“Wow,” I say once Kalia disappears. I roll my eyes. “What a drama queen.”
“I guess.” Harper twists her hands in her lap and looks around the restaurant hesitantly. There are tons of people here from school, and her eyes flick over all of them. I wonder if she’s trying to figure out which girls I’ve messed around with. I want to reassure her, but I’m not exactly sure what to say.
“Hey—” I start. But before I can finish, Jackson Burr saunters up to our table.
“So listen,” he says, and grabs a bar stool from a four-top near us. He pulls it over to our table and sits down, like he and I are in the middle of a conversation and not two people who hate each other. “It was weird the other night, right? At the batting cages? Anyway, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided we should talk about it.”
I feel a rage start to burn inside me. First because Jackson’s here, and second because he’s bringing up things that are ridiculously personal and he’s bringing them up in front of Harper. I don’t want to talk about what happened at the batting cages.
“Jackson,” I say, trying to force my voice to stay upbeat. “You know better than to crash one of my dates.”
He looks over at Harper, like he’s seeing her for the first time. “This is a date?” he asks skeptically.
“Yes,” I say firmly. I know I wasn’t sure I wanted to be making that declaration, but now that I’m saying it, it feels right.
“Okay.” Jackson looks at Harper again, his eyes lingering on her body for a second longer than necessary, the same way they did that night at the batting cages. Don’t do that, a voice inside me screams. She’s mine. I’m shocked by the ferocity of it. “We met at the batting cages the other night, right?”
Harper nods and then takes a sip of her drink.
Jackson smiles and then partially pulls a flask out of the front pocket of his long-sleeved T-shirt. He motions to Harper. “You want to make it a real one?”
“No, she doesn’t,” I say. “Jesus, Jackson.” What the hell is wrong with him, bringing alcohol here? This isn’t some seedy bar where you can get away with that kind of thing.
“What?” he asks. “Like you don’t want some?”
“I don’t.” I turn away from him.
“Right, so it’s like that now?” Jackson laughs bitterly as he puts the flask away.
Harper’s looking at me curiously from across the table. Shit. She’s probably going to get all worried now and start freaking out about me having some kind of drinking problem. Which I don’t. Just because I used to get drunk with the team now and then doesn’t mean I have a problem. And after I fucked up my shoulder, yeah, I took the edge off with a little alcohol, but who wouldn’t have?
I haven’t had a drink since then.
“It’s not like anything,” I say. Then I get quiet.
“Whatever,” Jackson says, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. “Look, we need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yeah, we do. Come on. Come sit with us.” He motions over to the corner, where a bunch of guys from the team—Dan Martin, Brody Lansing, and Sawyer French—are sitting at a high-top. There are girls over there, laughing and flirting and jostling for position so they can sit next to whoever it is they’ve decided they want to go home with. If this were a few months ago, I’d be over there with them, feeling sloppy from the booze, my eyes halfway closed as I tried to figure out which girl I was going to kiss later that night. My muscles would be aching from practice, but it would be a good ache, the kind of ache that makes you feel like you’re alive.
“I told you, I’m on a date.”
Jackson stands up and shakes his head. “She can come too.” He picks up our drinks and then motions to Kalia to let her know that Harper and I are going to be moving to his table.
“No,” I say, “we don’t want to go.”
“It’s okay,” Harper says. “I don’t mind sitting over there.” I can tell she’s just saying it because she thinks I want to. Of course she minds going over there to sit with those assholes.
“No, it’s okay,” I tell her. “We’re staying right here.”
“See?” Jackson says. “She said it’s okay. Come on.” He starts to walk away with our drinks, and suddenly, before I can stop myself, I’m out of my chair and grabbing at the back of his shirt. I’m only trying to stop him from moving, but my grip must be tighter than I planned, because it causes Jackson to spin around. A bunch of piña colada sloshes out of the glasses and oozes over his fingers onto the floor.
“What the fuck, Mattingly?” he curses. “What the hell is your problem?”
“My problem,” I say, “is that you can’t mind your own damn business.” I take the dripping glasses out of his hands.
“I’m supposed to mind my own business?” Jackson repeats incredulously. He moves closer to me so that he’s in my face now, and I can smell the alcohol on him. “You totally just drop out, no goodbye, nothing, and I’m supposed to mind my own damn business? That’s all I’ve been doing, Penn! And I’m fucking sick of this shit.”
“Oh, right,” I mutter. “You’re such a victim. None of this is because of you, right, Jackson?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jackson asks. And then his voice softens just a little. “Penn—” he starts, but before he can say anything, something snaps inside me.
It’s like a switch or the break of a branch. That’s how fast it overtakes me. I turn and haul one of the piña coladas at the wall as hard as I can. The glass immediately shatters, and sticky liquid oozes everywhere. A searing pain shoots through my bad shoulder. But I can hardly even feel it.
“Penn!” Harper cries. She stands up, her eyes wide. “Penn, please, what are you doing?”
