I shrug because it’ll probably sound stupid. “I like finding things no one else is looking for. Things that got lost or forgotten, shoved in a corner. Stuff I never knew existed. I don’t even need to buy it. I just like to find it and know that it’s there. That’s the part I like.”
“Is any of this stuff even worth what they’re charging for it?” She looks at the price tag on an ornate mahogany sideboard.
“Depends on how badly you want it. It’s worth whatever you’re willing to pay for it.”
“Can you even afford any of it?”
“Yes.”
“You sell that much furniture?” She looks impressed.
“No.” I do okay with selling the furniture but not even close to this well. I don’t have enough time.
“Oh.” She doesn’t ask anything else, but I tell her anyway, even though it’s the thing I hate mentioning the most.
“I have a lot of money.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Millions.” I watch her face. Millions. It sounds absurd. I’ve never told anyone before. The only people who know are the ones who have always known. It feels weird to even say it out loud. I don’t talk about the money. I try not to even think about the money. I have a lawyer, two accountants and a financial adviser who worry about it for me. If they handed it all over to me tomorrow, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’d probably end up hiding it under the bed.
“No wonder you didn’t have a problem getting emancipated,” she says dryly.
“No wonder.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not lying.” She studies my face and I shake my head.
“You don’t spend any of it.” It’s not a question.
“My dad never wanted to touch it so I try not to as much as possible. I use what I have to for paying the bills because I can’t make enough to live on while I’m in school.” I can’t say I hate that it’s there, because I do need it. But I hate what it means, and I’ll never let myself be happy about it.
“Did you buy anything with it?”
“I bought my truck last year when my dad’s old one finally kicked it. And I bought an antique table.”
“Which one?”
“The dark one on the far wall of the living room near the sliding glass door.”
“The dark one? That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Usually you get all flowery and descriptive and talking about the curves of the wood and the symmetry of the lines and the marriage of form and function.” She puts on a pretentious tone and waves her hand around in the air.
“I talk like that?”
“When you talk about wood and furniture you do.”
“I sound like a pompous ass.”
“If the shoe fits.”
She moves on to the back of the store where they keep the shelves with all of the ceramics and vases and lamps. “I have to be home by five,” she says, turning over the three-thousand dollar price tag on a hideous lamp with a base that looks like a harlequin. “I need this,” she adds sarcastically.
“Why five?”
“I have to meet Drew to do debate research. There’s another tournament coming up. State possession of nuclear weapons. Exciting stuff.”
I haven’t thought about Drew since this morning and I don’t really want to bring him into this now; but knowing him, he’s probably going to say something to her tonight and I have to do pre-emptive damage control.
“About last night,” I start, and I realize how cliché that sounds. Now I know why. She doesn’t stop her intense examination of an ugly ass vase but I know she’s listening. She’s always listening. “I told Drew to keep his hands off of you.”
“Why would you do that?” This must interest her more than the vase because she turns around.
“Because everyone talks shit about you because of it.” And I’m jealous, which is the real reason, because neither of us really cares about the crap people say. “But it’s not my business so I’m sorry.”
“And he agreed?” She looks a combination of shocked and amused.
“Not without persuasion.”
“What kind of methods do you have that would work on Drew?” she laughs.
“I lied,” I say, even though I’m lying now. “I told him you were mine.”
No response, so I keep talking. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to act like you were an action figure or something.”
I wait for some sort of reaction, but there is none. She turns the price tag around on a jewelry box so it’s facing the right way and puts it back.
“As long as it’s Lara Croft, we’re good.”
“Of course,” I smile, but it’s weak. “Anatomically correct, too.”
“Come on,” she says, heading back up to the front of the store. “If you’re not going to buy me the three-thousand dollar clown lamp, we need to get going. You promised me ice cream.”
After the ice cream, I drag her to one more hole in the wall antique store in the old part of town and then we head back. The iridescent painted cat she insisted I buy her is between us on the seat and I can’t wait to get home because it’s scaring the crap out of me. I think she saw the fear in my eyes when she picked it up at the store, and after that, there was no way she was walking out without it. I told her I’d rather buy her a bracelet to replace the one she lost on her birthday, because I really did feel shitty about that, but she said no. She said it would be inappropriate, whatever that means. I guess nightmarish ceramic cats are acceptable because that’s what she’s got. Every time she looks at it she smiles and it’s worth ten times what I paid for it.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, just to have something to say while she’s digging her keys out of her purse.
“Thanks for the cat.” She smiles again, picking it up and holding it up to her face. “I named him Voldemort.” She puts it in her lap like it’s a real cat and for a minute I’m afraid it might actually bite her.
