Attracted to her 💘

Chapter 9

BRENT

"I went to your room that morning. She answered the door in your jersey—said you were in the shower. She offered to let me wait, but she warned me that you two were back together. That I'd look really desperate just showing up at your room like that." Kennedy swallows hard and breathes deep. Like the memory alone is causing her actual pain.

"She never told me—"

"No, she wouldn't have, would she?" Kennedy looks into my eyes, smiling bitterly. "I was going to wait. I thought I at least deserved to hear it from you."

Her voice strangles at the end, her eyes shinier than they should be. "But then Cashmere asked me what I had really expected. She said you were a hero and I was a zero and nothing was going to change that. Did I really think you would leave someone like her for someone like me?" She licks her lips slowly.

"I was still reeling from the night before. From the excitement, the total fucking joy over what we'd done. But when she put it like that . . . I believed her. So I left. William stopped me in the quad on the way back to the dorm. He asked me out . . . and I said yes."

I can't speak; I'm too busy reliving those moments, seeing them now from her side. And realizing all the things I didn't do, all the things I never said.

"I liked you," I whisper to the table. Then I look at her. "I liked you so much."

I still do. Behind those contact lenses, under makeup and designer clothes, she's still her. I can still taste her, feel her on my fingertips, so smooth and slick. Fearless in the way she wanted me, clutched me close like she'd never wanted to let go.

Her forehead crinkles with confusion. "But you did get back together with Cashmere. You didn't speak to me that whole year until—"

Kennedy obviously still doesn't understand jack shit about men. Or boys—because back then, I was definitely a boy.

"You told me our hookup meant nothing to you. That I was nothing and you were dating William. When I got pissed about it, you told me you hated me." I wipe a hand down my face. "I got back together with Cashmere because you didn't want me and she did. She was a substitute. I didn't want to look like a loser. And I didn't speak to you because it was too fucking hard."

"We were friends—"

"Not to me." I shake my head, capturing her gaze and holding it tight. "Not after that night. I didn't want your friendship, Kennedy—I wanted you. And if I couldn't have you—I had to pretend you didn't exist. Because then I could tell myself I wasn't missing out on everything I knew I was."
But I'd still thought about her. I'd dreamed about her.

And I missed her—all the time.

She gazes at the table, lost in her thoughts. Then she looks up, wetting her lips—seeming like she's decided something.

"So that's why you did it," she says softly. "You wanted to get back at me, and hurt me. Congratulations—you succeeded."

Something in her tone puts me on alert, and I lean in closer. "What exactly do you think I did?"

Her mouth is hard. "You set me up. You humiliated me. You . . . broke me that night, Brent."

I double-check. "The night of the senior dance?"

"Yes."

This is it. This is what I've been waiting fourteen years to know.

I tell her, "Pretend that you're a witness on the stand. Start from the beginning and tell me about the dance. Make me understand."