Almost (3 page)

The nagging questions won't stop:
Does she remember? Does she remember me?

I don't know why I'm worried about that. From what her parents told me—from my careful
non-interactions
with her—Jess has no idea who I am. No memory of the night I stopped her from being raped by a senior asshole at a hockey party. The night I chickened out and ran out on her after she'd asked me to stay. God…I'd been such a loser that year.

I'd done my best to make it right
after.

After, the guys on the team beat the shit out of me for blowing the whistle. After, I'd quit playing competitive ice hockey when the coach wouldn't prosecute the player who tried to hurt Jess. But…
after
is always too late. I've learned that lesson. No such thing as re-plays or penalty points in real life, no matter how valid and real the fouls might be.

I eye the large, over-stuffed bag Jess has brought along for her interview. I can only imagine the perfect product samples she's concocted to win this internship. The girl's loaded, has straight A's, and adults love her. I can guarantee her product samples won't be made out of tape, hope and bullshit like mine.

The people who run this place must have fallen for her big-time. But they'd liked me too! Invited me back—like they'd invited her. Yesterday, the CEO, Mr. Foley, told me I
have the creativity and motivation Geekstuff.com looks for in an intern.

And hell yes, I do.

Desperation and an empty wallet makes for buckets of
creativity and motivation
.

I stare, knowing she can't see me behind this door. I take in her small frown, fair skin, and determined expression. She's sporting some brown, geek-girl shoes, and her long legs are hidden under the weirdest grey skirt I've ever seen. Her strange pioneer/nerd outfits are always a source of school conversations.

Looking at her now, I remember my stupid freshman crush on this girl. How she'd always had this easy smile and quiet laughter. How she also blew me off every time I came near, and how empty and lost her eyes had seemed after she'd come back to school.

I pull in a ragged breath. I think Jess was the lucky one to have her slate wiped clean. Remembering all this time has been hell. As much as she might
not
know me—as much as I've worked to keep myself out of her radar—I've been tracking this girl out of the corners of my eyes ever since.

Jess makes it to the landing and pauses. For the second time today, glass is the only thing separating her face from mine. It's impossible not to notice how beautiful she still is.

A trickle of sweat drips between my shoulders and my knees start this embarrassing quaking thing. Exploding grenade heartbeats kill my chest, reminding me—
begging me
—to do the right thing. Only, after my backpack move—after staring at her like this—I have no idea what the
right thing
is supposed to be anymore.

I hold my ground and decide to play it out. It's not like this same girl can trash my life twice. I've already broken the promise I made to her parents. I can't erase the fact that she's seen me up close. Way too close. If the girl is going to have some sort of episode or flashback thing—then I suppose I should hang around. Try to make things right, or call an ambulance—or something….

I step into a darker part of the room, watching as she frowns at her reflection in the door. She pauses to mess with her bangs.

“Besides, I'm staying because I need the money,” I mutter, over and over again.

But I can't silence the nagging truth:

I'm simply too curious to leave. I wonder…I want to know…

Does she remember me at all?

Chapter Three

Jess

All of my imagined
warrior-princess-bravado
fades when I'm vanquished by Geekstuff.com's gigantic door. As I push through it knocks me forward like a paper doll. It's all I can do to save myself from tripping flat on my face in the dark lobby. The contents of my bag create a junk and paper waterfall. I manage to maintain my mask of composure by keeping my eyes trained on the scattering mess.

Make-up containers and my precious iPhone have been ejected like bullets. They travel the farthest, coming to a rest at the base of the receptionist's paisley-shaped, and thankfully,
vacated
desk.

It's not lost on me in this air-conditioned battlefield that my breathing sounds embarrassingly erratic next to Gray's very calm and
employable
steady intakes of breath.

He's somewhere on my right.

I glance through my lashes and find his navy blue Converse moving toward the epicenter of my mess. I move in the opposite direction. As he bends to scoop up a few of my things, I'm completely aware that the guy has open access to my interview secrets.

This makes me feel slightly ill, and annoyed at myself for losing control of my stuff.

And of myself. I never lose control of that.

I panic for a moment and look into my bag, relaxing a little when I realize it's only my makeup and product samples—about twenty bumper-stickers—that have spilled. The résumés and the ridiculous ‘How to Be Normal’ checklist my ever-helpful sister handed me this morning must still be at the bottom of my bag.

Safe.

I'm proud of the bumper stickers so…let him look. Maybe they'll intimidate him.

Because I'm not prepared to have any sort of intelligible smack-down session—a session that
must
happen soon, I go after the other stuff.

I scoop up my phone and the
Sunshine Glow Mineral Powder
first. This item has exploded into beige dust-bombs a few times in my bag. I'm happy to find it's intact and not all over the eggplant-colored carpet. I hate the junk, but it's the only product that can wipe out the permanent dark circles I have under my eyes from not sleeping at night.

I pick up the blush compact next. It's necessary because it has the mirror and the
freshening pink tones
my grey-colored cheeks crave. My lip-gloss, then the red-reducing eye drops are last. I shove the items into my skirt pocket and feel slightly comforted by their presence. I'm not vain or anything; it's just that without these products I look like the walking dead.

Once I'm sure my expression is solid and calm, I force myself to turn and look at my opponent. Gray's gathered almost all of my bumper stickers. Instead of looking impressed and floored by my cool product samples, he has the nerve to be sporting a confused expression. He's also shaking his head.