“My pleasure,” I say, and I mean it, even if it sounds dumb.
She cradles the cat under her arm and reaches for the door handle, stopping to look at me before she jumps out.
“Just so you know,” she says, her smile fading as her eyes lock onto mine. “You didn’t lie.”
CHAPTER 36
Nastya
Josh’s garage is open when I drive by on my way home from Drew’s. He’s on a stool hand sanding a piece of wood. He must be desperate to get whatever it is done, because he usually leaves the sanding for me.
“Done?” he asks when I take the sandpaper out of his hand to check the grit before handing it back. I pull another sheet of it out of the cabinet and sit down next to him.
“For tonight.” I hold a piece of wood up to him. “With or against?”
“With the grain on all of these.” He motions to the wood pieces between us on the work bench.
“What’s it going to be?” I tilt my head toward the pile of cut wood while I attach the paper to a sanding block.
“Bookshelf. For Sarah’s birthday.”
I nod and start working on one of the shelf pieces.
“You changed,” he says, after a few minutes of listening to nothing but the lullaby of sandpaper on wood.
I look down at the jeans and black t-shirt I put on after he dropped me off and shrug.
“Probably a good idea. Drew would never have been able to concentrate with you in that dress.”
“Can you blame him? I am distractingly pretty.” I deadpan, just to get him off of the subject of Drew and me. It never ends well. Besides, the dress was for Josh, not Drew.
“You’re not going to forget about that are you?”
“Why would I want to?” I have a list of things I’d like to forget, but that isn’t on it. I’ve replayed it in my head a thousand times. Maybe because he didn’t say beautiful, or stunning, or gorgeous or any crap like that. He said pretty, and pretty I might actually be able to believe.
“Because it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever said and I’d like you to,” he half-snaps and it slingshots my mind back to the picture of him disappearing down the hall last night with one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. Blonde, tan, all lit up and everything I’m not.
“Consider it forgotten.” I finish sanding one side of the shelf I had been working on and place it back on the counter. I step off the stool and brush the dust off my pants and I can feel him watching. “It’s late. I should go.” I didn’t stay here after last night and I’m sure as hell not staying here tonight.
“See you tomorrow?” he says as I walk toward my car.
I wave over my shoulder, but I don’t look back.
Josh
I’m in her driveway before she can get her key in the door. I left my house as soon as she was off my street, because f**k if I can do this anymore.
“Can I come in?”
She opens the door and steps inside and I follow her.
“Don’t say things if you don’t mean them. I’m not that pathetic that I need empty compliments.” She locks the door behind me and throws her purse onto the front table along with a can of pepper spray and that baton key holder thing she always carries around.
“I did mean it. It was just stupid.”
“Wow. Even better. You’re on a roll. Keep going.”
“You’re not going to make this easy are you?”
“That was the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since I’ve been here and you took it away. So, no.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
I know I did. I can tell. She can’t cover the hurt in her expression, even though I know she’s trying.
“You know I meant it. I am human. And male. And not remotely blind. Do you want me to say it again? You are distractingly, even-if-that-is-not-a-real-word, pretty. You are so pretty that I bullied Clay Whitaker into drawing me a picture of you so I could look at you when you aren’t around. You are so pretty that one of these days I’m going to lose a finger in my garage because I can’t concentrate with you so close to me. You are so pretty that I wish you weren’t so I wouldn’t want to hit every guy at school who looks at you, especially my best friend.” I stop to catch my breath. “More? I can keep going.” I can keep going, but even as I say all of this, I know it’s not quite true. She’s not just distractingly pretty. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and I want to touch her so badly right now that it’s almost impossible to keep my hands from reaching out and doing it.
“How?” Her eyes are searching mine like she doesn’t quite believe me and they’re so wide that I think I could walk right into them if she’d let me. “I’ve changed my clothes at your house a hundred times. You never try to look. I sleep in your bed. You never come near me.”
“I didn’t know I was allowed.”
“You were waiting for permission?” She looks at me like I’m insane and I wonder if I am.
“I said I was male. I didn’t say I was an ass**le.” The silence that used to be so comfortable is torture right now so I fill it. “I’m not Drew.”
She picks up the baton thing and starts swinging it around and I realize that it’s a weapon. Her keys are attached to one end of it and they’re spinning so fast that they’re nothing but a blur. I want to reach out and still it, but I think if it hit me it would seriously hurt. “Drew’s not really an ass**le; he just plays one on TV,” she says, shaking her head and wincing. “Sorry. That wasn’t even remotely funny.”