“Jesus Christ, man,” Jackson says, shaking his head as he looks down at the broken glass and spilled drink. “You are even more fucked up than I thought.”
“Penn,” Harper says, pulling on my sleeve. “Penn, come on. Let’s get out of here.”
From across the room I can see Kalia whispering to some douchey-looking guy in a button-up shirt who looks like the manager. He starts to walk over to us, probably so he can kick me out.
But I’m not going to give him a chance.
I turn around and walk out.
It’s not until I’m halfway to my car that I realize Harper is following me.
Harper
Whoa.
Okay.
I will not freak out, I will not freak out, I will not freak out.
I just need to keep cool. Yes, that was crazy intense. Yes, it was crazy scary. Yes, Penn broke a glass and basically got us kicked out of the restaurant. But I can’t get all worked up about it, because that’s not going to help the situation.
Thank God he didn’t hurt anyone. For a second I was pretty sure he was going to throw that drink right at Jackson’s face, or maybe even punch him. That’s how mad Penn looked. I could see it building inside him until finally he just snapped.
I follow him out to the parking lot, and he’s all broody and dark.
“Hey,” I say, running to catch up. “What was that about?”
His shoulders are hunched over, and his hands are in his pockets and he’s walking so fast, I can hardly keep pace. “Nothing.”
“Well, obviously it was something,” I say. “I mean, you don’t just go throwing glasses at walls unless there’s something going on.”
We’re at his truck now, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. His hands are shaking a little.
“Penn,” I say, reaching out and putting my hand on his. “Seriously, what the hell is going on?”
“I told you, nothing.” He unlocks the door and then goes to get inside.
But I just stand there. No way I’m getting into a car with him when he’s all worked up like this. How do I know he’s in any condition to drive?
“You coming?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not getting into a
car with you until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
He looks at me, his eyes blazing, his breathing heavy. My pulse is racing, the anticipation of what’s going to happen hanging in the air. Is he going to tell me what’s going on? Or is he going to try to make me get into the car with him without telling me anything? If he does, I won’t. I’ll call Anna and have her come pick me up. Or even better, I’ll call my mom and have her come pick me up. She would love that. She’s always talking about how if I ever get stranded at some party or something and there’s no one sober to drive me home that I should call her and she’ll come get me, no questions asked. It’ll be like a bonding moment.
“Harper,” Penn says, “get into the car.”
“No.” I stand my ground. “Not until you explain.”
“Harper,” he says again. “I don’t want to have to leave you here, but I will.”
I laugh. “Really?” I say. “Really? That’s what you have to say for yourself? You don’t want to have to leave me here, but you will?” I shake my head. I am so done with this. “Whatever, Penn. Just go. You’re good at leaving me places anyway.”
I turn around, and as soon as I do, my throat squeezes and tears burn in my eyes. I’m mad at him, but I’m mad at myself too, for trusting him. He’s an asshole. That’s what my instincts were telling me, and somehow I let myself get all wrapped up in him.
I must be crazy.
I take a few steps back toward the restaurant, fumbling in my purse for my phone. And then he’s there.
Behind me, his footsteps matching mine.
He doesn’t say anything—he just keeps walking with me.
Our footsteps fall into a matching rhythm, but he still doesn’t talk.
I finish pulling out my phone.
“Who are you calling?” he asks finally.
“My mom,” I say.
“Your mom?” He seems shocked and appalled.
“Yeah.” I’m struggling to keep my voice from shaking. The last thing I want is for him to know I was about to cry. “I’m going to have her come pick me up.”
I start dialing, but he reaches out and pulls the phone out of my hands gently. “Harper,” he whispers. He’s looking at me with this intense look on his face, halfway between sadness and longing, and it’s so angsty and wanty that I think I’m in some kind of romance novel.
“No,” I say. “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t get to look at me like that.”
He’s still holding my phone. He reaches out and pulls me close to him, and then, suddenly, his lips are on mine. This time his kiss is different than it was the other night. The other night it was flirty and fun, with darkness just below the surface. This time the danger is right there, in the kiss, showing itself in the way his lips move against mine, the way his arms encircle my waist and pull me so close to him that I can feel the hardness of his chest.
I lose myself in the kiss, letting him take over, letting myself melt against his body. I’m not thinking about what just happened back in the restaurant, I’m not thinking about the fact that he just tried to ditch me for the second time today, or what it means that every girl we come into contact with he has some kind of history with.
Instead, all I’m thinking about is how good this feels. His hands are around my waist, holding me tight, and then finally he pulls away.
“Harper,” he whispers again. The way he says my name fills my body with heat. No one has ever said my name like that before. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
My heart is racing and my body is all flushed. A breeze moves through the parking lot, pushing my hair back from my face, and even though the air is hot, it feels cool and good against my skin.
“No,” I say. “I’m not . . . I can’t . . .” I take a deep breath and try to clear my thoughts. “You can’t just kiss me or leave me anytime something comes up. Don’t you . . . I mean, why can’t we talk about this?”
