a/n; so I was looking at all of my lost documents from way back in the day, and I found this silly little piece I wrote nearly five years ago. It's supposed to be lighthearted and not to be taken too seriously. Is it arrogant to say that I'm a little proud of my past self?

Happy Valentine's Day!

I Want Candy; circa 10/16/11


Her name is Candy.

There has never been a person who coincides with their name so greatly than her. Her favorite color(s) consist of pinks – different shades of pinks – and sometimes light purples and lavenders. Sometimes. Her wardrobe is made of lollipops and bubblegum, making up the stitches of her shirt and the lining of her mouth. She's a pink blur, a giant bubblegum bubble in the masses of actual living students, but most are too preoccupied or too annoyed to let her choice of pink! magenta! swirls! bother them. Some have just known her too long to even care. But she manages to turn heads every now and again. The high school's too diverse to completely ignore. Those clothes are pretty stubborn.

Then comes the day where Adam says, "Who's the chick with glitter?"

And I say, "You mean, the one with the pink glitter hair extensions?"

"Yeah."

"That's Candy."

"Candy?" He pauses. "Isn't that some hooker name?"

"In some circles, I'm sure." I shrug. Candy has always been Candy. She can have that appeal – heels and Luscious Coral Pink lip gloss. I asked her the name once. It's very shiny.

"Hm," he grunts. "I wanna fuck her."

Sometimes I don't understand why anyone would, especially Adam, because he's one picky guy – if there's ever been such a thing as a picky guy. But I have to burst his bubble of raunchy thoughts, anyway.

"She's not like that."

"Her name is."

"Yeah, but she's not. She's a virgin."

He looks at me, intimidating me with a skeptical stare. "How do you know that?"

If I'm completely honest, and usually I am – I'm certain – I don't know that. But Candy has always been a good girl. I get reports about the latest 'parties' and 'pot-smoking clubs' on a daily basis, since I ask the right people. What can I say – I'm versatile in my social circles. And, well, Candy never hangs out around that type of scene.

"I've got my sources," I answer.

"Right."

He doesn't sound convinced.

"Well, if you're that curious," I say, and I don't know why I say it, since Candy is more than an acquaintance to me and I shouldn't be so liberal with things like this, like letting one of my friends harass someone else about their sex life (even though we've only been living seventeen years, some do have one), "go ask her about it."

But what surprises me even more is Adam's smile when he says, "I think I will."

Adam is never straightforward. He's not shy, but he's not an insanely outgoing person. And he's always been reserved enough to not be disrespectful.

I guess not to Candy. It must be her enticing name.


I choke on my spit at lunch the next day. I sit in the passenger seat, and what song is warping its way into my brain?

I Want Candy blares through Adam's speakers. I open the passenger door while Adam puts the car in drive.

"What the hell – " he starts to say, slamming on the brakes as my foot touches down on the parking lot gravel.

"What do you think?" I gesture toward his iPod. "You bought the I Want Candy song?"

He looks at me as if I said something inanely stupid. "Yeah."

"…why?"

"Because," he stresses. "She said she was a virgin."

I fall back into the seat involuntarily in desperate shock. "You mean she told you?"

He gains this slow, goofy smile. I switch on my drunken Adam alert mode.

"Yeah."

"It was that easy?"

"Uh…yeah."

"Huh."

"Is it that surprising?"

"Well, yeah. If I didn't know you and you just hobbled up to me and asked, Hey sweet pea, you still gotta cherry? I'd tell you to back the hell up."

He rolls his eyes, though his daze is still intact. "Yeah. Because you're definitely a sweet pea."

I sock him in the arm.

"See what I mean?"

Sometimes I hate his sarcasm, because it's always that true kind of sarcasm.

"Okay, so I wouldn't tell you if I was a virgin or not. What's the big deal?" And it does not pass my mind that I've never told him and never will.

"Who really cares if you are? All I'm sayin' is that Candy is damn fine, and I want it."

I wonder, sometimes with a great ire, why I'm friends with such a douchebag. Then I remember that he's my neighbor, and my only ride home besides the old, smelly yellow dog. I hate the bus. My first and last experience with that thing cost me a great many misfortunes that I just cannot repeat to save my life.

So instead, I suck it up, close the passenger door, and immediately steal his iPod off the small indentation underneath his radio.

He's still too drunk to care.

I really hope he doesn't crash.


Adam comes over to eat dinner with my family every once in a while. My parents think it's cute. I think it's sick.

He only does it because his mom annoys him and his dad works all the time. Did I say they were rich? Well, they are. So he can live it up in his secluded room or their basement or whatever little nook or cranny he can find (I got lost in his house once, so you'd think he'd be able to find somewhere to avoid his mom) and he decides to come over, flirt with my mom, and steal our food.

Again. Douchebag.

But he can be funny sometimes. It's the single way he compensates.

My mom always, always insists – forces – me to walk him to and out the door.

"Guess what," he whispers, as I'm turning the knob at the entrance.

"What?" I say, at a normal tone, because my mom giggled after he complimented on her spaghetti. She's delusional, I tell you.

"I got Candy's number."

I crease my brows and give him an incredulous look. "That was fast."

"Yeah," he grins. "Isn't it great?"

"I guess," I say, widening the already opened door. "Don't you have to, I don't know, go on dates now?"

"Sure, but I make quick work of those."

Ugh. Cocky.

"You're gross."

"I'm hot."

"Obviously to Candy," I jibe. "Now get out of my house."

He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks slowly, like a loiterer, so I kick him to make him go faster.

He laughs, but I close the door before I can fully hear it. I swear if he wasn't such a womanizer, already, I might truly enjoy his company. Suffice to say, I'm obligated to put up with him.

Did I mention I babysit his younger sister? He's too busy to do it himself.

Go figure.


There's this thing about high school hallways. I'm shorter than average height, so I kind of get eaten by all the crowds. I thought I might make it by interweaving like an expert hallway ninja, darting in between legs and jumping through those second-lasting holes that appear every now and again, but I guess I'm the only one who dreamed up that fantasy.

At times, I get elbowed in the boob. No big deal, unless the elbow is ultra sharp. And sometimes, I accidentally brush and/or almost hold hands with strangers. I can either receive creepy grins or awkward look-look away type deals. Sometimes, I get groped. But let's be honest; it's bound to happen occasionally, on purpose or not, who knows.

But, out of all these ugly consequences of hallways, there is always a shining beacon hidden somewhere that pops up every once in a while.

And that beacon?

The new guy.

There's always a new guy. And as a bonus, they're almost always heart thrumming-ly good-looking.

This one wasn't an exception. Dirty blonde and tall and he had muscles. Thank God for muscles. They weren't too broad or too skinny – lean without lacking density.

I.E: This one was my type.

And he was taking a detour to my locker.

"Hey," he says, uncertainly. "I'm looking for Mrs. Sheldon's class. Can you tell me how to get there?"

Oh, I'll definitely tell you how to get there, says my hormones.

"Sure!" I say instead, the bright smile encompassing my face. I feel it heat up with some exaggerated anticipation.

"Thanks," he smiles, and his confidence hops. "I'm new here, and this school is…"

"Different?" I say, giving one of those fake giggles. I don't mean to, it's just one of those social etiquette pop ups that I have. "You'll get used to it soon, I promise."

"I hope so."

"Where're you from?"

"Phoenix," he says, lips twitching to the side. "Hard to get used to the weather, here."

"Just figure out how to layer your clothes, and you'll survive it," I say, already thinking about anecdotes I have about my visit to Yuma, Arizona, and how I didn't realize 3:10 to Yuma was talking about Arizona, and then my mind drifted off to Christian Bale and if he'd make for a good conversation. I never had been the sultry, come-hither type, and there was no way in the next five seconds I could make myself look up through my lashes at him without laughing at myself and making him all hot and bothered about me as I was to him.

Then we were at the door much too soon. He turns and gives me a grateful grin.

"Thanks a lot. Never would have found it."

I almost immediately want to pull out my old map of the school and let him keep it – and scribble my name and number on the back of it so he'll remember me forever.

And then I think that's the stupidest thought I've ever had in my entire life, and I laugh a little. I say, "It was no problem." Then I boldly hold out my hand – because this is bold for me. "I'm Annie."

"Annie…" he says, and I adore the way he says it, staring at my face as if he'll remember it without me doing anything drastic. "I'm Logan."

Logan. Mmm.

And his hand. Double mmm.

"Logan…" I repeat, mimicking him. He catches on, chuckling a little.

Mmm. Chuckle.

"I'll see you later," I say, because ending the conversation first makes them feel the want of more tenfold. Or so I've heard somewhere.

"Goodbye, Annie."

Mmm. Back.

I drift along the hallways, humming with the late bell. So, I'm tardy for my next class. But it's the best tardy I ever got.


"You? Late?"

So I have Douchebag in this class. Biology. I sit right by him. Boo.

"Mhm," I say, still humming.

"What happened?"

"Who says anything happened?" I'm still smiling, and I can tell he's suspicious.

"You look weird."

"Well, thanks, mister 'I'm a hot douchebag.'"

He grins, letting whatever interrogation he was building in his mind slide. "I got a date."

My face twinges, for the slightest second, because I have a brief image in my mind with Candy and Douchebag making out, and it is vomit-inducing.

"Why do you keep updating me?"

"Because you want to know about it?"

Ugh. Touche. Kind of.

I'm a parasite for information. So what. I'm starting to get too full with his. I might burst soon with his cherry-popping escapades.

