Invisible (17 page)

T
he drive into Portland was great.

Perfect, actually. Miles turned on the radio so that when we weren't chatting about the audition, we lapsed into a comfortable silence. And, okay, we don't share the same musical taste. Not a big deal. It was only a little awkward when he started singing to Taylor Swift's “Love Song.”

It was a
lot
awkward when he suggested I chime in at the part when Taylor starts begging for Romeo to take her away. He even jokingly said the Shakespeare reference made it
our
song.

At least, I hope he was joking.

Either way, he kept insisting that I sing, probably because he thought it was nerves that had tripped me up in the theater. I tried my best to warn him that my voice wouldn't magically improve in a car, but I didn't want him to think of me as boring. Bland. Predictable. So I braced myself for some good-natured teasing and began caterwauling along with the radio. Miles winced, but he didn't laugh it off. Instead, he hurriedly asked for my opinion of the auditions.

And somehow we never ran out of things to say during the whole car ride.

Which definitely surprised me, because with the exception of Corey (gay) and Logan (dating my best friend), I've never been good at talking to guys. Well . . . okay, and Scott. Although, since his main goal in life was to irritate me, I wasn't sure if our bickering should count.

It wasn't like he took any pleasure in hanging out with me. In fact, Scott looked downright sullen as he dumped change into his parking meter. It wasn't residual road rage, either. Not when both cars had somehow managed to find an open space only a few blocks away from Pioneer Courthouse Square, in downtown Portland. By all rights he should have been thanking the patron saint of parking.

“You hungry?” Miles asked, probably because he noticed where my attention had strayed.

I didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

He grinned. “How does Thai food sound?”

“Just lead the way.”

Miles took my hand and began moving faster than anyone else on the sidewalk—the geeky type of cardio speed walking my mom recommends at the gym when people refuse to run. I suspected that Miles probably only kept his speed in check because he didn't want me to trip in my stupid kitten-heeled shoes. Still, it felt like we were stealing away for a private romantic moment—photographer not included. I had to make a considerable effort to stifle a laugh when I looked over my shoulder and caught Scott's irritated expression as he increased his own speed.

About time he didn't get his way.

Not that he gave up on his photography. I could hear him snapping away behind us, although when I glanced at him again I saw that I wasn't the focus of every shot. Instead, he looked intent on capturing everything about the food carts; the supercolorful trailers and signs, the steam issuing from the takeout containers, the blissful expressions of people munching on everything from Mexican to Mongolian cuisine—all of it. The backdrop of Portland's overcast skies only made the carts feel even more cheerful and welcoming. As far as I was concerned, they only had one downside: the complete lack of indoor seating. Eating takeout on park benches wasn't exactly romantic, given the way the clouds inevitably led to drizzle. Not unless you wanted the seat of your pants to be wet for the rest of the day.

Usually, I was game to stand around the carts with Corey and Kenzie while we happily stuffed our faces.

Although in the past, I was standing—not shivering—in jeans and a sweatshirt.

Quickly scanning the I Like Thai menu, while I felt uncomfortably aware of Scott's approach, I ordered some Pad Thai and pulled out my wallet.

Miles shook his head. “Oh, don't worry about it, Jane. I've got it.”

Elle probably would have leveled him with her most sultry look and purred something like,
Why, thank you, Miles. How thoughtful of you!
Then she would graciously accept the food and move on.

I just stared at him in confusion.

“Are you sure?” I started pulling out a ten-dollar bill. “It's fine. Really. I can—”

Miles looked at me in amused disbelief. “It's Thai food from a cart, Jane. Not lobster and caviar. Relax.”

But I couldn't.

Having someone else pay for me just felt . . . weird. And having Scott documenting the whole exchange through his photography didn't exactly help put me at ease. At this rate, Scott's portfolio entitled
Jane Smith: A Study in Failure
would be complete in no time. I mentally began flipping through the past few days in his photographs. Alex Thompson's fist hurtling toward my face . . . my terrified expression at the audition . . . my obvious confusion with dating protocol.

Scott's camera needed to meet with some kind of freak, memory-erasing accident.

I grinned. One bolt of lightning and
game over
. Or maybe if Scott accidentally snapped a picture of a crime, his camera would be temporarily confiscated by the police as evidence. Anything could happen from there. A coffee spill, an evidence-locker mix-up, and Scott would be left with nothing.

Theoretically, at least.

“What's the joke?” Miles asked, and I turned my attention back to my date.

Date.
That term still felt strange when it was connected to
me.

“Nothing. Want to sit on the bench?” It sounded better to me than standing foolishly with our takeout. As long as Scott didn't take close-up photos of me chewing, while I perched on one of the scarred armrests.

I wouldn't put it past him to make me look like an idiot.

