If I Break THE COMPLETE SERIES Bundle (163 page)

But the waitress appears with a steaming pizza and sets it in front of us. “Large pizza with sausage, cheese, and extra pepperoni.”

“Thank you,” he says to her with an uncomfortable smile.

I can’t believe I just said that!

“Anything else?” she asks, and I glance from her to him.

“No, that’s all, thank you,” he says, and she smiles before leaving.

I can’t sit here with him, especially not with him and my aunt after I’ve completely embarrassed myself. I shoot up from my seat. “I’ve got to go.”

“Lisa, wait!” he calls.

I keep walking and barge out of the restaurant, letting out a deep breath.

“Lisa, what’s wrong?”

I forgot Aunt Dani was out here. I try to think of a reasonable excuse as quickly as I can. “Nothing. I started my period, and I don’t have any tampons. I’ve gotta go.” I give her a tight smile and quickly walk away from her.

“Hey, wait, I can go grab you something,” she says, looking confused.

“No, I’m fine. Have fun. I’ll see you back at home.” I walk frantically away.

“Hey, babe, you there?”

Brett’s voice wakes me from my daydream of the nightmare of events that happened earlier. I can’t believe I said that to
Mr. Scott
, and not just what I said. My voice sounded like a nymph’s in heat. I cringe just thinking about it.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I say, giving him an artificial smile.

He looks at me as if he doesn’t believe me. “It’s like you’re somewhere else.”

The crowd applauds as the performer finishes his piece. He was good. I would have enjoyed it more if I didn’t have so much on my mind.

“I’m fine.” I kiss his cheek and take his hand and squeeze it.

His smile is bright and real, unlike the ones I’ve been wearing all night. He lets go of my hand and put his arm around me. I close my eyes and try to feel
something.
I pray to feel anything but I don’t. Still, I rest in his arms. I zone in on his touch, how his fingers are caressing my arm. I should feel something! Brett is handsome and available. Our waitress comes over way too frequently, throwing him cutesy glances and carefully refilling his cup. He’s desired. He’s desirable, just not to me.

The next performer on stage is a redheaded girl. She’s really pretty with long hair that’s so red it has to be a dye job—a really good one, but no one’s hair can be that color without some type of aid.

“I think you’re going to like her. She’s really good,” Brett whispers in my ear.

She grabs the mic and clears her throat. “My name is Shelly, and I’ll be reading a poem I wrote titled ‘The Recipe of She.’”

The petite redhead takes a deep breath, and the small room of about thirty is quiet. I hope she does well. Most of the people who’ve performed here tonight have been singers and comedians. She’s the first one to read poetry, and I immediately connect to her. Poetry is different. It’s like baring a little part of your soul. I wish I could get up there and do what she’s doing. I can tell she’s changing, becoming what she’s about to speak.

“She’s just a girl, maybe not eighteen, nineteen, or twenty
they
think. She sits there, no longer a girl but a woman, the only woman noticed in the room.

Still the girl with a past. Who is she, they wonder, what has she done, how many hearts has she broken?

More than you’d think.

More than you could ever know.

That girl has a secret a secret that can only be told if you kiss her lips, slide your hands across the swivel of her hips.

Rocking- rocking faster and faster, the pleasure only leads to disaster. So many had to know, had to taste, had to see the recipe of she.

Who she is, what she knows, what she can give, but they give nothing in return, each time taking a peace of her soul, her energy goes and goes.

Until there’s nothing left, that recipe that they so wanted, her secret that they promised would never be told, and then they are done, that juicy news now old.

She’s just a girl, maybe a woman, she was noticed

Now no more.”

The quiet room bursts into applause. I stand, clapping excitedly. She smiles shyly, returning to who she was. The bold, vibrant presence she displayed as she read has evaporated back into her.

“Thank you,” she says before leaving the stage.

“That was amazing,” I tell Brett.

He smiles at me, and I hug him.

“I thought you’d like it. You can do that. You should do that,” he says, and I feel myself blush.

He remembered me mentioning I liked writing poetry. It was an offhand comment—I only mentioned it once—and maybe he notices all the writing I do in my journal before I rip up the pages and throw them away. He kisses me. It feels like a quick kiss but one that starts to linger, and though I don’t get butterflies, it’s nice. This time I don’t pull away.

It’s been two weeks since the disaster at the pizza shop and the poetry reading. Brett has grown on me. I still don’t have butterflies and just being around him doesn’t make me feel all warm inside, but he’s sweet and I enjoy being around him. He’s a good kisser, even if there’s nothing behind the kiss. I keep going back to the conversation I had with Aunt Dani, how she said that you don’t build a future based on lust, but that means that lust exists. If it does, why have I not felt it with anyone except Mr. Scott?

