Coming Up for Air Page 6

  “No, you’re right. But you could look more like…a girl?” Becca pipes in as she leans against my dresser, watching me in the mirror.

  Remy swallows a laugh, and I give her a nasty look in return.

  Nerves fire in my gut. “What if I don’t feel like looking like a girl?”

  Remy and Becca always gang up on me about clothes. They have since we were little, back before her family moved and Becca still lived down the street. It’s just that I’m most comfortable in boyfriend jeans and flats. My only kind of girly tendency is my nail polish—but usually black—and I guess I have an affinity for rings. I like the way they click against my camera.

  I check back in with the mirror. All right, so the outfit isn’t exactly trendy. But it can’t be that bad. I look at Remy’s face, which is all but saying It can and it is.

  I’m not going to win this argument. All day, I’ve just been getting more and more nervous, and standing here, being critiqued, puts me over the edge. I collapse backward onto my bed. “Maybe I should just cancel.”

  “What?” my sister and best friend ask in unison.

  Remy shakes her head. “Hads, I know how excited you are. At breakfast, you were smiling at your eggs.”

  Shit. If Remy knows I’m into him, she’ll be like a dog with a bone. And I don’t want to have to answer to her; I’m confused enough answering to myself.

  But she’s right. All morning, I kept picturing Braden walking through our front door, and it made me feel like I might explode into a cloud of butterflies. Which, if you ask me, might be a good enough reason on its own to cancel.

  “You’re the one who said he was an asshole, Rem. And I’m not even sure if I like him. It’s possible I hate his guts.” I think I’m really trying to convince myself more, not her.

  Becca rolls her eyes. “You clearly don’t hate his guts.”

  Remy jumps in. “And it sounds like I got some details wrong. Plus, I should have known that if Wyatt didn’t like him, that was good news.” But then her expression turns serious. She sits down next to me. “Look, I think I know what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing, Rem?” I ask in a voice snottier than I mean to use. She glares at me. “Sorry,” I grumble.

  She considers me carefully. “I think you might actually like him, and that freaks you out. And we’ve seen my track record.” She laughs. “I get why you’d want to be smarter than me.”

  “I don’t think I’m smarter than you.”

  Except maybe I do, at least about guys.

  Or at least, I used to.

  Remy looks at me doubtfully. “I’m not mad about it, all right? I sort of get it, even if I don’t agree. We can be different.” She puts up a hand, as if she knows I’m going to object. “And I know I give you a hard time. And it’s not necessarily bad that you’re careful. I just don’t want you to be careful for the wrong reasons, you know?”

  “Not really,” I say, irritated. Remy steals a glance at Becca, and I snip at them. “If you guys are going to talk about me, you should at least do it out loud.”

  Becca takes over, her voice gentle. “Sorry, Hads. We’re not trying to talk about you….Okay, I won’t speak for Remy, but I’m glad you went out with Noah. Glad you put yourself out there. And just because you guys broke up, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ever try again.”

  “Exactly.” Remy sits up. “And I get it too. After Mom, that scare…the idea of losing somebody—it’s really hard. More real, I guess.”

  “What? Who said anything about Mom?” I look around, afraid she might’ve heard. I don’t want Mom to think she messed me up or something. Because she didn’t. And she’s fine. All of that’s behind us.

  “Hadley, I just…It’s okay to not be perfectly cautious sometimes. I know you don’t exactly subscribe to this, but if Mom’s stuff taught me anything, it’s that life is short. You’re seventeen. You like a guy—”

  “I might not like him!” I protest.

  Amused, she repeats, “You like him. Go out with him, at least this one time. The world will not end. I promise. And then, if you decide you don’t want it to go any further, that’s cool too. It doesn’t have to change your whole focusing-on-school thing.”

  “Remy, can you, just for once, not act like my therapist and be my sister?”

  “Tough love, Hads. It’s important. Plus, a therapist would be too nice. You totally need me.”

  And even though it’s the last thing I want to do, a laugh fights its way out of me. “A therapist would definitely be nicer,” I confirm.

  And with that, the energy in the room relaxes. The way it normally is between her and me.

  I look between my sister and best friend. “Okay, well, if the world does end, I’m holding you two responsible.”

  “Deal.” Remy looks satisfied. “All right, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s see a new outfit.”

  I shake my head. “I give up. This is, like, the fifth option I’ve shown you guys. Just pick something. As long as it doesn’t involve glitter, I’ll wear it.”

  Becca makes a happy, high-pitched noise and goes to my closet. Remy opens my underwear drawer.

  “Um, Rem, aren’t you supposed to be, you know, anti-underwear exposure? Like, in general, but especially the first time Braden and I are hanging out?”

  She smirks. “Well, Hads, he did show you his. Isn’t it your turn?”

  “Remy! I am literally never telling you anything again.”

  Becca’s laughter fills my bedroom. “In Hadley’s defense, it wasn’t technically his underwear….”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was even smaller,” she finishes wickedly.

  They cackle.

  “It’s official. I hate you both.”

  Mom approaches, hovering at my doorway. “How’s it going in here? We’re getting close to pick-up time, aren’t we?”

