Twelve
Kristmas
I’ve never been popular.
Let me rephrase that: I’ve never wanted to be popular. It’s too much work and I just don’t give enough fucks about what people think of me to maintain the façade. I like pizza and French fries. I like pigging out on junk food and watching cheesy horror flicks. I like vintage bowling shirts and ripped jeans. Ponytails and not giving a shit. I like who I am and I’m not willing to give that up just to fit in.
But, thanks to Mad I’m what I consider popular by association. Mad is popular. Gorgeous. Smart. Charismatic. People like him. More than like him. They worship him. Guys want to be him and girls want to do him. They also know we’re friends—or were friends. More than friends since our parents got married.
You mean more than friends now that you woke up in his bed and randomly decided that it was a good idea to give him a hand job in the middle of the night?
I don’t know what Mad and I are anymore. Last night just added a new layer of confusion neither of us needs. A complication neither of us are equipped to deal with. It’s better to forget it even happened.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
The way he looked at me when I touched him. How badly I wanted him to kiss me. How right it felt lying next to him. How beautiful he looked when he came.
“Whaddya thinking about?”
My head snaps up from the salad I’m pretending to eat, the dull roar of the cafeteria coming back online in a rush.
Mad is sitting right in front of me, on the other side of the cafeteria table, lunch tray in front of him like he’s exactly where he belongs.
“What are you doing?” I take a fast look around. People are looking at us—but to be honest, they’re probably just looking at Mad. It happens a lot. People like to look at him. “I thought we agreed—”
“I didn’t agree to shit,” he says, giving a shrug. “You’d know that if you’d bothered to stick around this morning.”
“Okay, fine—” I drop my spork into my plastic container of baby greens and push the whole thing across the table. My mother insists on salads for lunch. I’d kill for the pile of fries on Mad’s lunch tray. “What do you want?”
“I already told you.” He shoves my salad container out of the way completely and angles his tray between us, putting his fries within reach. “I want to talk about it.”
It.
He has to say it because we’re in public and if people knew what it was, we’d at the top of Lindburg High’s gossip list. The whole fucking town would know by the time school was even over.
Did you hear and Maddox McAllister and Kristmas Cavanagh?
They’re hooking up.
Wonder if their parents know what’s going?
“Here?” I look around the crowded cafeteria before giving him an are you fucking nuts look. “You want to talk about it here?”
“Well,” he says, giving me a shrug. “You didn’t want to talk about it in my truck so—”
“Because there’s nothing left to talk about.” I shake my head. “I already told you what we’re going to do about it.”
Nothing. We’re going to do nothing.
We’re going to pretend it never happened.
And even though I say it, even though, I tell myself that’s what I want, just the thought of it makes me want to cry.
“Yeah…” he sits back in his seat and shakes his head. “That’s not gonna to work for me.”
I feel a full-body flush erupt, from head to toe. “What does that mean?”
Mad leans across the table, his height and size pushing him into my space in an instant. “It means I want—”
Before he can tell me what he wants, someone calls his name from across the cafeteria and he looks, his jaw going tight when he sees a few of his friends weaving between tables and people, headed straight for us. “Fuck.” He mutters it, throwing me a sideways glance. “We’re not finished.”
Yes we are but I don’t argue with him.
By the time they get to us, his jaw is relaxed and he’s managed to push an easy-going grin onto his face. He sits back in his chair again and gives them a chin jerk. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’ man…” The no-neck football player who is obviously second in command looks around the cafeteria like he’s been dropped on Mars. “What’re you doing in here?” Mad usually holds court in the quad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in the cafeteria before.
His brow furrows like it’s a stupid question. “Talking to Kris.”
“Oh.” No-neck looks at me like he’s just now realizing I’m sitting here. “Hey, Kris.”
“Hey.” I say it to No-neck’s ear while Mad’s easy-going grin loses some of its shine.
“We’re in the middle of something,” he says, jogging his head in my direction. “So—”
“Actually, we’re not.” I stand, dividing what I hope to God is a friendly smile evenly among the group. “He’s all yours, guys.”
Mad’s shoulders go tight and for one terrifying second I think he’s going to lunge across the table and grab me, be he doesn’t. He lets me go, but the way he’s looking at me lets me know it’s not going to be for long.