“
For a moment we just sit there silently, our heads tipped back as we stare at the sky. A minute passes, maybe two. And then Ryder’s hand grazes mine before settling on the ground, our pinkies touching.
I suck in a breath, my entire body going rigid. I’m wondering if he realizes it, if he even knows he’s touching me, when just like that, he draws away.
Ryder clears his throat. “So…I hear you’re going out with Patrick on Friday.”
“And?” I ask. That brief connection that we’d shared is suddenly gone--poof, just like that.
“And what?” he answers with a shrug.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got an opinion on this--one you’re just dying to share.” Because Ryder has an opinion on everything.
“Well, it’s just that Patrick…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up.”
“No, go on. It’s just that Patrick what?”
“Seriously, Jemma. It’s none of my business.”
“C’mon, Ryder, get it out of your system. What? Patrick is looking to get a piece? Is using me? Is planning on standing me up?” I can’t help myself; the words just tumble out.
“I was going to say that I think he really likes you,” he says, his voice flat.
I bite back my retort, forcing myself to take a deep, calming breath instead. That was not what I had expected him to say--not at all--and it takes me completely by surprise. Patrick really likes me? I’m not sure how I feel about that--not sure I want it to be true.
“What do you mean, he really likes me?” I ask stupidly.
“Just what I said. It’s pretty simple stuff, Jemma. He likes you. I think he always has.”
“And you know this how?”
He levels a stare at me. “Trust me on this, okay? He’s got problems, sure, but he’s a decent guy. Don’t break his heart.”
I scramble to my feet. “I agreed to go out with him--once. And I’m probably going to cancel, anyway, because after today’s news, I’m really not in the mood. But the last thing I need is dating advice from you.”
“How come every conversation we have ends like this--with you going off on me? You didn’t use to be like this. What happened?”
He’s right, and I hate myself for it--hate the way he makes me feel inside, as if I’m not good enough. I mean, let’s face it--I know I’m nothing special. I’m not beauty-pageant perfect like Morgan, or fashion-model gorgeous like Lucy. Unlike Ryder and Nan, I don’t have state-championship trophies lining my walls. My singing voice is only so-so, I can’t draw or play a musical instrument, and if the school plays are any indicator, I can’t act for shit, either.
”
”