I don't think he cares for information as much as I do. I decide to keep Logan all under wraps, just for me.

And…maybe some of my girlfriends. I do have them.

It's just that Adam's such a scary shadow. We have too many classes together. It's a damn shame.


It's like fate. It's like a myriad of coincidences. It's like something.

Basketball's starting, and I'm staring at the roster, and it's Logan. My Logan. Except he's not – ew, that's way possessive. I take it back.

But I stare at his name, and I decide, no. I don't take it back.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Number twenty-six. That's my favorite number.

It's like fate. It's like a myriad of coincidences…

"Hey, weirdo, give me back my paper."

So Adam's on the team, too. But who cares, because Logan. Heart. Heart. Heart.

He snatches it away from me. "What is wrong with you?"

"Hmmm—uh—wha?" I ask intelligently.

"You. You've had this look on your face all week."

"Oh," I say, and I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "I don't know. I got an A in Calculus."

"Yeah, so did I, brainiac."

"Yeah, well, um, I'm on drugs."

He gives me this stare, this stare that speaks loud and clear that he has no idea who I am, and then he rolls his eyes, keeping his face serious even though his eyes speak mirth, mirth, mirth. "You almost had me fooled."

"What? Don't believe me?" I say, smiling, staring at his paper. "Tell you what. Since I'm so drugged up right now, I'll go to your first game."

He blinks. "You'll go?"

"I might even bring my mother."

He gives a devious grin. "I'll play extra hard then."

I make a face, exaggerating all the folds my skin makes. "Don't say hard like that."

We manage to make it to his car with him emphasizing hard only seven times.

"I'm so hard."

Eight times.

I cover my ears and squint. "Don't say for..." I whine, and it's petulant, but I don't care because he's alluding to his penis, and my mom, and I don't want to think about his penis and my mom.

"Your mom," he finishes. I scream a ridiculous scream as I race to his car and the door to the passenger side. He starts laughing.

Then I realize there is only one penis I would want to think about.

Mmmmm.


Then one day, Logan walks into my Biology class, with that infamous yellow slip of paper that is the definition of schedule change, and my heart leaps and my mind shouts with all the blood rushing through. I can feel my pulse through my eyeballs.

"Welcome to Biology, Logan," Mrs. Mince says, her eyes glowing at the prospect of a new student. A new, very athletic student.

She assigns him a seat somewhere behind me, and as he passes by my desk, we lock eyes, and it's the pivotal moment where he says,

"Hey, Annie."

And I almost die. He remembered. I knew he'd remember.

"Hey," I breathe out, and it almost sounds sultry to my own ears. I feel myself blush, but I'm not sure why, because Logan has already taken his seat, and…and…

Oh. His smile. Straight, pearly whites. The best. Those kind of smiles stay with you.

I feel a nudge in my side, and I almost explode in a sudden rage, because that image in my mind vanishes.

I turn to Adam, and I glare. "What?"

He holds his hands up. "Whoa. Calm down."

I roll my eyes and say more placidly, "What?"

Then he smiles, and it's that knowing smile. The smile that everyone hates. "It's him, huh?"

I blink, and I feel my eyes grow. And my cheeks heat up. Damn it. How'd he become so perceptive all of a sudden?

"What?"

"Thought so," he says, placing his hands behind his head and leaning over in his chair.

So smug. It deepens this black hole of deep, dark, dank anger inside me. I've always had this extra attitude baggage attached to me, but the stance he was giving me ripped it wide open.

If we weren't in a classroom, and if Logan wasn't sitting behind me, I would have killed Adam.

After school, he better watch out.


"Hey."

He mocks. He mocks me.

"Would you shut up about that already?"

I did say I was going to kill him, but then I figured out quite slowly that having teenage homicide on my record would undoubtedly steal away my chances at college. Man. Life's such a bitch.

"Hey," he pushes out, making it all breathy and stupendously erroneous.

I punch his shoulder. "You can't even do it right."

"Oh, what about this? Hey."

I clench my hands, make these solid fists. I can give him a real nice shiner. I contemplate it for a few good seconds.

"Hey."

"Shut the fuck up." I decide giving him the satisfaction of letting him know he wound me up enough to the point of extreme violence was too much for my pride to handle.

He laughs at me. I open the car door.

We're on the highway.

"Shit, Annie!" he shouts, swerving to miss the car on the next lane. "You wanna die?"

"When I'm around you," I say, leaving the door open for an extra second before closing it.

"This car's my graduation present."

"I care, why?"

His jaw ripples. "I don't have to drive you home, you know."

"Yeah, I won't let you if you keep up with all your bullshit."

He laughs, disbelieving. "You can't take a little joke now?"

Maybe I'm being a little bratty about this. But he's being annoying.

I ignore the question. "Whatever happened to Candy?"

The distraction is genius. He flips personas like a switch.

"We made out."

Euuuuuaaaggghh. And why did I ask this.

"Sick."

"Actually, it was nice. Really nice."

"Brag to all your friends?"

He frowns a little at this, as if thinking about it. "No. No I haven't."

"Oh, right," I say. "You don't have any friends."

He scoffs. "We just never talk about that stuff."

I bring my feet off the dash in surprise. "You mean, your bro-gang doesn't talk about when you get it?"

He smiles, almost shyly. "Nah, not really."

"What."

He shrugs easily. "I don't kiss and tell, much."

I crack up. That is a great, big load of shit. "Whatever."

"I'm serious."

"But, you tell me everything like I'm your history book."

He shrugs again. And suddenly, I feel uncomfortable. I don't know why, but it's strange to hear him say this. I glance at him, to see if I can find a trace of humor.

"I just like seeing your reactions," he says, after a quantifiable time where I'm set in my uncomfortable mood. Then it just vanishes, like a snap, and then I'm left being annoyed.

"Whatever," I mumble. Then I think of something. "So, uh, does Candy taste like candy?"

He grins, cheeky and arrogant. "I'll let your imagination work that out."

Translation: OH YEAH BABY.

I blow the hair out of my eyes and try not to gag.


And so it's official.

Adam and his little pouch of Candy, tied to the hip until he's able to rip open the bag and leave her with…well, no more candy. I, for one, think it's a bad idea. He is blind by lust and entertained by the fact that he's going to get laid if he keeps looking at her the way he does.

But I, the great Annie, refocus my vision on the one thing that really matters at this point in my life. Unfortunately, Biology is not social hour. It's the pits. Learning about semi-permeable membranes is fine and dandy and all, but when I have the itch to look behind me and see that darling face, I can't scratch it. I have to deal with not being able to stare, to turn in my seat and bat my eyelashes.

Maybe that's creepy. Maybe that's certifiable. Do I need a prescription for this? Of course not, but these feelings are foreign, and if I'm honest, a little odd. When has a guy made me this burning hot with crazy fever? It's like I'm allergic. My nose almost runs. Bloody nose? I think not. More like Booger River.

I'm usually not this girly. I've never doodled hearts before. Ugh, who am I turning into, Candy?

"Does Candy draw hearts around your name?" I whisper to Adam.

He raises a brow at me. "I don't know. Why?"

He expects me to answer that question? What an oaf.

"I thought you guys were in love."

He snorts. Mrs. Mince glares.

I turn back to the lecture, and act as if I wasn't part of the conversation.

"Someone on your mind?" he leers.

"Sh," I hiss at him.

He looks more amused than he should be.


We have a – unique – routine for lunch, Adam and I.

Ever since he gracefully moved into the house next door, our parents became fast friends. Questionably fast friends.

Turns out, they were friends in high school. Total coincidence, right? So they thought it'd be cute if we were friends, too. And because his parents were rich and mine were poor, well, carpool anyone? It somehow evolved into a 'drive Annie around wherever she wants or desires.' That was a pretty great deal for a while, until the forceful parent routine ended on Adam's part. Mine were still pushy about it.

I didn't think it'd last long. Two weeks tops. He was the kind of guy who got impatient and put his foot down when he'd want. I was astonished when he said we could go to lunch together, since I 'seemed like the type who didn't have many friends.'

At first, I told him to shove his words down his throat. Then, after I drove by him in cars with many of my friends over the next several days, I cooled down and said I guess I would go to lunch with him. Ever since then, we'd gone to lunch when I didn't have a ride to hitch.

Plus, we had Biology together, the period right before lunch, so it was an easy routine to fall into.

We never, actually, talk about it, though. Ever.

So when we're walking to his car, and I see the pink cotton of Candy standing, leaning, almost across the top of his hood (okay, maybe I'm lying), it freaks me out. The truth of the matter is that the bubble she's blowing is as big and vivacious as her head.

I think Candy's a fine gal and whatnot, but she's one of those people that can only be taken in decent spoonfuls. So much sugar. I don't have enough insulin.

I slow my walk. I glance over to Adam. His stride never falters.

If I'm careful enough, I can just sneak away…

But he turns around before I can skitter off.

"Hey, where're you going?"

I jut my jaw, but I swallow back a tart retort. "I forgot; I told Julie I'd meet her at her car."

He stares at me for a second, shrugs, then continues his walk. "Suit yourself."

Jerk, my mind immediately tags him. Prick. Scum. Murderer of friendship! Leave me to starve.

Even though that's not it at all. Like he can know I was lying. I just like being dramatic when nobody can see.