With a lightning quick glance at me first, he reads one bumper sticker: “Member: BBB. Boys in Books are Better?” He shakes his head again. “I didn't know
you
made these bumper stickers. This one's been on your car since last month.”

I gasp before I can stop myself. “How do you know that?”

“I like cars and I love Jeeps.”

His eyes flit to my face again and his cheeks go all red. This time he's trying to hold my gaze so I lock onto his for a stare down and don't respond. Silence always freaks people out.

He shrugs as though he hasn't noticed and continues, “Your Jeep is the most tricked out vehicle in the whole school.” He waves my bumper sticker in the air. “You slapped this very same chunk of duct tape silliness right onto the
paint
. They're called bumper stickers for a reason. They go on the
bumper.
Although with your chrome package I wouldn't even do that.”

I have no idea what he's talking about. What's a chrome package? Amazingly, the guy doesn't break my stare despite the ice bullets I've slammed into him. Maybe he's not wearing his glasses, or it's too dark in here for me to be properly effective. It's all I can do to keep a straight face and the glower from slipping. I think I'm losing control all over again. This is because I've registered two things above and beyond his hypnotic green eyes and rock star hot voice.

1. His perfectly square chin has one of those little divots dead center.

2. He's taller, and wider across the shoulders than I'd thought.

My heart ramps into some sort of a private hailstorm.

My list won't stop.

3. His hair is still shower damp. It's made up of little inky-black curls—an amazing amount of them.

4. The dumb eyes aren't simply green. They're like an exploded rainbow of greens and gold and browns. On closer inspection, he's…he's simply overall amazing and…I'll just say it again:

HOLY. HOLY. WOW.

“So…
Jess Jordan
…cat got your tongue? Do you really believe that bumper sticker? Is that why you put it on your Jeep? That boys in books are truly…better?” He shoots me a small smile.

I have to hide a second gasp of surprise. I can't believe this perfect-looking dude knows my name as well as my Jeep, and what sticker I've put on it! Whaaat-the-DOUBLE-F?

I shrug. “Yep. I believe it. I'm amazed you can read those. They've got some big words,
Gray Porter
,” I cover, tossing his full name right back at him and layering on the sarcasm while I work to control the tremor threatening my voice.

I feel like I'm about to go into shake and quake mode. I can't believe I've reached this state—not from a nightmare—but because I find a guy to be
stunning
? Or is it because a guy's said my name? I need to get myself together enough to make sure Gray understands I'm not here to
chat
or make friends—no matter how pretty he is! I don't have enough energy in me today for conversations like this.

“Mind handing my stuff back?” I say in my meanest voice. Lowering my eyebrows into attack mode. I head closer, trying very hard not to blink. I also work to keep my shoulders down and my expression bored. Very bored, and dripping with utter dislike and contempt.

Once again, the guy doesn't do what I expect.

Instead he meets me in the middle of the room and holds up two more bumper stickers. “I'd rather be in Forks? I shop the HOB? What do these even mean?!”

Time to end this, right now. It's all suddenly too close.

That, or he's just too darn close to me. I never let anyone enter my bubble, but this guy has almost popped it. Destroyed it.

He's touching all of my stuff and he smells like limes…or something shampoo-soapy. I raise an eyebrow, working to achieve the right tone of intellectual superiority. “If you've never read the
Twilight
books or the
Hunger Games
series you wouldn't understand. Not. One. Bit. They are complex stories. Big words. Probably beyond you.”

“Hey, no self respecting dude would read those books, or admit to reading them.” He laughs.

I don't answer. Instead, I drop down to create some needed distance while I pick up the remaining slew of bumper stickers still on the floor. I'm horrified to note one of my résumés has escaped. I glance up to see if he's got any printer paper in his hands. He doesn't,
thank God.

“So…you're not going to tell me what they mean? C'mon. What's the Hob? Why Forks?”

When I stand, I switch to my
blatantly rude, you're-an-idiot
tone. This is the one that always pisses off my mom. To be sure he's not missing my insult this time, I also cross my arms and speak very slowly like I'm speaking to a toddler. “
The Hob
is from
The Hunger Games
books. It's the underground market where the characters trade food and information.
Forks
would be the town in
Twilight
. The setting. In boy-speak, Forks equals the planet
Tatooine
for
Star Wars
. You know—Anakin Skywalker's childhood home? Or are you not familiar with
any
global blockbusters? I suppose I could use Sesame Street or Pokémon for a reference—if it would help you understand better?”

Bam. That should seal it. I couldn't have sounded more like a total bitch.

He nods. “No, I've got it. My bedroom was
Tatooine
for all of third and fourth grade. Boy-speak…that's funny.” He laughs again, and it sounds warm and—and—not at all offended!

Worse, the laugh has disoriented me all over again. “Oh?” becomes my dorky uncontrolled response. I suddenly have hundreds of questions about how his room might have looked.

“Yeah,” he goes on as though he can read my mind. “I draped my walls with these ugly tan sheets to make the desert lands go on forever. It was more of a fire hazard than anything good.” His gaze is now glued back on my face as though he's looking for something, waiting for me to do something.

But what?

I glance down and fiddle with the zipper on my bag, hoping he hasn't deciphered that I'm in absolute unfamiliar territory here. By now, even the toughest kids would be running in the other direction. At the very least they'd be pulling the silent treatment on me. Maybe I'll have to take this on the direct. I could try:
There is no reason we need to talk to each other. So let's just stop. As in. Forever. Don't talk to me, I won't talk to you. Deal?