Almost (6 page)

“Jesus. You're completely serious.” I swallow.

“Go ahead. Laugh. I'm sure you can get days of amusement off this info at school.” She crosses her arms. Instead of looking brave or comically defensive like she had earlier, I get the feeling she needs to hold herself up. Like she's not okay, and it's got nothing to do with me.

“What do you have—what makes you sick…or whatever?” I ask softly, wondering how far she'll go on details.

“Please. I'm not going to give you more ammunition to hand to your gossipy friends.”

“I wouldn't tell. I'm not like that.”

She shakes her head and looks away. “Everyone's like that.”

“Right.” I don't push her again because my conscience has caught up. My friends would have a field day with her list. I've already gone too far. Besides, I know her diagnosis:
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
. Those are the exact words her Mom told me years ago. I'm no expert, but PTSD is what war veterans have after battle—and accident survivors—and crime victims too. I thought PTSD made people shout and lose it when provoked. I'd been provoking Jess since I'd slammed into her car.

If she's admitting she's still sick that means I do suck. My chest tightens. I can't swallow as I take in how her shoulders are still trembling—how she doesn't want me to notice that they are.

Foul on me for being the world's biggest jerk to the one girl who doesn't deserve anything but absolute kindness—especially from the one person that knows her real deal. By reading that list I'd torn off her face mask and shot for the goal well after the whistle had been blown.

She turns to face me and I try my best to apologize.

“Whatever you want to do—or say to me right now—hell, I deserve it, okay? I'm a complete asshole. You can even punch me, if you want. I'm not going to tell anyone about this—about you—the list—anything. It's a promise.”

Taking a deep breath, she notches her chin one inch higher. She shoots me a look that says she's not hurt, or insulted or shaking all over right in front of me. She wants me to think she doesn't care about what I've just done. The blatant vulnerability I'd seen disappears. The trembling in her arms and hands stops. The girl layers on another one of those ice-blue glowers, and fires out a wall of contempt. If I hadn't been staring directly at her the whole time—if the glower hadn't
exactly
matched the one she gave me from the cab of her Jeep, I might have missed it.

“Want to be my number three?” she asks, and raises both eyebrows up and down in a distracting offensive. And it works. I'm completely blindsided.

Humbled. Awed. She's got game face. Major. She's an expert at the cover-up.

After thousands of hockey games against formidable opponents, I realize I've taken Jess Jordan down, but no way is she out. More buckets of guilt and a fresh dose of self-loathing crash around me, almost bringing me to my knees.

She continues on, “What do you say, Porter? If I land the boyfriend on that list, I'm golden.” Her voice rings with reckless bravado. “You in?”

“Uh…no…no,” is all I can muster because I have no air left in my lungs.

“You don't have to look so disgusted at the idea.” She shrugs again, while my mind reels out of control. “I'm sure you have girl standards that I don't meet. Why rub that in with the bitter-lemon face?”

“I'm not making any faces. You're just—” I stop myself because I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound hurtful. And at all costs, I vow to never willingly hurt her again. Ever.

“Go on. Just what?” she demands. “Whatever you say won't shock me.” Her tone is now so obviously self-condemning I wince as she continues, “There's thousands of ways to finish. You think I haven't heard them? Try these: I'm
too bitchy
to be your girlfriend,
too ugly
,
too weird too crazy
,
too smart
?”

“I didn't mean that
I
wouldn't
have you
for a girlfriend,” I say gently, refusing to rise to her bait. “I meant someone else might. Girlfriends take up way too much time.”

She glances sideways through her lashes and I get the sensation she's studying my expressions. “What would my half of this job be worth to you? You said you want money. C'mon. I know there's a deal to be made here.”

I feel like I've just entered crazy land.

“There's no
half
. There's
one
job and I mean to get it. Frankly, you turning
normal
this summer seems to be way easier than me winning the lottery.”

“Can you be so sure you're going to get the internship?” she says, leaning closer.

“I'm almost sure,” I lie.

“The
whole
of this internship equals eight thousand dollars summer pay.” She reaches into her bag to pull out the crumpled
normal list
and hands it back to me. “I offer to work it for free, and you agree to be my fake boyfriend for the duration of the summer. How hard could it be? We'll keep it light. We won't have to use your real name. If you're fictional, then you won't have a family that my parents need to meet. I just need someone to pick me up in a car once in awhile and—”

“No. Stop. Absolutely not.”

“
Yes!
It's perfect and you know it. I get the
normal
, you get the money, we both get the letters of recommendation. Plus, Mr. Foley gets two interns for the price of one. Say yes.” She blinks.

“Impossible.” I blink back. “You—you have no idea what you're asking me. I'm really busy,” I beg, hoping she will believe this is all about me—not her. “I work another job—at the sports complex, and I take care of my grandmother. No. Too complicated.”

I stand and pace the length of the room re-reading the items on her list. Even if I did agree, how would I be able to hide my identity from her pit-bull parents? If they ever found out they'd skewer me. Hell…I have to admit…she's right. It's a good idea. Could we pull it off if she doesn't use my real name? I rake my hands through my hair. “No. No. It's insane. It's impossible.”

I look back. She's crossed her arms and is tapping her ugly shoe on the carpet.

“You're doing it again,” she says.

“What?”

“You're turning all pasty and greenish. And you're muttering to yourself again. Can't you at least hide your complete aversion to me? A few more minutes in your company and I might as well go tie myself to a train track.”