I've got some change jangling in my pocket, so I head to the vending machines by the distraught cafeteria. No seniors really use that building anymore, unless they're desperate and alone and like being that way. That, or they're the Trenchies and the carless kids and the other socially inept groups. I squint through the window, seeing if I know anyone I can sit with. They're all strangers to me.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a conversation with a Trenchie. Not that it'd be some enlightening experience to talk to a kid who liked wearing a trench coat every day for the rest of his high school life. But just to see what kept them apart from the rest. Other than, you know, climbing trees and jumping on the roofs of the school. Who am I to judge that, really?

Jumping on roofs sound like fun.

"Oof!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I squeak, scrambling around to make sure that the person's okay.

But then I realize, this person is more than okay.

"It's alright," Logan laughs. "Annie."

"Logan," I say back.

He stares at me for a second, and laughs again. It must be the look on my face. I feel my neck start heating up.

"What – what are you doing here?" I ask. "I thought you'd be with your basketball friends."

"Not today," he says lightly, playing with his bag of cheetos. "I'm afraid I'm on my own today."

"Ditto," I say, smiling a little. It's nerve-wracking, being so nervous around one person. I feel like if I open my mouth too widely, butterflies will spill out.

He scratches the back of his head, almost in a bashful gesture. "Do you wanna eat lunch together?"

And that's how it started, Adam ditching me and me ditching him. It was the best thing to happen to me.

Until it wasn't.

Adam and I would share our classes, and then it ended there. Of course, he took me home a few more times, and it some way or another, resulted in him taking Candy home, too. It was alright at first, because I sat in the front seat at the beginning. Then, he started kicking me to the backseat – and I never sat in the backseat, mind you. Then, Candy would giggle more and more, and Adam would turn into this flirtatious monster. I didn't know who this guy was. He had the cheesiest lines, like how he'd comment on the length of her skirts, her build, how she tasted like Hershey's and Twix and Milky Way all bottled up in one.

I made vomit sounds in the back, though they fell on deaf ears in the front.

Sooner rather than later, I guess it'd be safe to say that I got sick and tired of it. Fed up. When were they gonna consummate their relationship? Get it over with, please.

So one day, I decided not to meet up at Adam's car. Instead, I did something drastic. Something I'd hate myself for.

I walked out to the front of the school and watched the dreaded yellow dog take up its space on the loading zone. It was a maddening thing to watch.

I almost hightailed it out of there, just in the nick of time to save myself, but the door puffed out a breath and screeched open. The bus driver stared me down, until I had to gulp and was pushed in with the masses of the crowd behind me.

The stench hit me first, then the rubber squelching of the seats, the cracked plastic, and the obscenities written on the back of them. It was bad mojo, being stuck on a bus like this. One can almost feel the tires wobble on the axels if a foot lands too hard on the floor.

I run to the back to claim a seat for myself, and stretch my legs out so everyone knows I don't want them there.

And, as I put in my iPod earplugs in and blast the alternative sets into my brain, perhaps this would be the best time to reminisce about why I hate buses so much. Besides the obvious telltale signs marked all over the interior.

I close my eyes and soak in all the beats and rhythms draining from the small device in the palm of my hands, and I think, maybe later. All I want to focus on are the guitar riffs.

When I inhale my house, it's the most wonderful smell in the world. I can't believe how much I've taken this potpourri for granted – that poignant aroma which soothes my aching headaches after school, and especially now, when all I need to do is recuperate some life from the couch.

And just as I lie down, there are four loud, painful knocks on the door.

Of course there are four loud, painful knocks on the door. I push the pillows into my ears to drown it out. The four knocks continue into sixteen. I grumble and push myself up, livid when I reach the door.

There Adam stands, looking as angry as I feel.

"Where the hell were you?"

I place a hand on my hip. "You thought I'd keep riding with you and Candy cane? I don't think so."

"You could have told me. We only have four classes together."

"Really? I forgot."

He grunts. "We waited for you, you know."

"I'm touched," I sneer, wishing he would leave. The couch is whispering in my mind.

He's still grimacing, but it softens a little. "How'd you get home?"

I sigh. "How do you think?"

He gives me this look for a while – it was close to a scolding look and annoyance. The mixture – whatever that's called, is unsettling.

"Logan took you?"

My eyebrow quirks, and I'm about to tell him off, that no, my knight did not take me home. I had to conquer that dragon all by myself – but I stop.

Why didn't I ask Logan to take me home? After all, we've been going to lunch frequently, we're getting closer – how that's possible, I don't know, because I'm like a tiny little shell around him, quiet and scared.

But this…what a brilliant idea. Thanks, Adam, for being ignorant and smart.

"Yep," I hear myself say. "Guess I don't need you anymore, huh?"

I grin, while he doesn't jump for joy. I would have thought he'd be a bit more enthusiastic about this idea. No more toting around a mandatory person for him, no more having to put up with his sarcasm and blithe tendencies towards every walking female in the school, sans me.

"Guess not," he says instead, and he turns away, like I kicked him in the gut. He hasn't worn that face since I kicked him in the gut.

I close the door on his back, but it feels horribly wrong.

But I don't want to think about any wrong that could have just happened. I'm happy enough to take up my roost on the couch and catch a nap.


A week later, and I'm at the first basketball game of the season.

It's funny. I haven't had a decent conversation with Adam since that whole driving fiasco. He's such a baby. I tried to talk to him. He was merely a caveman, all grunts and shrugs and ape noises. I rolled my eyes at him, but I still talked, even if he wouldn't comment.

Like I promised all those days ago, I brought my mom. She was very interested in everything Adam.

"What number is he?"

"What position does he play?"

"Has he always been this good?"

It was a frightening aspect. I knew all the answers.

But I bit my tongue and gave her indecisive replies.

Besides, the true reason I was sitting here was because of Logan. I told him I'd be coming, so he better play extra hard. He gave me this amazing wink and flirted back.

I audibly sigh. They're warming up and he's just spotted me, sitting in the bleachers. He gives some sort of checking signal to another player, who goes and takes up the spot he just occupied.

I'm bewildered. He's coming up the steps toward me, and all I see are his eyes and his wide smile. I feel like some rabbit he's about to hunt down, though it's a very nice feeling.

"You came," he says, as if I had been telling him lies the past days. His voice is a little breathy from their warm-up.

"I said I would," I say back, looking up at him. My jaw's a little slack, and I can't control my fidgety hands.

He smiles even wider, and he leans over, and I'm so startled, I lean backward, too. It's the dumbest thing I can do. He stops when his face is an inch or two from mine, and he frowns. But before he can open his mouth, I pitch that small space forward, and…

I'm not the best at kissing. But he knew what he was doing. I felt his smirk against me, the gentle pressure he placed in all the right spots. I push back, and he grasps the curve in my spine, drawing me closer.

It's a very nice feeling. Like, a very, very nice feeling.

When I hear the first noise pop out in the background – some kind of catcall – I break away quickly. I've never been one to put out the PDA, and I'm ashamed for just a second. Then I look back up to him, and the bliss filters out the embarrassment.

"See you after the game?" he asks.

I nod, all dazed in a glorious haze. "Good luck."

He smiles, and it's tantalizing. I'm so happy I'm sitting down.

I try not to glance at the audience around me, God forbid my mom, and I see Logan running back down the steps and onto the court. I watch him tap in to take Adam's spot, and Adam hands him the ball, his face as impassive as I've ever seen it. Logan tells him something while he grins, and Adam nods, gives a tiny smile, fake from the look of it. Then he glances up to the stands, and at first, I think he's trying to find me.

But his eyes catch on something to my left. He smiles, full and real, so much different from the one a split second before to Logan. I don't have to look over, but I do. And there's Candy, basking in Adam's attention, giving a brief wave, her eyes crinkling above her cheeks.

I realize that she's wearing a pink shirt with his number on it, his name on the back. It's that possessive sign that she's his, erasing all and any doubts anyone had before. He's that much closer to getting what he wants. It'll be soon now.

It's then when I wonder, abruptly, if he's not doing this all for sex, but doing it because he legitimately likes Candy. And I wonder if he'll go through with it after all, even if he doesn't have to.

He turns away, and he never sees me.

Unsurprisingly, they win. My mom congratulates Adam, then Logan, too, after our little kiss attack. I'm a bit alarmed that she seems totally fine with me kissing someone who isn't Adam. It's so…unlike her.

Logan and I eat dinner after the game. I don't get to speak to Adam, and I see him walk away, his arm wrapped around his Candy and heading to his car.

So I try to the next day.

I say, "That was an awesome game."

He says, "Thanks."

The end.

"How many points did you have? Wasn't it twenty-two?"

"My number," he says, nodding.

The end.

Okay, so it's a pointless, endless cycle if I go on this way. If he goes on this way. And it's annoying as all hell.

And for the first time ever, I don't think I'm able to speak to him – to really speak. To tell him things. I can't just start up a conversation about how Mr. Reeve was a total dick about the art project, or about how my dad overfed the cat and I had to clean up vomit at two in the morning. I can't tell him these ordinary things I used to.

He's in a different world now, and so am I. Something happened. And I feel stupid that I don't know the definite what.

I think I hear Mrs. Mince say something about another project, but I'm staring at Adam. He's looking at a paper handout.

"You'll be partners with your neighbors. So, Abby and John, Richard and Joe, Annie and Adam…"

I snap up. "What?"

"Project," Adam says. "We'll split it up. I'll do this first part, and you can do the second, if you want. That'll make it go the fastest."

His easy attitude drives me up the wall. But what can I do, get mad at him for being reasonable? Right.

"Okay," I say, glancing at the paper but not reading any of the words. Something about functions and analogies and comparisons. I could care less.