“Sure. But what do you want to do about—” Miles didn't have to finish his sentence to make it clear that he was referring to our hovering third wheel.

“Hey, Scott, we'd like some space here.” I pointed at a middle-aged couple who were ordering sandwiches. “They look accustomed to privacy. Go get 'em!”

Scott narrowed his eyes, probably because I was using the tone of voice I usually reserve for dogs. I barely refrained from clapping my hands and saying,
Go fetch!
But instead of putting up a fight, he shrugged and left to talk with the brunette at a nearby Greek cart.

The twinge I felt in my stomach was pity for her. Really.

Miles laughed. “I guess there isn't anything between the two of you.”

It wasn't a question, but I didn't know what I was supposed to say. Something reassuring?
Nope, I only have eyes for you.

I couldn't say anything like that with a straight face. Which left . . . something pithy?
Oh, there's something between us
—
if mutual aggravation counts.

Except, that wasn't entirely true. Sure, I'd wanted to strangle Scott half of the time we were in Fiction Addiction—but occasionally I caught myself enjoying his company. Or maybe it was that I enjoyed the person I became when I was around him. I never knew if
that
Jane Smith would do something daring, reckless . . . bold. The flirty things I had said to Scott in the bookstore I could never repeat to anyone. Not even Miles, my perfect Romeo, could get me mad enough to let my guard down.

I couldn't shake the feeling that the undercurrent of attraction between us wasn't there. It was just my luck that
finally
someone wanted to go out with me, and our wattage could barely power a solar flashlight. Surely, I should have felt an extra sizzle around Miles, but even eating Thai food together was rather like hanging out with my gay best friend. Unless my romance novels had been seriously misleading, I didn't think that was a good sign.

Although it was possible that kind of electricity needed more time to develop.

Maybe.

“Jane?”

I snapped back to attention. What had he just said? Oh, right. Nothing going on between Scott and me.

Nothing at all.

Miles and I roamed around Portland aimlessly, while we pretended Scott wasn't tagging along behind us. He wasn't easy to ignore, partly because a flurry of flashes constantly barraged the pair of us. It actually could've been fun watching him adjust the settings until he found his perfect shot, if the three of us were hanging out. And if the image he wanted to capture hadn't been mine.

On a first date . . . not so much.

Miles didn't appear to mind Scott's photography or our lack of a formal plan. He was so easygoing, I suspected he was rarely bothered by anything. Instead of trying to move the date in any particular direction, he kept pausing to check out cool shop displays and flyers for upcoming concerts.

“So do you see a lot of plays in Portland?” he asked after memorizing the performance dates of
Mary Poppins
.

“Um, rarely,” I admitted. “That's more my sister's thing.”

“If your sister likes something, that automatically disqualifies you?”

I shrugged. “We sort of split things up. She gets theater; I get World of Warcraft. She gets ballet; I get the local used bookstore. She gets to be a Notable, and I get . . .”

My voice trailed off. I didn't want to come out and say,
I get to be Invisible. Fair deal, right?
Especially not with Scott shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Well, you seem to have made it work for you.”

Totally nice of Miles to say, even though Scott's skeptically raised eyebrow took something away from the moment.

“Thanks.”

The conversation drifted into a companionable silence, and I tried to imagine my life if I hadn't been saddled with a perfect Notable sister who made it impossible for me to measure up. Maybe I would have taken ballet lessons and become a Notable myself. Maybe this wouldn't be my first date, because guys would've been clamoring to go out with me since middle school. Maybe Chelsea would have become my best friend instead of Kenzie.

I debated telling Miles about the whole alternate-universe-without-Elle scenario, when his cell phone started vibrating and
MOM
flashed across his caller ID. He cringed before answering.

“Hey, Mom.”

The following indignant squawk did not bode well.

“I thought Alicia's audition wasn't until tomorrow.”

More squawking.

“Okay. Okay. I get it. You don't want to leave Felicity alone. I'm heading home now, okay?”

So I guess our date was officially over.

Miles and I might not have much in the way of chemistry, but I wasn't ready to call it quits. It was nice wandering around Portland with someone who didn't see me as Grammar Girl or little Jane Smith.

Part of me didn't want to give that up quite yet.

Not that I had a choice.

Miles disconnected and turned to me with a grimace. “That would be my mom. She's something of a stage parent.”

I couldn't help smiling, even as we began walking back toward his car. “So is she the reason you got into acting?”

“Oh yeah. Acting, ballet, ice-skating. Anything that appealed to my three sisters became mandatory for me.”

“Ballet?”

“All of it.”

“And acting stuck.”

