I drop it back in the drawer and reach for my usual Chapstick instead, smearing it across my lips in a waxy dull line.
"Uhm, hello? Still waiting for an answer over here!"
I press my lips, heading out the door and down the stairs. "Fine, play that way. But don't think you can stop me from guessing," she says, trailing behind me.
"Whatever," I mumble, going into the garage.
"Well, we know it's not Miles, since you're not really his type, and we know it's not Haven since she's not really your type, which leaves me with-" She slips right through the closed and locked car door and onto the front seat while I try not to cringe. "Well, I guess that's pretty much it for your circle of friends, so tell me, I give up."
I open the garage door and climb in my car the old-fashioned way, then rev up the engine to drown out her voice.
"I know you're up to something," she says, talking over the roar. "Because excuse me for saying so, but you're acting just like you did right before you hooked up with Brandon. Remember how nervous and paranoid you were? Wondering if he liked you back, and bippidy-blah blah. So come on, tell me. Who's the unlucky guy? Who's your next victim?"
And the second she says that, an image of Damen flashes before me, looking so gorgeous, so sexy, so smoldering, so palpable, I'm tempted to reach out and claim it. But instead I just clear my throat, shift into reverse, and say, "No one. I don't like anyone. But trust me, that's the last time I'll ever ask you to help."
By the time I get to English, I'm as giddy; nervous, sweaty palmed, and anxious as Riley accused me of being. But when I see Damen talking to Stacia, I add paranoid to the already long list.
"Uhm, excuse me," I say; blocked by Damen's gloriously long legs, which are taking the place of her usual booby trap.
But he just ignores me and remains perched on her desk, and I watch as he reaches behind her ear, and comes away with a rosebud.
A single white rosebud.
A fresh, pure, glistening, dewy; white rosebud.
And when he hands it to her, she squeals so loud you'd think he just gave her a diamond.
"Oh-my-gawd! No way! How'd you do that?" She shrieks, waving it around so everyone can see.
I press my lips and gaze down at the ground, fiddling with my iPod and cranking the sound until I can no longer hear her.
"I need to get by;" I mumble, my eyes meeting Damen's, catching the briefest flash of warmth before his gaze turns to ice and he moves out of my way.
I storm toward my desk, my feet moving like they're supposed to, one in front of the other, like a zombie, a robot, some dense numb thing just going through its preprogrammed motions, unable to think on its own. Then I settle onto my chair and continue the routine, retrieving paper, books, and a pen, pretending I don't notice how reluctant Damen is, how he drags his feet when Mr. Robins makes him return to his seat.
"What the Jug?" Haven says, moving her bangs to the side and staring straight ahead, her profanity ban the only New Year's resolution she's ever been able to keep, but only because she thinks Jug is funny.
"I knew it wouldn't last." Miles shakes his head and gazes at Damen, watching him wow the A-list with his natural charm, magic pen, and stupid fugging rosebuds. "I knew it was too good to be true. In fact, I said exactly that the very first day. Remember when I said that?"
"No," Haven mumbles, still staring at Damen. "I don't remember that at all."
"Well, I did." Miles swigs his Vitamin Water, and nods. "I said it. You just didn't hear me."
I gaze down at my sandwich and shrug, not wanting to get into the whole "who said what when" debate, and definitely not willing to look anywhere near Damen, Stacia, or anyone else at that table. I'm still reeling from English, when Damen leaned toward me, right in the middle of roll call, so he could pass me a note.
But only so I could pass it to Stacia.
"Pass it yourself," I'd said, refusing to touch it. Wondering how a single piece of notebook paper, folded into a triangle, could possibly cause so much pain.
"Come on," he said, flicking it toward me so it landed just shy of my fingers. "I promise you won't get caught."
"It's not about getting caught." I glared at him. "Then what is it about?" he asked, dark eyes on mine.
It's about not wanting to touch it! Not wanting to know what it says! Because the moment my fingers make contact, I'll see the words in my head-the whole, sexy, adorable, flirty, unfiltered message. And even though it'll be bad enough to hear it in her thoughts, at least then I can pretend that it's compromised, diluted by her dimwitted brain. But if I touch that piece of paper, then I'll know the words are true and I just can't bear to see them "Pass it yourself," I finally said, tapping it with the tip of my pencil and sending it off the edge of my desk. Hating the way my heart slammed against my chest as he laughed and bent down to retrieve it.
Hating myself for the flood of relief when he slid it into his pocket instead of passin
g it to her.