I look up at him again, and I feel like I've gained a tick in my neck. I keep staring and staring, until it finally clicks. I finally know what I want.

I want my friend back. The cocky douchebag, who doesn't really act like a cocky douchebag anymore. Around me.

"You can eat dinner with us, tonight," I blurt. "My parents have been wondering where you've been."

He shakes his head. "I can't tonight, but thanks."

It feels like another window is closing between us. I panic. "What about tomorrow? It's spaghetti Wednesday."

He gives a sad smile. He loves my mom's spaghetti.

"Sorry, Annie, but I don't think it's a good idea."

And that sounds way too familiar. Déjà vu. I think I told him that, once upon a time.

I bite my lip. Something's wrong with me. Something doesn't feel right.

The bell rings, then. I stash the paper quickly into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder before I dash out the door. I don't give Logan a chance to catch up with me. I decide to apologize later.

I reach the bathroom, and I turn on the sink, splashing water onto my face. My diaphragm jerks and my cheeks crunch together, and it's an ugly feeling to have, to watch your face contort into someone else in the mirror.

What happened to the strong, independent Annie? Did she ever exist?

I hiccup, and I sob once, before I stop myself from crying.

One broken friendship, and I'm in ruins.

One stupid friendship. And I didn't even like him much, anyway.


I have to babysit Lizzie on a Friday night. And there's no way I can get out of it. Not that I'd really want to, at the end of the day. But being in Adam's house, messing with Adam's stuff and his family's stuff, it doesn't feel like I should be there. It's a weird type of emotion, standing in the hallway, waiting for his parents to give me the lowdown of how long they'll be gone and that the emergency numbers are posted on the fridge just like always, all the usual things.

They tell me that Adam'll be out for most of the night, probably. When he goes out, he's never home before his parents.

Another thing about Adam and I – we never, ever hung out together outside of school. Besides the dinners, of course, we'd never see ourselves on the weekends. We had different groups, different people who weren't friends. Different spectrums, I guess.

Lizzie and I are watching ABC Family an hour after his parents leave, sitting on the couch. Lizzie is all curled up, boring a hole into my stomach, while acting as a makeshift pillow as I lean my head down on the crown of hers. She snores a little. She had a soccer game after school today, and I could tell she was exhausted as she stumbled down the stairs after her shower, in sweats and a nightshirt.

She's thirteen, but I swear she's older. I don't know why they have me babysit her.

I'm dozing off before I register that the garage door is rumbling, and the utility door is squeaking open. I blink and think a few hours have passed instead of only one.

But no. I glance up to see Adam, fingers tangled with Candy's, who's giggling and trying to stifle them with her other hand. Adam puts a finger to his mouth, giving her a weak shush noise, smiling goofy. They act like they've drank, and I wouldn't be surprised if they have. I sink lower into the cushions, bringing Lizzie with me, who stops her snoring from the pressure.

They stomp up the steps, very discreet, and then I hear Adam's door slam moments later.

Candy's giggles haunt me, even after I blow the volume up on the television. Her perfume taints my nose.

I reach into my pocket and find Logan's number, and as I pose my thumb above the call button, I have no idea what I'd talk to him about. Call him over? Let him feel as uncomfortable as I do?

Hey, Logan, guess what? I'm babysitting Adam's sister as he's screwing his girlfriend in his own bedroom.

Really, who does that? How's he gonna discard the sheets, or clean them without his mom being privy to it?

Well, I guess that's what happens when you're drunk. I desperately hope his parents come home and catch them. That would be the ultimate hilarious situation.

In the end, I close my phone, hang up my idea of letting Logan console me, and try to position myself contentedly.

If they have sex, I don't know for sure. When I wake up, it's eleven o'clock.

The smell of Candy is all gone.

That's probably wishful thinking.


"Logan?"

It's the Saturday afternoon after I babysat Lizzie. I'm groggy from trying to finish up homework, though barely half of it's finished. My mind is too preoccupied with uncharacteristic thoughts. Like Adam and Candy. Seriously, when have I thought about them so much?

"Annie," he beams. "I was gonna call you, but I thought I could surprise you instead."

I'm glad I'm dressed in regular clothes. Unfortunately, I'm still confused. "Huh?"

"Here," he says. "I've got something to show you."

Er… "Okay," I say. I tell my mom before I'm pulled out the door and into his car.

I can't get anything out of him the whole ride, and by the time we drive into the parking, I'm bewildered.

"The park?"

"Don't sound so disappointed," he laughs. "Follow me."

I'm excited by his giddiness. I run after him. He grabs my hand and takes me with him.

The thing about this park is that it's big. Huge. There's a kiddie side and an older kid side – and he takes me to the older side, climbing up the rock wall to the top, balancing his steps on the top cliff, then giving a little hop to a cluster of metal bars. He holds out a hand for me to grip once I hop up beside him.

"Look over that ridge over there," he indicates, giving a little point over the tops of the trees. And I see it.

Here, in Colorado, just about everything is beautiful. From the streets to the scenery – but I've never gotten tired of it. How can anyone, when everything sparkles?

And here, it shouldn't have been anything special. Just another beautiful chunk of scenery. Of snow topped hills, mountains, a valley of evergreen and deep, rich colored trees. But there was something different. It was a cornucopia of velvet reds and purples, blues and that striking green I see, that green that's brighter than all the other greens.

I swallow, and I see a streak of pink in between the trees. And my mind lingers on the stupid thought of Candy, stupid, stupid Candy, and I think of Adam and then I try to stop myself from thinking about them because I've been thinking about them all day. Can't they leave me alone just once? Can't they let me enjoy this with a boy I really, really enjoy being around?

"The park is a lot like mine, back in Arizona. So I came up here. And I saw this. I thought maybe, you'd like it, too."

I look up at him, and his face is blurred. He frowns a little, but I give him a small smile. I suddenly don't feel self-conscious about my tears, and I don't want to run away, because he's looking at me. I don't know what the look is, if it's thoughtful, earnest, befuddled, or none of them. But it makes me happy, that he's looking at me.

So I kiss him, because there's nothing I can say to relate how I feel.

Then I realize, after I kiss him and go home and feel like I'm floating for an hour. When I come back down from that daydream I just lived, I realize.

I'm heartbroken.

I'm fucking heartbroken.

And Logan is not Adam.


Everyone said that girls and guys can't be friends. Not true friends. Not close friends. Because get to close, and one will start to love the other.

And that's too bad, isn't it? If it's true? Because there's no winning on either side.

This really sucks.

But I stick it out. I reject using Logan as some twisted rebound – since, technically, it's not a rebound if it was never anything. I use him because I want him. I want him. Logan and his dirty blonde hair, beautiful eyes, muscles. If I think about it, the first things I thought I loved about him, I really do love about him. The hot guy walking – though it was just my hormones bursting through the seams, I've hung around him long enough to see underneath everything. I've seen past the blinding hormones, and the picture is still as lovely.

I'm determined. Logan isn't a douchebag, high school shouldn't be so focused on relationships that probably won't last into real life, and I shouldn't cry as often as I have been. I've become a wimp in my older years.

So I do as I say. I drop my backpack on the floor by my seat, take my seat, and place my head in my hands.

I stick this bitch out.

"So, Adam," I start. "Pop her cherry?"

He's unperturbed. "What does it matter?"

"I'm a curious creature – you said so yourself."

"When have you ever been interested in what I do?"

He sounds touchy. I smile. "Oh, I get it. It must have been so good," I drawl obnoxiously. "Never kiss and tell the really great things, am I right?"

I see his jaw tighten.

"Or, maybe, the things you can't remember. A little tipsy, weren't you?"

He gives me the sharpest, meanest glare I've ever seen. I almost cower, but I'm able to laugh instead.

I think I laugh because my mind screams, because you broke my heart, asshole.

But my heart says, because you didn't even know.

But really? I didn't even know. I guess I can't blame him for something that was out of both of our reach.

But I do blame him.

He doesn't say anything, after I laugh. He drops his glare, after he thinks it doesn't work. He sets to begin getting ready for class.

"I'll write it in the history book for you, okay?"

He breaks the lead on his mechanical pencil. "We didn't have sex, alright?" he snaps at me. "Happy now?"

I grimace at him. "What? But I was there…"

He gives me this startled look. "You were there…"

"Babysitting," I say, waving my hand at him. "You weren't very quiet, you know."

"What are you talking about?" he asks vehemently. "Nothing happened. We went to my room, made out, she said she didn't want to, I took her home, the end. Okay? You've got the whole story. Now go and tell everyone you know."

He faces forward with an unsettling type of finality. I glance up and am very thankful we sit in the back, in case anyone wanted to eavesdrop, in case the teacher decided to listen, but couldn't.

I can't censor the surprise on my face when he continues conversation.

"Has Logan popped your cherry, yet?"

His voice is disquieting. I look over at him.

"Who said it wasn't already?" I ask flippantly.

He breathes out a laugh. "It's not."

I narrow my eyes. "What makes you think so?"

"Because," he says, and he gives me the knowing Adam look. "It's the way you are."

"The way I am?" I almost screech, quiet enough to not cause any attention my way. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he says, rolling his eyes, "that you're the type of person to tell a guy to back the hell up."

Oh, no. No, no, no. Why is he being semi-decent now?

But I shrug, putting my full frontal of bravado. "I'd tell that to you. But we really haven't known each other that long. You're just mad that the guy wasn't you."

I'm actually joking, though the statement makes him break his lead again. He hurriedly staples out more, finishing a problem on the English paper, and decides not to continue talking to me.