He looked very nonchalant about the whole thing. “Well, yeah. Not to overplay the three sisters thing, but I'm around drama on a regular basis. The difference is that what happens onstage is scripted so I don't have to worry about saying the wrong thing.” Miles shook his head dolefully. “Unlike at my house where I'm guaranteed to say the wrong thing at least once a month.”

I laughed as our long strides ate up the distance to his car. “So I guess I'll see you around.”

“Right.”

Wait. Was that it?
See you around
suddenly felt every bit as vague as
I'll call
you. When? Where? Why? I had no idea if he wanted to go on another date or to slot me into the friend zone. Not that I could blame him for noticing the lack of fireworks between us too. Then again, maybe if we spent more time together—alone—it would be different. Maybe I was like a bomb with a really long fuse: I needed time before I exploded in a big bang of lust.

It could happen.

“So how does next weekend look for you?”

I barely stopped myself from sighing in relief. Maybe I hadn't screwed up our date irreparably. “I don't have any plans.”

“Good.”

He didn't rush me.

Even when we reached his car, he didn't try to manipulate his way into a kiss. He merely pulled me in for a hug.

“Do you want me to take you home?” Miles glanced pointedly at Scott. “I can swing by your house on my way home. It's really not a problem.”

“I'm supposed to meet Kenzie and Corey here anyway,” I admitted, while I reclaimed my backpack and extra bag of clothes from his car. “So . . . this is probably for the best.”

He paused as if expecting me to reconsider, but when I just smiled reassuringly, he climbed in his car and drove away without another word.

Leaving me alone in downtown Portland with Scott.

“W
ell, you and Romeo seemed to hit it off.”

I glared at Scott, flinching only when he captured the expression on camera to add to his collection of my unattractive looks.

“Too soon? I guess I shouldn't start calling you Juliet yet.”

“I am not discussing this with you.” I didn't care if I sounded snooty. I wasn't the one commenting on
his
love life. Of course, that made me wonder if he had one. Maybe there was a girl in LA with a picture of him in her locker, pining over his absence at that very moment. Maybe there was a companion photo in Scott's room at home.

The idea of Scott longing for some strange girl made me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Of course, the only reason I felt queasy—well, besides from eating Thai food too quickly—was because Scott probably had a thing for girls like Lisa Anne: smart, efficient, hardworking . . . overcontrolling and generally bitchy. Either that or she was a total wimp who just said,
Yes, Scott. That sounds wonderful, Scott. You're a genius, Scott,
no matter what he did. Actually, that made even more sense. He probably loved empty-headed Notable types like Fake.

Gross.

“I got some good pictures.”

“I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear it.”

Okay, maybe that was a bit more sarcastic than was necessary. But given the way he had effectively chaperoned my date, I felt entitled.

“What's wrong with you?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “Did Miles try to cop a feel at the end of that hug?”

I glared at him again. “Gee, I wonder why I could possibly be annoyed. It's not like you crashed my date by following me around and playing paparazzi. Oh wait,
that's exactly what you did!
”

Scott didn't appear even remotely embarrassed by it either.

“I gave you guys some privacy.”

I rolled my eyes. “For all of three minutes!”

“I didn't mess up anything for you. It's not like you would've initiated a massive orgy if I hadn't been there.”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe I would've ripped off my clothes and jumped him while we were waiting for the Thai food.”

I'm not sure why I came up with such a ridiculous lie, considering that there was a zero-percent likelihood I would ever do anything
that
crazy.

Scott stared at me, momentarily stunned, and then burst out laughing.

I crossed my arms, but I couldn't help grinning as I watched humor replace his most condescending expression.

“Yeah, that'll be the day that Lisa Anne chooses community college over Harvard.”

“Actually, out of the two, the community college thing is far more likely.”

His grin widened. “Probably.”

“So . . . what do you want to do until the concert begins, approximately”—I glanced down at my watch—“two hours from now?”

“Let's go to Powell's.”

I nearly did a double take in my excitement, just to make sure he wasn't kidding. The world's largest independent used and new bookstore, Powell's is akin to a holy site for geeks like me. The only reason I hadn't mentioned it earlier was because it didn't seem like first-date material.

Not the best way to make a good impression.

“Yes!” I tugged once on Scott's shirtsleeve until my body registered his proximity and I dropped my hand as if I had just been singed. Staring up into Scott's green eyes, I thought I caught a glimmer of surprise and awareness that matched my own.

I panicked and bolted. The cold wind slapped at my face, but I didn't have any intention of stopping until I reached Powell's. And maybe not even then.

Scott didn't yell for me to slow down. He didn't say a word. Instead, he began running right next to me, as if it were perfectly normal for him to race a girl in heels.

That's when the run morphed into a competition.

