My throat goes dry. Tingles shoot down my fingertips. Sweat seems to pool between my breasts. A knot of emotion forms so harshly in my throat that it feels like I could throw up a fire ball.
This guy, this boy who used to be my everything, hates me so much that he had to punch his best friend for daring to say he wanted to ask me to homecoming. It doesn’t matter if Matt was joking, or if he was going to ask me as a ruse. I wouldn’t have said yes either way. But Sawyer feels so strongly about blackballing me in this town, about putting me in my place, that he had to fight his own friend to keep it that way.
I’m embarrassed, ashamed, irrevocably heartbroken, and so, so angry.
I try to keep the tears out of my throat as I fire back with, “And the thought of someone wanting to take me on a date to a dance is so unfathomable? I’m so disgusting that there would be absolutely no way anyone would ever want to—”
“I didn’t want him to take you to homecoming! Not because I think the idea is ridiculous, or because I think you’re disgusting. I don’t. But because you don’t belong as a notch in Matt’s bedpost. You don’t deserve that. You deserve something better, much better. He was saying some dumb shit, so I popped him.”
Sawyer cuts me off, and the words he says, clipped and genuine, shock me to my core.
My nemesis, my ex-best friend, the person who tore my confidence apart is now … protecting me? It’s almost too surreal to grasp. He fought his best friend to, what? Protect my honor? Put respect on my name?
I’m so confused and tongue-tied that I don’t get to follow the endless line of questioning that is reverberating through my brain before Sawyer hands me the last plate to dry, and walks out of the kitchen.
What the hell just happened? It’s the only thing I can think.
Other than I’m pretty sure, in his own screwed up way, Sawyer Roarke just let slip that he thinks I deserve someone so much better than Matt, and then he socked him.
Did that mean …
Does he think that someone better is him?
11
Sawyer
Another shirt flies over the dressing room door.
“This one is too pink.” Glavin’s voice is critical.
“You said you wanted to wear peach. Aren’t they the same thing?” I mutter, checking the time on my phone for the sixtieth time in five minutes.
We’ve been at the mall for over two hours, trying to find the perfect outfit for this asshole to wear to homecoming. I’m just wearing the same black slacks and gray button down I do every year, because I’m a guy and don’t give shit, but Glavin is always trying to be Mr. GQ. So far he’s sampled bow ties, suspenders, and even posed the question of using a cane for what he called “the swag effect.”
My best friend’s quirkiness is one of the reasons I love hanging out with the guy, but he dragged me to a mall and wouldn’t even let me stop for a large soda and a hot dog. Therefore, I’m fucking miserable.
“No, they’re not the same thing, you Neanderthal. I want to shine under that strobe light. The ladies will come a swarmin’.” He sticks his head out of the dressing room and winks.
“Or they’ll run in the opposite direction.” Matt snickers beside me.
We made up three days ago, when he brought over a peace-offering burger to my house, we fist bumped, and then played Madden for two hours straight. We’re guys, there was never going to be some hugging sob session. Now, we’re both bitching and moaning as Glavin makes us go from store to store.
“You’re worse than a chick with this outfit shit. Everyone is going to be too drunk to notice anyway,” I tell him.
It’s common knowledge that everyone downs shots in their car before venturing into homecoming. Only the underclassmen are sober, still making a fantasy out of homecoming and dancing with their crushes. By the time you’re a senior, you know you’ll only see these people for the next couple of months and then it’s off to a much larger, much racier dating pool.
“I’m going to homecoming to grind on some ass, maybe make out with someone, and then find an after party. You’re focusing way too much on the beforehand,” Matt seconds.
“Pictures are the best part! Memories, guys!” Glavin walks out of the dressing room with a pile of clothes for purchase in his hands.
“Great, can we go now?” I ask, ready to get home.
I promised Dad we’d work on some of my college application stuff today. He’s the biggest weapon in my arsenal to get into the Brockden architecture program, simply because I can pick his brain on what they may want to hear. Not that I don’t have my own ideas, but I’d be an idiot not to enlist my dad’s help. And I want it; my family and I are close, just our three-person unit. We have the type of relationship where we all count on and support each other without any of that teenage animosity shit. Honestly, my parents are freaking lucky. If only they knew some of the stuff my peers were getting up to.
“I have to pick two pieces out of this pile, give me a minute. I can’t just buy it all, not like some people.” His eyes slide to me.
Being an only child, and one who is typically respectful and listens to my parents, they’ve never really said no to me. I appreciate all they give me, and we’re very well off in terms of money, so I never really understand it when my friends have to pick and choose what they buy or when they could grab a bite to eat. So far, I haven’t gotten