I wonder if I hit a nerve.

… Nah.


It's been about two and a half months now, since the first kiss of Logan.

I've started inviting him to some family dinners, and him, vice versa. His family is so sweet, in their manners and how they talk to me. It's not…it's not exactly like home – it's still formal as we try to slip into acting like ourselves around each other, but it's getting there.

And let's face it – I'm a nagger. When his mom laughs, it tinkers on annoying. I can't help but wince when she does. And his dad is pretty cool, calm, and collected. He cracks smiles occasionally, but I haven't heard him give a nice, bellowing chortle. Perhaps his mom is in charge of all that. The dad, all work and business, the mom, all brainless giggles and socializing.

Not that I've gotten the courage to talk to Logan about his family. I usually keep those things to myself.

Then, a strange thing happens one dinner, when we're eating a dinner and having comfortable conversation. There's a knock on the door, and I want to ignore it since we are eating, but after I get sent to go receive the visitor – which is probably UPS or the postal service – I'm beyond shocked to see Adam standing there.

"Hey," he says, hands in his pockets. He seems to be fidgeting. "Is there – can I…" he sighs. "Look, my parents are out of town with Lizzie at a soccer game. And I don't mean to try to invite myself over, but I was wondering if I could – "

"Sorry," I interrupt, finally regaining myself. "The table is full."

He hesitates, opening his mouth, closing it. I know he's seen Logan's car parked on our curb. He can't be that stupid.

"Listen, I – "

"Sorry," I say again. "Go find your own dinner. Like, Candy, maybe?"

This makes him visibly angry. His jaw tightens, and I'm sure his hands are twitching in his pockets.

"Damn, it, Annie, I just wanted…"

"What? Food? It's not a rare commodity, you know."

His anger turns into a shadow of doubt. It's a forlorn shadow. Something in it makes me feel a tad merciful.

"Right," he says. Then he looks away from me, down to his feet. "Right. I'll see you…" he stops his line. Instead he finishes with, "Bye."

He starts walking down the sidewalk, and I watch his back. It's not a bad back, but it's one of the saddest sights I've seen in a long, long while.

But it's not what makes me do it. I don't know what makes me do it. It's not because he's Adam, and it's not because I'm a heartbroken, young fool, because I'm healing very nicely.

Maybe it's the symbolism. I've let him go, I've let him go weeks before, and calling him back didn't mean I latched back on.

Let's call it…tying up the ends. I wouldn't mind being friends with him again.

He halts his stride after he hears me, glances over his shoulder.

"Annie…" he says, still with that doubt filled shadow.

I huff at him. "Just come eat dinner. My mom misses you. She doesn't say, but I can tell."

He turns around, looking up at me from the sidewalk. It tilts down at slight incline, giving the illusion that he's shorter and farther away than he really is. He gives me a soft smile.

"You know, I've missed her, too." He stares at me a few seconds before making his climb. "Annie?" he says, stopping right at the doorway, a small hand reach away from me.

I look at him as I close the door.

"Thanks."

I shrug. "C'mon. The food'll get cold."

We walk into the dining room, and I'm suddenly nervous. "Hey, everyone, I let – "

My mom exalts first, skipping over my awkward introduction. "Adam! It's been too long, sweetie. I'll grab you a chair." She gets up and bustles to the bar, gathering up another chair that differs slightly from all the rest.

"I didn't mean to intrude, I was just wondering if – "

"Oh, nonsense," my mom says. "You know you're part of the family. I've just been wondering where you've been. I think we all have."

I take my seat by Logan, not knowing if I say anything or just let my mom talk her talk. Logan gives me a smile, as if he understands that I let Adam in and he's okay with it. I feel like he shouldn't be okay with it. His smile makes me feel like calling Adam was a bad decision.

Adam grins crookedly, taking the chair from my mom and placing it in the space beside me. "I appreciate that, Mrs. Goodwin."

"Elise!" she exclaims exasperatedly. "I've told you to call me that, haven't I?"

Adam blushes. I have to blink twice to make sure it's real.

My dad chuckles. "We all know you want to be their age again, honey."

Elise laughs toward him. "Obvious, isn't it?"

Logan greets Adam in between the talking. Adam gives him a greeting of his own.

I end up stuck in the middle, like some kind of repellant. I duck my head and push my food around my plate.

"So boys," my dad starts. "Basketball season wrapping up?"

"Yeah," Logan says. "One more tournament and then we're done."

My mom hands Adam a plate she fixed up for him herself. He smiles at her gratefully.

"It was fun though," Adam says, taking a hearty bite of the beef stroganoff.

"Have you guys been watching any basketball recently?"

And much of the conversation is related to basketball, the upcoming playoffs, who they think will win, etc. I like this topic. It's a nice topic that all the boys will be contented with.

I look up to my mom, and she gives me a smile and a shake of the head, which constitutes as, boys.

When that topic winds down, my mom intervenes. "So, Adam, are your parents not home, or did you just want to visit me?"

"Both, actually," he says winningly. And here I am, back to silently gagging.

My mom titters. My dad asks, "For business?"

"They went to a soccer game with Lizzie."

"Oh, you should have gone," my mom says, giving him this look. "They would have loved for you to go."

"I just…" Adam shrugs. "I didn't want to spend the entire day with them."

I never understood Adam's thing against his parents. I adore his parents. Sure, they can be all business when they need to be, but they can have fun.

And the days where I take care of Lizzie, I can feel the love they have for each other, right before they leave the house. They have this routine they do – it's like they're teenagers. His mom looks at his dad shyly, his dad grins warmly back, touches her face with his palm, and kisses her when he thinks no one's looking.

It's endearing. They make it to where I don't gag. It's so pure.

I look at Adam's profile. Maybe he just can't handle the love.

I snort.

"What's so funny, Anna-banana?"

Oh, my dad. He knows I hate that name. He's doing it on purpose, the jerk.

"Nothing, I just…" I glance at my dad. "You've got some beef in your mustache."

The truly funny thing was that he did. I crack a wide grin.

Thank you, bushy mustaches. Though, I don't know why he still keeps it. He can look awfully ridiculous some days.

He brushes his mouth with a napkin and gives a deep chuckle.

Dinner passes that way, all warm and normal. The awkwardness I felt at the beginning all but dissipated as I settled to finish off my food. It was happy, and I was feeling happy, sandwiched in between the two outrageously tall basketball boys.

I start to notice their attributes more, with them being so close. It's easy to contrast.

Both have large hands. They engulf the stainless steel forks we've provided for them. Adam's about half an inch to an inch taller than Logan. Logan's arms can almost wrap around me twice, I'm sure. And his hands can almost fit all the way around my waist. My face always feels very nice in between his hands. Logan doesn't have any dimples. Adam has this dimple that always shows up when he smiles crookedly.

Logan has blue eyes. Adam has green ones. Guess who has the brown ones? Me.

Logan is blonde. Adam has black hair.

Logan's warm. And sweet. And considerate. And he dotes, frequently. There are occasions where I have to tell him no. I hate, hate, hate to say that I just can't stand it sometimes.

Adam…I don't really know. He probably isn't that sweet, I'd doubt if he was considerate all the time. No way he dotes.

They both have great smiles. A variety of them, but they all have their certain definitions.

I frown. I don't really know why I'm contrasting them. I guess I just like to notice the difference between them.

I know one thing for sure. I'm a midget sandwiched in between two giants.

I'm sad when Logan announces he has to leave, first. Did I mention he has a job? It's a waiting job, but still, it's a job. I'm slightly jealous that he's making money and I'm stuck with my job of education, as my dad puts it.

I walk him to the door, but this time, I want to. No one has to force me. It's…different, but a good different.

"So," he says.

"So," I say.

He smiles at me. "Dinner was really fun. I enjoyed it."

I raise a brow. "Even with the intruder?"

He laughs. "I like Adam."

"I forget," I say. "You're both on the basketball team."

He pinches my cheek and I slap his hand away good-naturedly. I give him a cheerful glare, and he grips my hips. With those large hands of his.

I look at them mischievously. "You know what they say about guys with big hands…"

"What's that?" he grins, closing the distance between us by pulling me toward him. Our hips don't align – they're very far from matching up together.

I poke his stomach. "I don't think I should tell you. I might be disappointed."

"I guess we'll see about that, sometime, huh?"

The way he says it – okay, maybe this is hypocritical – but it gives me this kind of apprehension. It gives me all these nerves. Sure, I've thought about sex – what teen hasn't? But the fantasy of having it versus the actual act, well, I guess now I understand why Candy would reject Adam.

The prospect of having it so near, of kissing a little too long and tugging at his shirt, it's…it's daunting. But fantasies are harmless. They're those dreams you don't tell anyone about, the things you crave that may happen, that you want to happen, that, when the time comes, you may be scared could happen.

And maybe I'm old fashioned. Or maybe it's just because I'm one of those girls, but, I always wanted the first one to count. I don't want it to be sloppy, awkward, and something I regret later. I want to feel love for the person, even if I stop loving them after the deed's done.

So when I look up to Logan, I ask myself if I love him. If I could love him.

He leans down and gives me a soft kiss, smiles, and then departs to his car. I say a faint goodbye.

When I enter the dining room, I'm greeted with a thick atmosphere. My mom has a triumphant smile on her face, though she's trying to hide it by passing around the cobbler. My dad looks tired, taking the pan from her, and Adam is sitting there, looking like he'd been punched in the gut. It's been a long time since I've given him one of my punches. I've almost forgotten what his face looks like.