Brett asked me to go out with him…officially. It’s the first time I’ve ever been asked to be someone’s girlfriend. I’ve gone on a handful of dates, the normal amount for a teenager and maybe a little above average with my best friends being so popular. I’ve made out with some, refused to kiss others, but never, not once with any of those guys, did I feel what I feel when I’m around
Mr. Scott
. That means something, right? Or it means nothing. I like the idea of being Brett’s girlfriend, so I say yes, and afterwards I feel depressed and downright terrible.

His eyes see into my soul, or I fall into his. His voice wraps around me like a blanket when all else is cold. I don’t get his touch. It is too far and away…

I rip up the third piece of paper in my notebook. I have writer’s block…or Will block. Everything I write segues into being about him. Which is now starting to affect my grade in my creative writing class, and my math work hasn’t been stellar since I stopped seeing him for tutoring. I haven’t even been hanging out at Chris’s since I don’t want to see his dad.

“Hey, bestie!” Amanda whispers loudly, nearly scaring the crap out of me as she plops beside me in the library.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound chipper and not like the killjoy I’ve become.

“You writing something?”

I sigh. “It sucks.”

When she reaches for the crumpled paper, I try to beat her to it. She sticks her tongue out at me when she grabs it first. She straightens it and her eyes skim it and her face frowns.

“Are you still pining about this mystery dude? Is that what’s been wrong with you?” she asks impatiently.

I don’t answer. I just snatch up the crinkled paper and stuff it in my bag.

“Leese, you got to quit acting like this mopey zombie.” She pouts and sighs. “We’re worried about you.”

I roll my eyes. “Who is we?” But I already know the answer to that.

“Chris and I—and even Aidan.”

I have to chuckle at the fact that Aidan’s worried.

“Come on, spill it. I’m your best friend. I’m starting to be offended that you won’t tell me who this dude is,” she says with a slight frown

“I can’t.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “You’re selfish. And I’m not going to feel sorry for you,” she says in a forceful tone resembling someone’s mother.

My eyebrows rise as I give her an amused smirk.

“I’m serious. Here you are living in the greatest country in the world, you’re smart, and you have great hair and a perfect set of real boobs that I have to wear a push-up bra to get. You have this super cute college guy who wants you to be his girlfriend—and why wouldn’t he? You’re amazing—yet you’ve been moping and being a complete killjoy over some guy because he gives you butterflies but you can’t be with him because of some reason you won’t tell me, and you haven’t even done anything with this guy. It’s annoying!”

I laugh. I laugh hard, and it feels good. She grins at me. The librarian shoots us a warning glare, and we quiet down.

“You know what I think you should do?” she whispers.

It’s not often that I take Amanda’s advice, but she’s just made me feel better. What’s the worst she can say? She waits for me to ask her, and I oblige.

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think whoever this guy is, you need to push him out of your life,” she says.

“If it was that easy, I would have done it already,” I say.

“No, I think you have built up this boy and whatever you feel to be so much that your expectations won’t possibly live up to what it really is. Once you see that, you’ll be able to get over him,” she says.

I look at her, confused.

“You said this guy makes you feel all these crazy and surreal ways by not even touching you, right?” she asks, and I nod.

“Well,
touch
him.”

My eyes widen.

“I can’t,” she says with me in a teasing voice.

“You don’t understand. It’s a lot more complicated than you think,” I say adamantly.

“What I know is it doesn’t seem like you’re getting over this anytime soon. Your life has been at a standstill. You lied about being sick for homecoming—I know you weren’t—and I’m sick of it. I don’t care how complicated it is. Put your lips on his so you can see that whatever you think you feel for this guy isn’t real and you can move on!” Her big bright eyes narrow on mine.

It sounds crazy, but then I think I’ve always done things that are a little crazy. I bet Amanda is right. Maybe I have worked myself into such a frenzy that I’ve imagined what I’ve been feeling. It wouldn’t take much for me to figure out if what I’m feeling is real or imagined. A quick peck on his lips is all it would take. Of course he’ll probably freak out a little, but Will seems pretty laid-back. Afterward I could apologize and say I had no idea what I was doing and make up something about how I was upset with my boyfriend and it’ll never happen again.

Then I can stop imagining what it would be like to kiss him and stop wanting him, stop writing a story in my head of what it would be like. I just have to make sure no one’s around and that I have enough time to convince him afterward that it was silly, not premediated, a mistake, and get him to never say anything to Chris or Mrs. Scott.

It sucks. I’ve been trying not to think about her in all of this….

Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do.

I’m going to kiss Will Scott.