“Don't say that. Don't even joke about it! The idea of ten weeks with a single, locked-down girlfriend—even the fake kind—gives me all over body hives. Sue me for making a face about
that
. I don't think you've thought any of this through. It would involve all of our friends, parents—even if we don't use my real name—text messaging, emails—and a lot of time. Time is something I don't have to burn. Plus, it would kill the variety of…of…yeah…
girl fun
in my summer,” I imply, wondering if she'll call my bluff. The only real summer varieties I score are the extra odd jobs I pick up at the rink.

She turns bright red and I have to hide my smile.

“Disgusting,” she snorts and reverts back to rubbing her temples. “But, if I can't convince you, then maybe you could put in a good word with one of your friends? One who isn't such a boy whore like you?”

“What?” I gasp. Amazed. She's hit me in the gut all over again. “If…if I say
no
, you—you—mean to ask
someone else
? Are you completely mental?”

“I thought we'd covered that topic. Are you completely slow? YES. I'm mental. This is why I have a list called ‘how to be normal'.”

My heart twists because I think she truly believes that. “You'll be destroyed by gossip. Approaching anyone else would be social suicide. You can not tell anyone else this plan!”

She grimaces. “Would you stop yelling? My head split in half five minutes ago. No need to drain out what's left. Besides, I'm way beyond worrying about gossip that's applied to me. I'm sure I could find someone who would take $8K to
pretend date
me this summer.”

When I meet her gaze, I can tell she's in major pain but I'm almost sure it's got nothing to do with the bump on her head like she's been swearing.

I take in a deep breath, and slowly return to sit beside her on the couch. “Why don't you just try to get a boyfriend the usual way? You know…meet people. Talk. Be nice? Save your money,” I whisper.

“I don't… I can't…” She whispers back, not meeting my gaze. “I'm not like that. You wouldn't understand.”

But I do understand. And I hate that I do.

Before she can say more, Mr. Foley is back in the room. “Okay! Problem solved. Who's first?” He nods at me. “Ready, Mr. Porter? I can't wait to see your product ideas.”

“Ready.” I hand Jess the list and stand.

I make the mistake of giving her one last glance. I sort of expect to see her about to cry, but she surprises me again. Her expression has turned defiant, challenging. I'm pretty sure she's shooting me a bright blue, F-U with those big, closed-off eyes.

My hockey-puck samples clump against my back when I sling my pack over one shoulder. I can hardly breathe.

I can't walk away from Jess now that she's
asked
me for help directly.

Plus, I'm well aware my bag is full of crap. If it comes down to product samples, she's going to win. She believes I'm about to steal the internship from her, but after seeing those bumper stickers I know
I'm
the long shot. As soon as Mr. Foley compares my half-page résumé boasting a lame assistant-coach job plus snack-bar expertise to what Jess has typed on hers, I'm dead.

As I move to follow Mr. Foley, she pulls out her bumper stickers.

She flashes me the top ones:
Boys in Books are Better…Boys in Books are Better.

Crap!
It's partly my fault Jess Jordan believes that damn bumper sticker is true.

“Sir,” I call out to Mr. Foley before I can change my mind. “How about you interview us together.”

Jess's mask slips. She meets my gaze and her eyes are so alight with hope, relief and trust that I'm sure I've done the right thing.

But then she shoots out of her seat and stands too close to me. “Do you mean it?” she whispers.

I nod, and she smiles. I'm overcome with thoughts of cinnamon-sunshine and how much I like this very
real
smile—so different than the ones she'd been faking all morning.

“Thanks.” She latches on to my arm as though she's scared to let go. “This is going to be awesome. You won't be sorry.”

I want to shout:
I'm already sorry. I've been sorry for three years!

Instead I smile and say, “Yeah. We'll work out details at school. Monday.”

She nods again. Her small hand trembles against my arm. Her fingers seem really fragile—with nails that have been chewed down to nothing.

Maybe this is absolute wrong thing to do. Crap. Crap. And Crap! What have I agreed to?

It's not like I can take it back now. She'd told me she was going to hire
someone else
if I didn't sign on. I couldn't let that happen. And dammit I need this job.

I vow to just watch over her. Make sure she's okay. Make sure she doesn't get hurt any more, even by herself and her strange ideas. Hell, I've been watching over Jess Jordan for three years in secret already. She doesn't remember me, so what harm can come from trying to be her friend?

“What's the idea?” Mr. Foley asks, retracing his steps down the hall.

Jess pipes in, “If you agree, Mr. Foley, we have a way you could hire us both, but only pay one salary.”

Mr. Foley raises his salt-and-pepper brows high above his glasses and smiles. “I'm listening.”

Chapter Five

Jess

Footsteps on the hall floorboards bring me fully awake and thankfully they stop my nightmare. My heart's racing. I'm covered in sweat but hopefully I can recover myself in time.

The clock blinks 2AM from the far side of the room as the footsteps draw nearer.

As happy as I am my torture has been derailed, my heart fills with dread. If someone's prowling this side of the house past midnight, I must have just ruined months of hard work by crying out in my sleep.

My fault for risking it, but the bed had looked so comfortable. I'd only meant to stretch out for a minute, but I'd been so tired after the interview I must have drifted off.

I bite my lip and hold quiet. I can tell by the pace that the person lurking is my mom. She's not going to stop until she checks on me. I force my sleep-heavy limbs to move off the bed. Comforter in tow, I make a break for the desk and wipe the tears from my cheeks and eyes while I quickly run a hand over my keyboard. The laptop surges to life just in time, illuminating the far corner of the room as she opens the door without even knocking.