It all makes me feel even more confused and anxious. I want to ask, but I'm sure I wouldn't like any straightforward answers, especially right now.

I take my seat, and my dad passes the pan to me. I dump some of the cherry globs and crust onto my small plate. I look down at the cherries, and I feel my lips quirk.

I hand the cobbler to Adam, and he takes it without looking at me.

"So, Adam, what are your thoughts on Logan?"

My mom speaks first, after we all start eating. I glance up at her and give her a what are you doing look. She merely smiles. I roll my eyes.

Adam shrugs. "He's one of my friends."

"Do you guys have any rivalry on the court?"

"We can't afford to," Adam says after a while. "He's a good player, and if he was on another team, we probably would be big rivals."

"You know," my mom starts, "Logan's been coming over for dinner frequently, because of Annie."

"Yeah," he says, trying to smile. "How long have you been dating, again?"

"About two months," I say. "Not very long."

"Still," Adam says. "Better than your last one, right?"

How does he know that? My last relationship was in middle school.

"A lot better."

He looks away from me to his dish.

"What about your girlfriend, Adam?"

Adam looks up to my mom, seemingly a bit surprised. "Huh? Candy?"

"Annie mentioned something about her, once," she says, sipping on her water. "How are you guys doing?"

Adam looks defeated, playing with all the cherries on his plate. "We, uh, broke up."

I choke on spit.

"Huh?"

Adam acts like I didn't say anything. My mom seems pleased about it.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Adam," she says.

"It's fine," he answers. "It was a mutual thing."

"We're you dating long?" my dad asks. This is a shocking thing, because my dad doesn't really get into the drama of relationships.

"Not really," Adam says. "Two months, like Annie, give or take."

I'm in this stunned kind of silence. It's maddening watching my family and Adam conversing while I only sit and survey. And decipher, but let's face it. I'm getting no answers. Their glances are especially vague.

And all of this just makes me angry.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I accuse, turning to Adam. He flinches at my outburst.

"We broke up yesterday," he says, emphasizing the yesterday, as if to appease me.

But it can't, because he never got what he wanted, and he really, really wanted her, and to see him being totally cool and nonchalant about it? No. I don't buy it.

I can't say anything here, at the table, with my parent's watching. My mouth runs uncensored, so I have to make do with feigning an, "Oh." And I keep all my emotions in check – or try to – under the circumstances. Blank and chilly. Vague like everyone else seems to be.

It's unsurprising when it ends that way, all blank and vague. My belly is full and warm, but that's the only thing that is.

"Hey," he starts, when we get to the door. "I didn't mean to spring any of that on you all of a sudden, but – "

"It doesn't matter," I say, clipping him off. "Look, I don't care if you didn't get what you wanted. I'm just confused by the fact that it's called off before you actually did it."

He laughs, but it doesn't hold humor. "Because I fuck every girl I date."

"Pretty much."

His eyes get a bit stormy. "Would you rather listen to the rumor mill than to me?"

I act as if I think about it. "Yes."

"So you wouldn't believe me, if I told you why I broke it off?"

"You broke it off, now? I thought you said it was mutual."

"If you gave me a second I could explain – "

"One Mississippi…" I count. "Guess your time's up."

"Fine," he says, eyes thundering now. "You'll never know."

"Oh, darn," I snap my fingers. "How will I live?"

He's so frustrated with me. His cheeks are flushing, and I can almost dare to say his neck vein is thrumming. The funny thing is, I don't know why he's just as frustrated as me. I didn't think he'd care about me not knowing this much. And sure, I want to know why, but I can't let him know that. It'll put me at this disadvantage, and with our relationship questionable, I don't like disadvantages.

So I'll let him keep on thinking I don't care.

He looks away from me, and he swallows down whatever he was thinking, because he says, "Alright, Annie. Have it your way."

He reaches into his pocket a second later, pulling out a blue jump drive. "And here's the project." He tosses it to me and I fumble with it, until I clench it to my chest.

"W…what? But I was supposed to – "

"Yeah. You're welcome."

His voice is so utterly detached. It makes it sound harsh, when it isn't. I stare at the jump drive in between my fingers.

"But I was supposed to do half," I say, jerking out the words. "You weren't – this is unfair."

He shrugs, still looking out to the distance that is my entry hallway. "Think of it as an apology."

And I can't tamper down my hate toward his tone of voice.

"Stop," I say. "I don't want it."

I thrust out my hand back to him, though his hands are stuck in his pockets.

"Too bad."

"No. Take it back."

"I can't."

"Yes," I hiss, grabbing at his elbow and yanking. "Yes, you can." But he's immovable, and I pull with as much force as I've got. He stumbles forward, and we bump into each other, though I'm able to regain my balance before falling to the ground.

"Adam – "

"Annie."

I look up at him, still holding the crook of his elbow. It's as close as I've gotten to him, in all the time I've known him. But his face doesn't hold the same person.

"Adam," I say again, desperate for him to come back. He wrests himself away from me.

"Take what you can get, Annie," he says, before heading out the door. "See you when I see you."

Then I see the sight of his back again, the sad, sad image of his back. I'm overcome with something – it burns like hate, but it affects my mind instead of my heart, like hate always seems to do, so that's what I decide to call it.

In the end, I run after him, and I ball a fist, crashing it right into his shoulder blade with all I've got.

It isn't much. He doesn't stumble, like I want him to. He doesn't trip up. He just stops walking, glancing over his shoulder and down toward me.

"What happened to you?" I ask, my breath heaving, my voice cracking all over.

At this, he fully turns around, giving me this mean smile.

"She was a little too sweet for me."

And he treks away, the long distance across the street and into his lonely mansion.

All it does is make me wish I understood him. I wonder if it means he did get Candy, all her Hershey's and Twixes, and her teeny tiny little cherry.

I wonder if he knew it would hurt me most of all.

I take a slow seat on my sidewalk. I hope I hurt him, too, though I'm not quite sure how I would have.

Then again, we're both pretty vicious. I'm sure I found a way.


So, maybe I'm a little guarded. And uncertain. And, at times, shy.

But I can be all the opposites. I can be open, confident, loud and proud. I can be so many things at once, and I can be so little at others. I've never wanted to say that I've needed to find myself, or figure out who I am, because that's what everyone has to do some point in their life. No. I hate that. I hate that generalization of people.

I like to think that I grow into myself. My skin stretches as I add new things, and keep them there, like relics and reminders that I've gone there or did that. That I can't change those things I have, but add on, or hide them, or dust them off when they've been untouched for long periods of time.

The first time I kissed Logan, I was rusty. I was insecure about my lips and my actions, and I know you put your hands around the guy's neck, but at the time, I was stock-still, surprised, timid.

Now I'm a pro. Sort of. I move my hands and ruffle his hair. I play with his tongue, and it's always wet and hot and messy, this chaotic rhythm that we do. And I see this as growing. I've acquired the taste of saliva and another's mouth, and it isn't bad. Most of all, it's fun.

I decide this is how sex will be, when – if – we do it. Because kissing is like face sex. It's almost the same, except using muscles in a different place.

And I have to simplify it. What can I say. If I think about his penis, while we're kissing, I don't know what I'll do or how I'll react.

Because I want it.

Because I don't.

Because when he pulls at my belt line, I'm conflicted. He's a sweet guy, such a sweet guy, and maybe I should give it to him, just once or twice or three times, because he's the type of guy I've always, always imagined to be pulling at my belt line, on my bed, with nobody around.

I glance up to him, through my lashes, his face so close to mine, and I ask myself if I love him, again, and wait for my heart to beat out an answer. To see if it's the same as last time, or if it's different.

All I see are blue eyes, and I feel his hands against the lining of my underwear, and I feel this heat, this hot, hot heat, and I don't want to mistake it for love or lust or anticipation of feeling his fingers as close as he can get them to me.

In the end, it's that moment, when I grasp at his hand, when I stop the rising action to this unsatisfying halt. I look at him, and I try to muster the most apologetic glance that I can.

It would have been fun, I want to say. So, so fun. And probably amazing. My skin would have grown, and you'd be a relic on my shelf.

But you'd grow dust, I want to say. You'd grow old and unhappy, sitting there and waiting for me to give you the attention you'd need and deserve.

I keep my mouth shut, because he won't understand anything I'm saying, and his face would contort into that face he makes when he's confused, or amused. Gorgeous, saccharine, and dimple-less.


Adam doesn't seem interested in the fact of my relationship disclosure. I don't mind it, not in the least, because I expected it.

I'm not the one to tell him. I'm sure it was Logan, or the word around classrooms and lockers that reached his ear. I only know he knows because he acted so indifferent toward me, and the way he looked at me when I walked into class that Monday, Logan far from my side.

The great thing about Logan is that we've been able to be friends. It's not awkward, not really. We've gotten to know each other well enough to slip past that boundary of uncertainty among ourselves. Instead of avoiding each other, we hold conversations.

It's a wonderful departure. I'm no longer nervous to be around him. What were the odds of that? I'll probably know him better being his friend than his girlfriend. Go figure.

I turn in the project to Mrs. Mince, in the middle of the week. I decided to keep it, after I glanced over it. Adam did a good job on it. Must have took him hours. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't grab the nerve to change a single thing. I wanted to turn it in like that, to let Adam get the grade.

"Mrs. Mince," I tell her. "I can't get his grade. I didn't do anything."

I know Adam will hate me even more for this. The project was his apology, for whatever reason, and my answer was this rejection. It was really the only route I could have taken.

