Almost (5 page)

I think I love and somehow
hate
the way Gray has just said my name. Like he knows me. Like we're friends when we're anything but.

I swallow and stare at his chin divot because I'm terrified to look anywhere else. My therapist told me if I was ever surprised by someone—a guy—approaching me —touching me— that
anything
could happen.

Anything as in:
me
—going berserk.

But I didn't. And I'm not going to!

As awkward as this moment is, I'm intrigued with the possibilities of what this could mean. Gray Porter holding up my bangs while I memorize the depth of his chin divot ranks at the top of my
things-that-have-overly-surprised me
list! I don't really have such a list. But when I get home, I'm making one.

I have no urge to scratch out his eyes, or cry or—well—do anything my therapist said I might do.

The only urge I'm resisting right now is the one to stare at his lips—and that is beyond strange. I force myself to meet his gaze again, determined to test this feeling—or lack of feeling—a little more.

When nothing happens after another long examination of his beautiful eyes—not counting my increased heart rate and the half-panicked look crossing
his
face (and who can blame him for that? I'm acting like a freak with all the staring) I have to squelch a smile and twist my expression into what I
hope
has me back to my
rock-solid-annoyed-mask
.

He drops my bangs and sits back on his heels. “So…apology accepted?”

“Mmmh,” and a small nod are all I can manage because I don't want to let on that I'm bursting with excitement. I'm way more
cured
than I'd thought. That, or Gray and I are somehow the human personifications of positive and negative forces. Like we are Yin and Yang, or oil and vinegar! Maybe we cancel each other out by default. It's pretty obvious he doesn't react to me like he should. And, not counting the butterfly feeling which seems pretty easy to hide, I don't react to him in a crazy way at all. Eat that, Dr. Brodie, and
hello progress!

I point at his backpack to get his attention off me and back onto the interview. “Show me what products you brought to impress Mr. Foley. You saw mine. It's only fair.”

He takes the bag into his lap and holds on tight as he stands and heads back to the receptionist's desk. “It's not my fault that you dropped your stuff. I can't—
won't
—show you what's in this bag. Sorry.”

“Always
sorry
, aren't you?
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry
,” I tease, meeting his gaze.

Whatever I've said has made Gray's face turn bright red. He quickly turns away.

This is a good thing because after all this concentrated
progress
, I'm getting hit with a major wave of dizziness. I dig my hands into the couch to hold myself steady and try to evaluate if the feeling is still the butterfly thing—or if it's coming directly from
me, myself
and
messed up I.

It only takes a second to realize it's the latter. I've become so dizzy, I feel as though I might faint. The Red Bulls have worn off and it's going to be awhile before I can catch a nap. Exhaustion and the fog that comes with it settles in, adding to my light-headedness.

Gray Porter as my opponent is replaced by the need to win against a bigger villain: my body's endless craving for sleep.

A low pounding swells inside my head. Great. Crashing with an audience is never good.

“You look sort of pale.” He sounds far away like he's speaking through water.

“Small headache, no thanks to you and the lump,” I quip, rubbing my temples and trying to breathe deeply. I don't want him to realize I'm at a weak point so I strive to keep the conversation going. “You're right though…it's not your fault I dropped my stuff…it's mine. Totally my fault.”

I hear him pacing the far side of the room. I scan the ceiling, find the air conditioning vent and scoot under it before he can turn back. Cold air always helps. After a few moments I'm freezing, but I can process again. I pinch my sides as hard as I can, a tactic that will work for a while. Unfortunately, even under an icy blast, couches have a way of becoming too comfortable when I feel like this. The sleep demon wants a deposit. There's no way I can beat it much longer.

I close my eyes and pray I can think of a plan.

Pray harder for Mr. Foley to hurry.

Chapter Four

Gray

I lean against the receptionist's desk and take in Jess's closed eyes, crossed arms and drastically changed, pale face. She's doing some sort of strange yoga-type breathing. I wonder if the lump on her head is worse than she says. Maybe she has a full-on concussion?

I'm convinced she doesn't remember me.

Not at all. I would venture a guess that she's better. No nervous breakdown so far. The girl seems perfectly normal. Prickly yes—but she's also smart, funny and, yeah, as normal as I am. She gave no sign that she knew anything about me beyond my name. And hell, I was surprised to learn she knew that.

I spot some papers lodged behind the large potted tree near the door. I wander over to investigate if they're hers.

Dead on. It's a pile of school transcripts and some copies of her résumé. I read through her endless list of accomplishments.

“Why are you here for this job?” I ask softly.

“Please. This internship is perfect for me and you know it. I've been on the interview list since junior year.” She opens her eyes and hits me with a serious, cold stare. “Did your parents get you a last minute interview? You weren't on the list I saw.”

I think she's trying to be mean and make me nervous, but the sassiness she'd had earlier is missing from her voice. It's like the fight's gone out of her.

The fight's gone out of me too. So I tell her the truth. “My parents are dead. I live with my grandmother. My college advisor made some phone calls and got me in last minute.”

Her eyes widen. “Holy. Guess it's my turn for sorry. Truly—I didn't know.”

“It happened when I was a baby. I only remember Gran as my mom, so…yeah. It's just…my life, you know? No need to apologize for what's been great.” I flop down on the couch beside her. “I need this internship so my grandmother won't have to pay my college tuition. Job pays $8K total for only a few weeks work. I'm also hoping Geekstuff.com will allow me to work during the holidays and weekends next year. I can save a ton if I get started this summer. Plus, they have an amazing scholarship to School of Mines.”

