Don’t be suspicious.
“I’m sure you have at least one friend who’d be a good match for Clarity,” Kristen tells Vincent.
Vincent eyes her before glancing at me, the arch in his brow doubtful. “Um… I guess, but, I mean, what about that guy?” Vincent looks at me, as if I know who the heck he’s talking about.
“What guy?”
“That church dude.”
I open my mouth to object, but instead, all the air leaves my body. “Kris?” I manage to choke out.
“His name isJameson,” she corrects.
“Kris!”I gasp. “That wasprivate.” Despite the fact that Vincent knows about Jameson, I still lean forward and whisper the last part.
Shepffts—actuallypffts at me—and waves a hand as if she can douse my disbelief into the wind. “It’s no big deal, I just mentioned it to Vincent. Plus, Jameson doesn’t even go here.”
Then she turns to Vincent, telling him that Jameson and I didn’t happen over the summer after all.
Breathe.
I was preparing to tell her about Hannah, to come out to her. My biggest secret ever. She couldn’t keep something as simple and sacred as a crush…
Just mentioned it to Vincent.As ifIthinkhe’strustworthy.
The room shrinks around the realization that I was a few hours away from making a catastrophic mistake.
“I’m going to get some napkins.” I stand up, part of me wishing I could leave school and never come back.
I speed walk across the cafeteria. At the condiment and cutlery station, I savor the space, inhaling a deep breath even though it stinks of overcooked pizza and lunch meat.
“You good?”
There really is no escape.
“I’m fine,” I squeak out, forcing a smile.
Hannah is unconvinced and sets her tray down on the counter.
“You don’t look fine.”
I hate that the sound of her voice is as soothing as a sip of hot tea in the bitter cold. I hate that she cares. I hate that I like that she cares.
I wish I could blurt out,Yes, I want to be in a relationship with you. But that’s part of the problem: I don’t think clearly when I’m around her.
“I’m fine, okay?” I snap, instantly regretting it. “I mean, I’m just… I am—”
“Overwhelmed?” she asks, amusement sparking in her eyes.
Her ease calms my nerves a little more.
I grab a cluster of napkins from the dispenser, resisting the urge to tear them into tiny pieces.
I could talk to her.
“Later,” I say, more for myself than her, but it works.
How am I ever going to survive senior year?