  Excitement and terror tangle in my chest. “If everybody keeps making a big deal out of this, I swear, I’m going to—”

  Mom laughs, shaking her head. “He must be really cute.”

  I look up, pained. “He is.”

  Becca and Remy jerk their attention back to me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” they insist.

  “Remy, for real, can you stop digging through there?”

  “No, look, I was going to explain. I’m just trying to find something that matches. And it isn’t for him—it’s for you. Confidence starts with your first layer.”

  I’m as red as a tomato. I try to make my face communicate a whole sentence: Can we not talk about this?

  But then Mom says, “I always make sure I match when I have a big case.”

  I look at her, betrayed. “You too? Really?”

  “Sorry, honey.”

  Becca plugs in Remy’s curling iron and calls me over to sit in front of the full-length mirror. Then she moves behind me and selects a strand to curl while I fidget with my rings. Becca eyes me and then looks to Mom. “So, Mia, any interesting cases lately?”

  Mom sighs. “Well, I’m helping this twentysomething woman fight for full custody of her kids. The dad is an abusive mess. Honestly, it’s heartbreaking.” She turns, and her face is resolved. “But I’m going to win.”

  “Good,” Becca and I say in unison. Then we look at each other and laugh. It’s a relief to expel some of my nerves. I know Becca changed the subject so I could have a minute out of the spotlight, and it makes me swell with gratitude.

  Becca pulls a hand through my hair. “I don’t understand why women would get involved with guys like that.”

  Mom breathes out. “It can be complicated.”

  “Sounds simple to me: leave,” I comment, twisting my thumb ring.

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Mom looks to Becca and Rem
y. “Both of you too?”

  “Absolutely,” Becca replies.

  “Of course, Mom.” Remy sounds exasperated as she digs through my clothes.

  After a brief silence, Mom says, “Hey, Hadley, you know if you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight”—she looks at Becca and Remy again—“if it’s not just nerves, if it’s something else, you don’t have to go.”

  “Oh.” I shake my head. “No, Mom. It’s nothing. I want to go.” I’m biting my stupid smile into my mouth, and my cheeks are pink in the mirror, and I’m considering hiding under my bed, but I can’t stand the idea of Mom worrying about me like that. “I…He’s— I don’t know. I want to go.”

  She looks at me, knowingly. “Okay.”

  Remy and Becca are also looking at me closely now. The butterflies spread, taking over my insides entirely. “Will you guys stop it already? Any outfit updates over there?” I ask Remy.

  “Not really. Although you do have three different Buffy T-shirts.” Mom is the only one who finds this amusing; Becca loves Buffy almost as much as I do. Remy stops rifling through my clothes. “I’m not sure what I’m even doing in here. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  A beat later, she reenters my room with a cropped olive-colored sweater in her hands.

  She holds it up. “Option one: it would show a little bit of skin, since it’s off the shoulder, but it’s still completely weather appropriate and not too much.”

  “Love it.” Becca nods.

  I’m shocked. “I actually do too.”

  Remy beams. “Perfect. But also, if you stain it, you will literally have hell to pay.”

  “What a new and totally unexpected threat.”

  Remy rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m letting you borrow it at all. Mom, can you grab her those jeans too?”

  Mom tosses them over.

  After Becca finishes my hair, I take the clothes and get changed.

  When I step in front of the mirror, Becca lets out a happy sigh. “So much better.”

  And as much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. Long, beachy waves fall to the lowest part of my rib cage. The sweater is fitted and hangs off my shoulders slightly. And the cropped jeans make me feel like myself; they’re loose and high-rise, and go surprisingly well with Remy’s top. I look like a more put-together version of myself.

  Remy leans against the wall. “Not bad.”

  Suddenly the doorbell rings. The bottom of my stomach drops out. I look at three of my favorite people, panicked. “He came to the freaking door? Do guys usually come to the door? Why didn’t he text?” I can hear how frantic I sound. It’s like I’ve never done this before.

  I check my phone; it’s three minutes after eight. No new messages.

  Remy’s voice is calm, steadying. “Hadley, it’s fine.” She hands me my high-heeled black booties. “Wear these. I don’t want to hear it. You are not wearing those Keds.”

  Mom looks me over one more time and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going down there before your dad does any permanent damage.”

  I slip on the sneakers. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it as myself.”

  It’s just pizza, just one date.

  And if it doesn’t go well, I never have to see Braden Roberts again.

  Braden is standing in the foyer talking to my parents, strikingly at ease. Like making-Mom-laugh-level at ease. If Mom is charmed by him, I will never, ever hear the end of it. I hope she’s just being polite.

  I take a closer look. Braden’s in that same leather jacket, with the collar up, and underneath it, he’s wearing a black V-neck sweater, with dark jeans, and his Nikes. His hair is pushed back, and his hands are in his jean pockets.

  He looks even better than I expected.

  His eyes follow me down the last two stairs. “Hey, Hadley,” he says, like he didn’t just learn my name days ago. “I was just telling your parents how you saved me at the meet last week.”