Mrs. Mince gives me this stern look, this mother hen disappointed look. It's the look that twists my guts into ugly knots, but I'll take it instead of a talking to. I can wade over glares better than words.

Mrs. Mince surprises me with extra credit opportunities I can take to help my grade. She's a softie on the inside.

I don't know how or when Adam finds out about the grade, because he doesn't do anything. He doesn't react abruptly, doesn't confront me. Time passes, the grade is in the book for a week, then two, then three and everyone forgets about it.

I want him to give me some kind of sign that we can talk. Some days, I just want to sit, chat about the weather, and see where that goes. But when I sit by him, I'm sitting by a ghost. He gives me the chills, makes me want to itch and itch all over, and I want to take a sweater to wrap around myself to protect my skin from him. I'm thankful, so thankful, that this is the only class where I have to sit by him.

"Um…" I caution one day, when I feel a little less hesitant than the rest of the days before. I glance up to him. "What'd you make on the test?"

"Ninety-two," he says. It's all mechanical.

"Oh," I say back. "That's really good. I made an eighty-something. I didn't really like this section."

He shrugs. "I liked it."

I sigh at his tries of cutting off conversation. "I'm glad someone did."

He doesn't make eye contact throughout the talking, but I feel as if he wants to glare at me.

I take a deep breath and caution again, "Why are you so mad at me?"

He's as quick to answer as he was to the question before. "I'm not mad. I just don't want to be your friend."

My lungs lose their balance, and I find the wind knocked out of me. I'd much rather he be angry or frustrated. Apathy is the worst.

"Oh," I manage, wanting to take in air and cough. But I can't allow myself to, or he'll know exactly how much the words hurt. I dart my eyes away from him, seeing enough. I swallow. "I'm…sorry you feel that way."

"I'm not."

It makes me look at him again. "Well – " I start, then I hesitate. His profile makes me nervous. "If it means anything to you, he was too sweet, too." When he doesn't say anything, I say, "Um, Logan. I almost gave it to him, you know. And I just…" I trail, trying to find the words I want in my hands. They don't appear. I start picking at my nails in habit.

"I realized what you meant, when you broke it off with Candy." I shrug a little. "When you told me she was a little sweet. I was confused for a while. I didn't know what that meant, and then the day came where Logan and I were kind of doing things, and then I…" I stop myself, stapling my lips together with my teeth. I'm too nervous. I'm rambling and telling him too many things. I can't make myself look at him.

"N-never mind," I stutter, clearing my throat. "I didn't mean to, um, say that."

"Which part?"

His voice is less apathetic, though I doubt his face carries the same tone. I hesitate again, for what I hope is the final time. "All…of it."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You should finish."

At this, I hazard a glance at him. And it's strange, because he looks like he absolutely needs me to finish.

I feel my neck heat up – I don't understand it. It's all in my nerves. I look away again.

"Um…"

"Annie."

The way he says it. Oh, the way he says it.

It's too much. I quickly grab my pencil and start scribbling incoherent answers on the worksheet.

He said my name like he used to say it. It's been so long since I've heard him say it like that.

He touches my shoulder. I jump and squirm away.

"I didn't mean it," I say, jumbling my words. "Look, just forget I said anything, okay? I just wanted you to know why."

"Hey," he says, and he sounds surprised. "I'm not trying to hurt you, or anything."

This makes me give him a mean glare at the words. He lowers his hand.

I go back to my worksheet, though I don't understand anything on the page. The words don't mean a thing.

"Thanks," he says, sometime after. "For talking. And telling me, even though you didn't mean to."

The bell rings before I'm able to come up with something decent to say.


Maybe it was because of the topic I started. The next few days, Adam didn't give off the ghost feeling. I wasn't so chilly, and it didn't feel as strained, sitting there so close to him. The way it should be.

But it was still different. It probably always would be, now. It's hard to erase things that chaff you raw in places.

I'm tapping my pencil in math class. We've got a free day to do homework, and we can work with whomever we want. I'm sitting with Whitney, one of my girl friends that seem pretty rare these days, and when Adam comes up and asks abou a question, Whitney conveniently needs to use the restroom. Adam takes the seat, a smug look on his face.

And the thing is, I haven't told anyone my life story. Bits and pieces, but not the whole three slash four months. A weeks happening here an there, sure. But I'd much rather talk about my friends problems then dwell on mine.

So there's Adam sitting by me in math, using my book to read off the problem he's having to me as I'm still glaring at the door Whitney ditched me for.

"And I can't get the derivative because I'm doing something wrong with the chain rule, after I do the quotient rule. You see what I mean?"

I look at him blankly. "Oh.. Yeah."

His lips quirk at me. "Any suggestions?"

I blink. "You know you're better than me at this, right?"

"I wouldn't ask anybody else."

I roll my eyes. "That's flattering, but really. Ask Veronica or James. They're mathletes."

"Mathletes?"

"UIL and all that junk," I say, waving at the air. "You know. Number sense."

"Right," he says, then he grind crookedly, and by the time I notice this, he's way too close to me. "Why aren't you in that?"

"I don't know, because I suck at math?"

"But you're a nerd."

I grimace at him. "Shut up. What do you know?"

"Enough to know that freaks flock together. You could make some friends."

"You're teaching me how to make friends?" I laugh. "Like you have any?"

"Well," he says, still with that carefree grin on his face. "You're my friend, right?"

I swallow. Then I squint my eyes at him. "I don't know. Are we?"

"Of course we are," he says, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head. "And friends help friends to make more friends."

I stare at him. His behavior is so odd, but not at the same time. I can see the Adam of a year ago acting like this, but now? No. Not in a million years.

I sigh and shift a few inches away from him. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Then he stares at me, making me fidget and twist around like a worm.

I clear my throat. "Aren't I supposed to be helping you with a problem?"

"Yeah..." he trails. "Wanna go to lunch?"

I start, and I look at him in bewilderment. "Are you joking?"

He raises a brow. "Was it funny?"

I scratch my head and avoid the sarcastic question. "It's just weird."

"How's it weird?" he almost sounds offended.

Well first of all..."We don't go to lunch anymore," I say, and I feel like I'm explaining something obvious and important. "Besides, we shouldn't."

He seems intrigued now. "why?"

"Don't play dumb, Adam," I sigh. "Let's just not go to lunch."

"Oh, you mean because we haven't in a while? C'mon Annie, it's not like anything changed between us."

My eyes feel like popping out. Was he serious?

"Are you serious?"

He sees my face, and it makes him crack an smile. "Yeah. So we've hung out with different people? I know it's been a little strange-"

"A lotta strange," I interrupt.

"Whatever," he says. "It's not a big deal anymore. Let's go back to the way we used to be."

I keep on squinting at him, wondering if he's had some twisted, prolonged change of heart, or if it really was from easing into a thin friendship. Either way, it's the thing I notice while we're having the conversation.

Like when he put his head in his hands and leaned back? Or the dimple popping up on his cheek. Let's not forget about the shirt he was wearing. It was one of those slightly loose, stretchy t-shirts found on the cheap racks at target. I can basically make out his nipples through the shirt, along with, let's see, everything else.

Now that I've seen it, I can't un-see it. The acknowledgement of attraction, once there, is there forever.

So I look at him in the eye, suck it up, and answer, "No."

His easy grin falls in less than a second. "What?"

And Whitney, thank freakin' Jesus, strolls into the room. I shoot her a look of pure hope and desperation, and..and...

She goes and takes a seat by James. Nerdy, stupid James. Gotta love your friends.

I growl under my breath. "You heard me, Adam. No lunch. It can't go back to being the same, because..."

Because? Suddenly, I couldn't say, because I think you're hot now. Actually, maybe I knew it before but never took it into account until Candy showed up (since that's how things work, all the time, don't they?). Being around him wouldn't ever make the fact go away. And it wasn't like I could hang out with him without reopening the heartbreak of the past. Because I was over it, and it's now scar tissue.

And I'm honest, all the time...usually. And if I'm being honest, I might not act the same around him. I'm already nervous sitting by him this close, which is the weirdest thing on all accounts on every level, and I'll turn into the quiet, shy girl that I was at the beginning with Logan.

That, or I'll act the same as I've always acted around Adam. Just a bit more...aware than before.

The thought though, it eats at me. I don't want to watch him fuck around with another sparkly girl and feel the same wretched feeling of before. I can't do it. I've learned better than to lose any mire respect that I have for myself and let him ruin all my slowly architectured feelings.

"Because we have four classes together. Isn't that enough?"

He surprises me with a shake of his head.

"You're so dumb, Annie." Whether it's some sort of endearment, I don't have the will to figure it out. Before I can make some indignant comment, he goes on to say, "I'll start taking you home again."

I've started to find rides here and there, after I broke up with Logan. Usually, most of my girls would have a swim practice, or track practice, or some sort of practice, so I'd really have to dig around and mooch. Other days, when there was nobody, I'd succumb to the smelly bus.

I made sure those days were few and far between. And I think he knows there's no way I can pass up the chance. I bite the inside of my cheek.

"Fine."

His grin is lovely. Too lovely.

I kind of secretly admire it.


He's leaning against the side of his car as I stroll up. It's his cooler than most people pose. He's even got sunglasses on for added affect.

Once he sees me, he grins. "You made it."

My head swirls in Deja vu, and I think of Logan and I kissing at the basketball game, except Logan's lips are Adams. My face drains a little.

"Wouldn't lie," I say, pulling the back door and shoving my backpack inside before taking a seat in the front. He falls into place behind the steering wheel.

