybe a mile from my house, so we'd walk home from the bus together. Despite all the time that has passed, she hasn't changed one bit. For starters, she still skips everywhere. (Like, everywhere. You could tell her to walk into a gas chamber at gun point, and she'd still skip.)
"So," she says, skipping alongside me, "how's your candy gram-thing goin'?"
I just roll my eyes and sigh. I feels like I've been doing a lot of that today. All of a sudden, I realize how tired I am. Like, collapse-worthy tiredness.
Missy giggles. Chirpiness, skipping, and giggles. These were the ingredients used to make Missy Stevens.
"I'd be psyched if it were me," she tells me earnestly, smiling widely. "I'd probably be doubtful, but . . . I'd still be happy." Then she puts her hand on my arm for a second - she stops skipping to do so, which is just unheard of - and proceeds to turn around and skip back down the hallway.
Doubtful, but still happy.
I mean . . . I never said I wasn't happy. I'm just tired and done. I guess I'm maybe at least a little bit happy. And mostly doubtful.