Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
I feel like I’ve been dumped in a bucket of cold water—all the warm, cozy feelings wash out of me, replaced by something icy and hard. I don’t know how I let myself get so carried away. I shouldn’t have asked Andrew for help in the first place—that much is obvious now—but besides that, how did I let myself start to enjoy it? This wasn’t supposed to be fun; it was business. It was just practice. The biggest mistake was letting myself feel warm and cozy at all.
“I want to, Keely,” he says, his voice pained. “It’s not that. It’s just, you’re making this . . .” He drums his fingers on his bare leg and I look away. “I thought I could deal with you using me. But I can’t.”
I pale at his words. “I’m not . . .” I begin, stumbling over the words. “I’m not using you.”
My phone rings from somewhere on the bed. I don’t want to answer it, don’t know how I could talk to anyone right now. He fishes around in the blankets for it and then sighs, handing it to me.
“Speaking of James Dean,” he says, reading the words on the screen, his voice tight. I take the phone out of his hand, but I can’t answer it. How could I possibly talk to Dean right now, sitting on Andrew’s bed? My shirt is still somewhere on the floor, mixed in with his—and it suddenly hits me how messed up this whole thing is. Would Dean be mad if he knew? Or worse, would he not even care? I imagine the situation in reverse—Dean with a half-naked girl in his bed—and feel an unpleasant swoop in my stomach. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? There have been lots of naked girls in Dean’s bed and that’s why I’m here.
“You can answer it,” Andrew says. He reaches down to grab his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. The phone is still ringing.
I shake my head.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m gonna go.” He turns to the door.
“Wait, this is your room,” I say. He shrugs, and then turns around and shuffles through the door, closing it quietly behind him. I put the phone down on the bed and watch it vibrating, waiting for the ringing to stop. I wrap the comforter tighter around myself.