"What'd you do for lunch today?" he asks as he pulls out.

"Went with Jamie."

"You call her your friend?"

I give him a look. "We've always been friends. What are you talking about?"

He shrugs. "She's just a bit of a bitch, that's all. Didn't she hang around Logan a lot while you guys were going out?"

I roll my eyes. So, Jamie was kind of an attention whore. So what? I'd do the same thing, because Logan, at the time, was LOGAN. My ideal man.

"Yeah, she did that because it was Logan. Logan was hot. Still hot, technically. I'd have done the same thing."

He looks doubtful. "Really?"

"Definitely," I say, brushing back a bang. "I would have done some crazy things to get his attention if I needed to."

His eyebrows gain a quirk. "What kinds of things?"

This is one of those moments where I reflect on all the idiotic thoughts I had while daydreaming about Logan. They're not things...to share.

"Things," I say vaguely.

"Like, take your shirt off type of things?"

I feel myself get hot. Because now these types of conversations make me think of taking off my shirt with Adam. All those daydreams are turning into Adam daydreams. I wanna gag and hum at the same time.

"That was one of them."

He laughs. "What about dancing in his lap?"

I cough discreetly.

This gives him a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I always wondered if you had dirty thoughts."

"Oh, come on, of course I'd have dirty thoughts. The things we talk about always end up with the word penis."

"Usually," he says. "But I didn't think such a good girl like you would have such unladylike thoughts."

I laugh sarcastically. "Right. Because I'm such a good girl."

"Aren't you?"

"Not all the time."

He slows at a stop light. It gives him the chance to look at me.

"Alright, Annie. What have been the times where you've done something bad?"

I bite my lip. What constitutes as bad in my book might or might not constitute bad in his. So I think of the worst things I've done.

"I've got drunk."

"I'd like to see that."

I glare, then laugh. "Maybe."

"Next time.." he glances out of the window. "We should get drunk together."

Bad idea bad idea bad idea. I shrug.

"What else?"

Uh... "I've...smoked pot."

"No, you haven't."

I smile at him, though he's started driving again.

"Mhm," I say. "Twice."

"Wow Annie, I'm impressed."

Should I feel gratified at the compliment? Well, I do.

It eggs me on to the worst thing, without his askance.

"I've.. Well, I've touched a penis.."

At this, Adam is too preoccupied with humor to drive straight and has to pull over on the shoulder of the boulevard.

"You 'touched a penis'?"

I feel a little angry he thinks it's so funny. I'm actually proud of the fact that I have.

"Yes. Why're you laughing?"

"Because you touched a penis. Damn, Annie, and here I thought you were too straight laced. I mean, you'd be able to talk about all kinds of things, but not the things you did."

This outrages me, partially because he still thinks it's funny and partially because I feel much more experienced after these past four months than I ever have before. Like he knows anything.

He's smiling big, but he looks at me funny and asks, "What?"

Did I say that out loud? Whoops.

"Nothing," I amend.

"No really," he says, eyes endlessly curious. It's as if I've peaked his interest in the most ultimate way possible. I guess I have. I mean, we are talking about penises.

"I just said, you don't know anything."

"Now I do."

"Some of it."

"Who's was it?"

He really has to ask? "Probably who you think it is."

"Logan? Are you kidding?"

"You asked!" I say, laughing at his face. "We did mess around some times. Never too much though.

I'm mostly trying to appease him, because all his mirth has suddenly leaked out of him.

"Did he ever touch you?"

This line of questioning has gotten ridiculous, and I almost want to mess with him, tell him, oh yes, he did and it was so amazing.

"No," I say instead. "Toldja I didn't let him, remember?"

He smiles small. "Just checking."

"We did make out a lot," I say, thinking back and staring out the window. "I think I've gotten pretty good."

"I can tell you if you have."

He's making me nervous again, a striking type of queasiness that makes my stomach tighten. It's then that I notice that I hadn't been nervous around him quite as much as I expected.

I'm waiting for him to smile and laugh at my face, but he doesn't. I'm not sure what to say back.

"In your dreams."

"All the time."

It's like a counter. I joke, he jokes, but in a serious way. Lightheartedly truthful. Maybe. Maybe he's just flirting.

"Sure," I say back, lightly too, waiting for his move. Scared and anxious fight each other in my stomach.

He glances over to me, without moving his head. A peripheral side glance. It's incredibly...not sexy.

Oh, but it is.

He smiles, and it's a knowing smile.

"Ever think about me?"

He evades it! What a genius.

"Yeah," I say, and I don't realize I'm thinking it until it's already out and gone and there.

And it's honest. There wasn't even a hint of a joke.

His eyes grow this shadow, and his teeth get sharper, and he's this...fiend.

Not really. But I swear his pupils dilated.

"Wanna go somewhere?"

Is this what he does? To other girls? It's a possibility. But I get the feeling that now the cats outta the bag, it's just gonna screech and holler for as long as it can. If he's taking me somewhere because he wants to tell me if I'm good at making out he's got another thing coming.

"Yeah," I breathe out.

Okay, so maybe he doesn't have another thing coming. I just can't look away from his lips, or how his arms are twitching with muscle as he takes off the shoulder and on to the road to somewhere.

My adamant, rock solid defiance of everything against Adam is suddenly gone in a glance from him. In fact, I don't think I ever had a planned defiance.

I think I lied.

We don't talk on the drive. I'm not sure what to say. I guess he's not sure either, although it looks like there's a lot of things waiting on his tongue by the way he flexes his jaw every so often.

I swallow and take a deep breath. I better get it out now, before it's too late, shouldn't I? Tell him of my conflict about him, tell him about how I really like him and how I want to remain friends and maybe even become something else in the process.

But I'm not good at confrontation. All that comes out is, "Adam..."

He hurriedly pulls over on a curb. We're in some neighborhood. I'm not very sure where we are.

He roughly shoves a hand through his hair.

"Do you know..." he says, then tries again. "I've liked you a long time, Annie."

I blink. Now he tells me? Could have saved a lot of time...

Or not. I would have said no any time earlier.

"And I just..." he stares at his wheel. "Want to kiss you. Can we just...and then we can go back to whatever you want us to be. Whatever. Because I know you don't."

Was he being serious?

"You're so dumb, Adam," I repeat his words from earlier that were directed toward me. He slowly looks at me, and I reach out to touch his tense arm. I unbuckle my seatbelt and climb over the small space between us. There's just enough room where I can make it over comfortably without poking him or myself with clumsy movements.

He's a funny thing to watch, sitting still and tense, watching me with an awed fascination. When I sink into his lap, he comes back to life. He grips my hips lightly.

"Annie..."

"Adam," I say, and I feel so empowered when I see a faint flush on his cheeks.

I lean in and kiss him, a chaste, barely there thing. I feel his thumbs press into my hip bones and the sensation pushes out all the air in my lungs.

"He never did that," I say, putting one of my hands on his. He grins and squeezes again. I squeak a little.

"What else did he do?"

"He, uh, would bite my earlobe."

"Did you like it?"

"...Yeah."

He immediately licks the soft skin behind my ear and goes to nibble on the lobe.

It feels just as nice as when Logan did it, except it's a different type of nice. They do it differently. It contrasts. And I have to think outside the haze that Adam is biting my earlobe and now my neck.

"Oh," I say, a little in surprise and pleasure.

His voice rumbles in a deep chuckle, sending vibrations into my neck skin. It's all so sensitive.

"You've...you've just gotta..."

"What, Annie?"

"Um...whatever else you do...with...girls."

"No," he says.

"Why?" I wince at how whiny I am.

"Because," he smiles, and I feel it, he moves his face into the line of my vision. "You're Annie."

"So what, I get special treatment?"

He finds one of my ribs and rubs circles on it. Either I'm extremely alert on everything he does, or he knows all these special tricks, I'll never know. I close my eyes briefly while I enjoy it.

"Something like that," he says, and I can tell he's enjoying my reactions. He sounds too arrogant or smug or something related to those.

I really can't help humming. He makes this growl sound and I can safely say that it's an awfully pleasing sound. I squirm in his lap and get closer to his chest, and I find his lips to kiss him a second time. I reach for the hair on the nape of his neck, and I keep trying to get closer until I feel something.

I giggle a bit, even though I feel especially excited that he got excited so fast.

"Annie, look what you did," he says against my face in a mock whine.

I look down. "Huh."

"Hey. What?" He already sounds defensive.

"It's bigger."

I reach down, but he jerks and stops my hand by grabbing my wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"I've touched one before remember? Calm down."

"Yeah...okay, fine. At least you're not wearing a-"

"Skirt?" I laugh. "Too bad I'm not wearing a skirt."

This makes him grin and grab my hips again and bring me closer, ruining my haphazard assault. "You saying you'll let me pop your cherry?" he says jokingly, though his eyes are bright.

"Hm," I say, messing with his belt. "Give me a good reason to let you."

"You love me." It's quick in the way he says it, and I can tell by his face that he's not sure if I do. His uncertainty and hope are so unbefitting on him that it makes me smile.

"Maybe a little." I dip my tongue into his mouth for a while.

"Remember when I said that I really liked you earlier?" he asks, after I give him time to breathe. "I meant that I really love you. Sorry. I had to lie."

"I don't blame you. I do that too."

He smiles. "I've always liked you. You were always kind of tart."

I quirk my face, then my eyebrows, before I grin back. "I never did like too much sugar all at once."

Then we kiss, maybe it's considered making out by now, before going in to feel his abs.

Mmmm. Abs.