  All at once, I feel both my parents direct their attention toward me. “I’m a regular Supergirl, I guess.” I give Braden a look. “You ready to go?” I ask as I open the door. I want to get out of here. I’m nervous enough without an audience.

  Braden takes the hint and quickly says goodbye. Even from outside, I hear Mom’s peppy “Nice to meet you! Bye, Hadley!” It’s her I-want-details-later voice. No chance.

  When the door finally clicks shut, I look at him. “You came inside? To meet my parents?”

  He shrugs, looking down at me with amusement on his face.

  “Did you not want me to come in? Are your parents strict or something?”

  “No, definitely not. It’s fine, I just…” I trail off and then look up at his face. “Hi,” my mouth says without my permission, and I feel my insides melt. What the hell? I curse myself.

  “Hi.” He barely furrows a brow. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Totally.” I can do this. Without making a fool of myself.

  We’re quiet for a minute, still standing on the doorstep, when he nods in the direction of his car, a black sedan parked behind Becca’s. “Let’s go?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  We walk in silence. I take deep pulls of the cool night air, avoiding piles of damp, fallen leaves as we walk. He unlocks his car, and we get in.

  The quiet remains.

  He doesn’t even have the radio on.

  I wait for him to say something.

  He doesn’t.

  I try to think of something to say.

  I can’t.

  Braden looks relaxed. How can he possibly feel at ease right now? I can feel my nervous energy practically bouncing around the car.

  I let the big, bulking quiet stretch on as he adjusts the heat, then I notice his auxiliary cord. “Hey, is it cool if I plug my phone in with that? Ty sent me a new playlist today—it’s a thing he does when he finds stuff I might like. We could check it out?”

  He pulls the gearshift into drive. “Sure, go for it.”

  I haven’t heard of the first song, but I trust Tyler’s taste. A slow beat fills the car, and I’m too nervous to pay much attention.

  Braden’s voice breaks up the nervous chatter in my head. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on with you and him?”

  “What?”

  His eyes spark. “This song is about a guy who thinks he’s called dibs on a girl.” He looks over at me. “But she’s with somebody else.”

  “What? No. It’s not like that. And Ty would never call dibs on a girl anyway.”

  “No?”

  “Girls aren’t like a front seat. You can’t call us.”

  He laughs. “Don’t look at me; it’s not my playlist.”

  “This is just one of his favorite bands.”

  But Braden doesn’t answer and instead gestures for me to listen. And now the lyrics are making my skin feel itchy and uncomfortable. I skip the rest of the song and move on to the next.

  Braden chuckles, and I quickly reply, “Shut up. I’m not saying you’re right. It’s just too slow.”

  “Whatever, it’s cool. I like a little friendly competition.” I have literally no idea how to answer that, so I don’t. We’re quiet for a moment before he changes the subject. “Hey, about before, coming into the house. I was just trying to be polite. I’m sorry if it was weird.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to clarify my feelings. “No, it’s fine. I just have this thing. I don’t know how to explain it. I kind of…don’t like official stuff? It makes me…uncomfortable.”

  Was that even coherent? What I should probably say is that I don’t like how out of my comfort zone I am. That I’m sort of freaking; that my best friend and sister seem to think they know why, but I’m still trying to s
ort it out. And that I want to get rid of the feeling that a million different expectations are floating between us. Mostly, I just want to downplay the whole thing so I can relax.

  Braden gives me a confused look. “You mean because I’m taking you out?”

  And you make me feel too many confusing things. “Just getting my parents involved…It’s a whole scene. Which makes it way harder to pretend that this is all just a normal thing. You know, not a big deal?”

  My mouth has fully run off on its own, making nonsense excuses.

  He stops at a red light and turns to look at me. “You want it to be no big deal?”

  “I guess so, yeah.” I meet his eye and hardly register that the light shining on his face changes from red to green. For just a second, he doesn’t move. When he finally turns back to the road, I exhale slowly.

  My thoughts race, but he interrupts them. “Do you just mean how a first date is a little…” He’s looking for a word. “I don’t know…forced? Kind of weird?”

  I sink in my seat with relief that he understood at least part of my concerns. “Exactly.”

  “Well, if you want, we can pretend we’ve done this before.”

  “What?”

  “If the whole Official First Date thing freaks you out, we could skip it.”

  “We can just do that?”

  “We can do whatever we want. It’s our date. What number feels less…pressure-y? Three? Five? Eight?”

  “People go on eighth dates?”

  “They probably just call it dinner at that point.”

  I watch his hands slide across the steering wheel as he makes a left turn. He has long fingers and short, clean nails. And despite the fact that I planned on going on no dates, now or in the near future, I’m surprised to find that this idea actually does ease my nerves. “Eight sounds like too many—how about five?”

  “All right, fifth date it is.” He pauses for a quick, cocky smile. “Man, you must be into me to go out with me five times.”

  I shoot back, “We could make it zero, instead.” My voice sounds scolding, teasing, and it’s the most I’ve felt like myself since he picked me up.

  It’s almost as if he’s watching my personality slide back into place. “I’m kidding. Just kidding,” he assures me.