“Oh? Cool. My Dad works there,” she says, pushing her face toward the vent in the ceiling. “Hmmm. $8K, huh? I forgot about the money. I'd work here for free if they'd let me.”

“I'm all about the money. Can't afford to forget that so…” I pause, fascinated with the way the vent's blowing blonde wispy curls around her temples.

“So—what?” She quirks a brow, shooting me a weird glance.

“So—no matter how great your geeky outfit looks, and despite your Star Wars lore, your awesome bumper stickers, and your flipping
perfect
résumé, I have to roll the dice. Just in case. No hard feelings, okay?”

“You liked the bumper stickers? I thought you hated them.” She smiles, and then frowns. “How do you know what's on my résumé?” Her blue eyes widen as she realizes what I'm holding.

I wave the pages and smile. “If I didn't witness your entry, I'd accuse you of planting these babies as an alternate, sneaky way to impress any staff members you didn't meet in person.” I hand her the transcripts and one of the résumés, then I move down the length of the couch away from her. “You raised goats for 4-H?”

“When I was ten.” She stuffs the papers into her bag and comes after me. “Stop reading. It's private information.”

“You took the time to make copies so you must want someone else to have a look.” I hand her another paper and read the next. “I think you should be the one to bow out of this place. Now that you know my poverty stricken, orphaned truth, how can you not let me have this job?” I plead, trying to look pitiful.

She rolls her eyes. “Please. You said it yourself that you weren't suffering one bit.”

I shrug. “Don't you have some sort of beach cottage or mountain condo retreat you need to visit all summer? If your dad works at Mines, you already have a full ride scholarship to at least one top school by default. With your grades, I bet you've already been accepted to a ton of places. If not, you can get in anywhere because of your family's future ‘charitable donations’.”

“How dare you assume things like that about me?”

“Why not? Everyone knows your grandfather is The Edwin Donovan. His brewery employs half the county. It's clear that your family bank account is doing way better than mine.”

“Rude, much? You have no right to bring up my family and our finances.”

Her eyes are shooting sparks again but she's wincing like her headache is worse, so I tone it down. “I'm just trying to list the facts between us.” I shrug again. “My need is obviously greater than yours.”

“That's bull. My need is just as huge. I want this job because it's going to get me the letters of recommendation I
need
to go Ivy League. Sue me for having goals. Plus, this place will make me look very well rounded.” She flushes. “And I'm having trouble with that at school because all my stuff is academic. No teams—no social clubs.”

She corners me on the edge of the couch and holds out her hand. Suddenly, all I can notice is how very well rounded she is, and worse, I realize she still smells like cinnamon and sunshine. Just like she did three years ago.

“Give. Those. Back.”

I pass off a few more résumés and jet away from her and that cinnamon smell, reserving the last paper in my hand so I can finish reading it. “Whoa—hello. What's this?” I mumble, staring at the paper. “Jess Jordan's
How to be Normal Checklist
, by Kika Jordan? Who's Kika?” I laugh.

The way her face has turned whiter than the ice at the sports complex, I think this paper is no joke.

“Kika's my little sister. Hand that over!”

Do the right thing. Like she said, this is private information. None of my business.

Only, it could possibly be my business.

Indirectly. Not her fault…not mine…

Jess's eyes have turned wild, exposed. “She made the list for me—as a
joke
. It's revenge. Last week I made her one on personal hygiene called:
How NOT to Repel All Mankind
.”

I smile as Jess makes a leap for the list, but I sidestep her easily. The top of her head doesn't reach my shoulder. The only way she can get to this paper is if she tries to climb me. I'm confident she's not about to go there.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please don't…”

Her anguished tone causes my heart to twist. I almost relent; but suddenly, facing this girl—I feel like I'm no longer myself.

The fact that I didn't drive away when I spotted her car proves it.

The fact that I sought her out and willingly broke the promise I made to her parents proves it again.

The fact that I'm still here when I should probably walk away and never look back solidifies it. This must be what it's like to wake up and discover you've become a drug addict overnight. I'm so high and out of control right now, I can't stop myself.

High on curiosity. On Jess Jordan's voice. My need for more information has become unquenchable, unstoppable.

Now that I'm certain she doesn't remember me, I want to know
her.
The real her.

Not the odd-ball-super-bitch everyone thinks she is, but the girl in front of me now. The one with a headache that takes the color out of her cheeks. The girl who likes Clone Wars art, and defends block-buster romances. The girl who I swear hid a few smiles from me earlier.

The girl whose same ‘
please
’ and haunted blue eyes have tormented me for three years.

Relentlessly, I read on: “Number one: Make at least two friends your own age. Number two: Go places besides your room. Number three: Get boyfriend. Number four: Make sure Mom and Dad notice numbers one through three.”

I lower my hand.

“You suck,” she says, crumpling the list as she turns her back on me. Her narrow shoulders heave as though she either can't breathe or she might cry—or both.

“Your list—it's real, isn't it?” I press. “It's why you really need this job.”

She's stalked to the coffee table where she left her bag and stuffs the list inside. “So what if the list is real? I'm sick, okay? Not cancer or anything extreme. Sick here.” She taps her temple with one finger and meets my gaze dead on. “Permanently messed up.” She shrugs. “The parents are tracking my lack of social life. Something you wouldn't understand. This internship is going to get me what I
need
in order prove to my parents that I can do normal things like survive a summer job. If I can't pull it off, they won't let me move out and go to college. Happy? Now you've seen the proof. I need the job more than you. So—how about you do me a favor and step out like I've been asking all along?”