“To guess what? That you invited yourfriendto whatever ishappening across the street that—let’s be honest here—I could just drive up to and see if I wanted to, whether or not you want me there.”
“Why do you have to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“Pushingsohard,” I whine. “The plan—”
“Exactly, the plandidn’tinclude Maurice. And one of us has to push,” she says, the accusation leaving her tone. “You’re scared, and I get that. But before, you didn’t want to be together at all. Then we found a way. Why can’tthischange too?”
“Now just isn’t the right time,” I plead.
“When then? Are you just going to hide me from everyone, keep me locked away to stop anyone from ever even picturing us together?”
The words leave her mouth laced with desperation and disbelief, and I know they sound ridiculous. But the answer is yes. The best way to prevent anyone from piecing us together is to not even create the image for them to dissect in the first place. Maybe it is neurotic and controlling. But it makes sense. To me, at least. This is one of the few things that make sense, that feel safe.
“You can’t be serious.” Hannah deflates, taking my silence as a confirmation. “So, I’m just your little secret then? You’re ashamed of me.”
“I amnotashamed of you.” Shock makes my heart thunder. I squeeze her hand, but she slips hers out of mine and pulls away.
“Us being in a secret relationship is way different from me being your closet secret, Clarity—”
“I didn’t ask you to be in the closet—”
“You didn’t have to. A secret relationship is us doing something in secret, but together. You shoving me into the background of your life is something entirely different. That’s you pushing me into a place that I don’t deserve to be.”
“I’m not trying to do that, Hannah—”
“But you’re stilldoingit, even without trying,Clarity.”
Curled in on herself, Hannah looks so small. Her expression pinches—not into hurt, not anger, but something else. With her pointedly staring at her hands in her lap, twisting a bracelet around her wrist, I feel the wall rising between us again. She glances over at my lap, and I look down to see Kristen’s face lighting up my phone.
“You should go.”
She’s right, even though I know that’s not why she’s telling me to leave.
“This isn’t over,” I tell her as I get out of the car. She doesn’t understand how today is a good thing for us. And maybe she won’t see it until I get the results Kristen and I are banking on.
“Don’t I know it,” she huffs bitterly, not looking at me as I stand there with the passenger door open, waiting, before I close the door.
Chapter Thirty
By Monday morning, the dust has settled from my fight with Hannah, but the wreckage remains, smoldering in the back of my mind. We didn’t make up beyond Hannah accepting that the date happened, and we don’t have a time machine to change that.
The date itself was… just short of a disaster. I showed up late and completely missed Maurice’s performance. He spent the first ten minutes pretending I didn’t exist.Fair.But eventually, he eased up, and we actually talked. And talking turned… complicated. Because Maurice, the boy I’mfakedating, was looking at me like he wanted to be myrealboyfriend, despite my dry texts and unavailability.
At least the plan worked exactly how Kristen said it would. A couple girls pulled Kristen aside at the skate show to ask if Maurice and I were a thing. Kris happily got the rumor mill up and running, which means no one will look too hard at Hannah and me. Not when we chat by her locker, or when I walk her to practice after school, and especially not when we hang back after committee meetings to “go over some things.”
If Hannah and I hadn’t fought, the skate show would be a win. But she’s right that keeping her a secret is different from us being in a secret relationship together. And now, standing beside her locker, watching her rearrange books with practiced efficiency, I feel that unresolved portion of our fight like a door closing between us.
I clear my throat. “Do you have practice today?”
She glances at me, brow furrowed. “I have practice every day.”
I thrust a matcha latte at her and she takes it, eyeing me out of suspicion.
“It’s an apology latte,” I say, forcing myself to focus on her and not worry about the other students around us.
“An apology latte,” she repeats, pulling the lid off. Her shoulders fall slightly, relaxing when she sees the green foam. “Apologizing for…?”