Scott's sneakers and jeans definitely gave him an unfair advantage—plus, he wasn't carrying a bag of clothing
and
a backpack. All he had to deal with was his camera. Yet I doubted Scott even considered slowing his speed to even up the odds. I found myself surprisingly pleased that he didn't, especially since I was holding my own. Just two more blocks. Just one. I was going to win . . . until the D
ON'T
W
ALK
signal started flashing. Instinctively halting at the corner, I watched in disgust while Scott calmly jaywalked over to the store.

His leisurely stroll only rubbed in my defeat while I waited for the stupid signal to change.

“No fair!”

He flashed his smuggest smile. “You're just saying that because you lost.”

Probably, but I wasn't about to admit it.

“You broke the basic rules of traffic. I think that means you forfeit your win.”

“Not going to happen, Grammar Girl. You're just too slow.”

The light changed, and I called upon every last drop of dignity I possessed to meet him on the other side of the street without trying to strangle him.

“Take it back.”

“Or what? You'll fight me?” His grin made it clear he was remembering how easily he'd immobilized me in our last skirmish. “We both know how that would end.”

“On second thought, I'd rather humble you where it really hurts.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you think
that
is?”

“With your photography.” I held out my hand for his camera. “Pass it to me.”

Scott made no move to do as I directed. “I don't trust you with it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right, because a girl who can't defy a
crosswalk
is really going to get involved with the destruction of personal property.”

He considered that for a moment before warily placing it in my hands. “If you so much as scratch the lens cap—”

“Relax!” I cut him off as I strode over to the nearest tree. “I know what I'm doing.”

Then I raised the camera above my head and—without looking at the screen—I took a series of rapid shots. It felt good to march right over to him and thrust the camera in his face. “Now see for yourself.”

He clicked on the display button so that we could both check out my photos on the small screen, as long as we stood close enough together for our shoulders to brush. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“A novice photographer who knows absolutely
nothing
about composition just took photos every bit as artistic as the ones you would've spent hours agonizing over.”

He raised the camera closer to examine my work. “Not even close. Still, they're not bad.”

This time it was my turn to grin smugly. “I think what you meant to say was,
Jane, these are fantastic! What an interesting technique you have
.”

“Your whole point is that you don't have a technique.”

“No, my whole point is that you don't have to be a pompous jerk to get a good photo. You can just have fun with it.”

He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Since when does Smith High School's biggest pushover give lectures on how to have fun?”

“Hey! I stand up for myself just fine!” I protested.

“Right, you've sure told Lisa Anne where she can shove all her threats.”

“I've got the Lisa Anne situation under control without a confrontation,
thank you very much
. How do you know she's been threatening me, anyway?”

His
you have got to be kidding
expression spoke volumes. “This is Lisa Anne we're talking about. If you don't nail this story, she'll keep you trapped fixing grammar. And she doesn't care who knows it.”

“And you never even considered helping me out? Gee, thanks!”

He shrugged. “You're good with grammar, and I'm not interested in playing the knight in shining armor. They tend to end up casualties in other people's wars.”

The rough quality to his voice made me suspect that he was no longer referring to Lisa Anne.

“Know any fallen heroes personally?”

He looked as if I'd sucker punched him in the stomach, before he began scrutinizing my photographs without meeting my eyes.

“Not yet.”

He had once mentioned having friends in the military. I racked my brain trying to remember the details.

“Afghanistan?” I blurted out loud.

“Yeah, among other places.”

“Friends?”

He kept right on scrolling. “Family.”

“Your dad?” I guessed.

“What? No.” He finally looked up from his Nikon. “He's a foreign correspondent so he travels a lot, sometimes with the troops, but he's not in the military.”

“Then who—”

“My older brother.”

“I thought you were an only child.”

“You thought wrong.”

“You never mentioned him.”

“You never asked.”

He had a point. I hadn't asked him anything about his past. At first because it seemed rude to bombard the new kid with personal questions and later because after the whole “She doesn't have what it takes to be a reporter” crack, I honestly didn't care.

“So, your brother . . . Navy SEAL, right? He's okay?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “Good.”

Then I pulled back and punched him in the arm.

“Ow! What the
hell?
”

“That's for calling me a pushover.”

Before he could retaliate or regroup, I bolted into Powell's. It had been so much easier to think of Scott as a camera-wielding jerk, incapable of human emotions. I didn't know what to think anymore. The guy jumped from insulting to entertaining to mildly flirtatious every time I thought I had a handle on his mood.

That's why I was dating Miles. My Romeo was undoubtedly a good guy I could trust not to hurt me. If Scott was cast in a Shakespeare play, he would probably land the role of Hamlet—stewing in his issues, completely unaware of all the pain he caused in his wake.

No girl in her right mind would choose Hamlet over Romeo.

Right?