He gets a pained look on his face. Then finally he nods. “Okay,” he says. “Fine.”
But he doesn’t move. “Okay fine, what?”
“Okay, fine, let’s talk.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We’re still standing close, and I can feel his body heat through the thin T-shirt I’m wearing. I take a step back.
“Go ahead, talk,” he says.
“Tell me about Jackson.”
“That asshole? There’s nothing to—”
“Penn.”
He sighs. “Fine. Then can we at least go somewhere else?”
“Like where?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. You pick.”
“My house.” I didn’t know I wanted him to come over until I’m saying the words. But it makes sense. I want him on my turf. Everything about our relationship has been on his terms up until this point, and now I want some of the power.
“Your house?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, because . . .”
“My house,” I say. “Take it or leave it.”
He hesitates, and for one horrible moment I think he’s going to say no. Then finally his face softens. “Take it.”
* * *
By the time we get to my house, I have five text messages from Anna, all of them asking me about what happened at the Sailing Burrito. Which is crazy, because Anna wasn’t even at the Sailing Burrito.
Which means she must have found out about the Penn-Jackson incident from someone texting her or Facebooking about it. I try telling her that we’ll talk about it later, but she’s insistent. She keeps texting, and when I don’t reply, she starts calling. I send all her calls to voicemail—I can’t deal with her right now. I know she wants gossip, and she’s also probably worried about me, but for now she’s going to have to settle for just knowing that I’m okay. She’s not going to die if she has to wait an hour to talk to me.
When we pull up in front of my house, the light is on in my mom’s room. On the way here I called and asked if Penn could come over. My mom said he could but that I’m not allowed to have him in my room. Still, my mom is upstairs, apparently willing to give us our space.
“Is your mom going to give me the third degree again?” Penn asks as we walk up the sidewalk and I open the front door.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “But I probably will.”
He follows me into the kitchen, and I have to admit, it’s a little bit strange. I thought that having Penn here, where I’m comfortable, would make me feel . . . I don’t know, more secure or something. But instead it just feels awkward.
Plus I just realized that if Penn wants to leave, he can simply walk out. At least if we were out somewhere, he’d have to take me home first. I know I shouldn’t care about that. If he’s the kind of guy who’s going to have mood swings so severe that he would walk out of my house never to be heard from again, then I should just write him off.
But I can’t. I hate the fact that even though he’s here, standing in my kitchen with me, everything seems so fragile. I’m always afraid I’m never going to see him again, or I’m going to say something that’s going to scare him away.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask. The house is quiet. The fact that my mom didn’t come downstairs to say hello as soon as we got here makes me certain she’s not going to.
He shrugs. “I guess.”
I open the refrigerator. “Um, we have soda, water, orange juice . . .”
He moves behind me, then stoops down and looks over my shoulder. “You got any chocolate milk?”
“Chocolate milk?”
“Yeah. You know, milk mixed with chocolate?”
“What are you, ten?”
He looks at me and sighs. “Chocolate milk is an excellent drink. It’s good for muscle recovery, and it also tastes delicious.”
“Well, I don’t have any. You’ll have to settle for something else.”
He nods, accepting it. “Orange juice.”
I pull the carton out
and pour two glasses, then hand him one. He takes a sip, and so do I. Then we just sort of stand there, looking at each other. This is probably the part where I’m supposed to ask him if he wants to watch a movie or something, but I’m afraid if we get wrapped up in doing something else, we’re not going to get to talk. And that was the whole point of coming here.
“So, what do you want to do?” he asks. The heaviness that was surrounding him earlier is gone, and now he’s grinning at me. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “We were going to talk, remember?”
“We can talk while we watch a movie.” He takes another step toward me, but I take a step back. If he kisses me again, I’m not sure I’m going to have the strength to stop him. And who knows what’s going to happen then? It’s not like he could just ravish my body or anything—we can’t go into my room, and besides, my mom is right upstairs. But still. There’s a perfectly good couch in the living room. A flash of us on that couch making out enters my mind, and I push it out and take another step away from him.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go outside.”
I take him out back to our deck, then sit down across from him near the fire pit.
“Can we have a fire?” he asks.
I nod, then reach under and turn on the propane. I pick up the lighter that’s sitting on the side of the pit and light the fire. The flames burn and dance, turning different shades of red, yellow, orange, and blue. I curl my legs up under me and sip my juice. “So,” I say. “Let’s talk.”
“Okay.” He shrugs, like talking isn’t a big deal, like he hasn’t been completely shut down since I met him.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “So why’d you get so mad at Jackson tonight?”
“Because Jackson’s an asshole.”
“A little more, please?”
He sighs and then leans over and looks into the fire. “Jackson is . . . he’s from a part of my life that I don’t really want to revisit.”
“What part?”
“You know, the part from before.”
“Before you hurt your shoulder?”
I see the pain flash through his eyes for a moment, bright and searing, and then it’s gone, pushed back to wherever he keeps it hidden. “Yeah.”