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?
“Are you getting that dress?” Hannah asks. “You look amazing. What’s Dean wearing?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer. “We haven’t talked about it.”
The dress feels important all of a sudden, something I need to get right so that the rest of my night with Dean goes the right way too. But how am I supposed to know what Dean wants? I don’t even know his favorite color.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING at school, I spend most of my energy Not Looking at Andrew, which is next to impossible because he seems to be everywhere. I’ve never noticed how much of my day I usually spend with him, how I’m always aware of him in my peripheral vision the way I’m aware of my feet and hands and nose.
Now I’m aware of his presence in a different way. Every time he comes into a room, I can feel myself tense, like the wires inside of me have been pulled tight and electric. When he walks into study hall and sits down at my table, I flinch. I force myself to look up at him and try to smile. I can be a normal, functioning human. I have to be, if I want my friend back.
“Hey,” I say, tapping my pen against the top of my desk.
“Hey,” he says back. He’s wearing a dark green shirt that brings out the green in his eyes, and I shake my head, feeling stupid for noticing his eyes at all. Friends don’t notice the color of their friends’ eyes. Especially not the eyes of friends who are in love with Danielle Oliver.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks.
“It was fine,” I answer.
“I’m so tired.”
“Monday sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Great, now we’re talking like strangers.
Every time I look at him, the events of the weekend come tumbling back to me: the feel of his lips against mine, the condom in his hand, Danielle’s fingers running through his hair at dinner, Danielle smirking at him, pouting her lips. Danielle, Danielle, Danielle.
He loves her. Right now, slumped at his desk and complaining about Mondays, he loves her. He’ll love her when he raises his hand for attendance, when he walks down the hall on the way to lunch. It’s a constant—an underlying buzz that will never go away. Danielle is part of him now. Isn’t that what love is? Another person attaching themselves to your brain, eating away at your heart, your soul, consuming you entirely? Love is just a parasite.
I realize I’m staring at him and I look quickly away, pretending to rummage through my bag so I look busy. He turns away from me and starts drumming his pencil against the top of his desk.