Dammit Dan, You Stole My Hart

Chapter 7

Eleanor - 28/05/16, Saturday

"Hey, you okay?" Mag's voice was warm, even over the phone and with miles and miles separating them.

"Ah, yeah. It's... nothing," I said, putting the phone on speaker so I could do math at the same time.

"You sure? You sound pissed."

"Ha, you read me as well as ever." I debated the merits of telling my cousin, deciding on giving away as little as possible. Mag didn't need to know that it was a boy, or I'd never hear the end of the teasing and innuendoes. "It's just a friend." (Then again, when had she started thinking of Daniel as a friend?)

"And that comforts me how?" she shot back, tone wry. "You've admitted it before: you don't have enough friends to know about how to deal with friendship drama. This is why you need more friends, you little recluse. And you have me here for a reason, you know." I rewarded her statement with a noncommittal mhm, resting my chin on my hand. The silence that came over Mag's side of the line was ominous, until she said, "It's a boy, isn't it?"

Great. Just great. I should've expected that. I groaned, and that was enough of an answer for the girl that knew me better than anyone in school. Not that that meant she actually understood me. No one could, despite what Daniel said. Mag's tone turned concerned, slightly teasing, as she said, "Well, you're not crying, so I'm assuming this isn't as bad as last time?"

"I didn't need a reminder of that, Mag," I told her, and winced as my tone came out sharper than I meant.

"Look," my cousin said at length. "It's okay to want to get to know someone. God knows you need more people to talk to. But don't jump in without looking."

I almost laughed. "Yeah, like I'd want to get into a relationship with the likes of him."

When she replied, I could hear that sardonic grin in her voice. "He makes you mad, doesn't he?" I didn't answer, and her tone grew solemn, warning me. "Remember, Eleanor, there's a thin line between mad-angry and madly-in-love. I crossed that line before. Don't make the same mistake, okay?"

"Yeah." I swallowed. Mag had that tone in her voice again, the lower undercurrent that was bittersweet and regretful and sad and angry, the one that meant she was remembering what had happened just before she'd moved to another town, two years ago. Nowadays, I didn't know if that hurting-but-wistful thing in her voice was because of the boy (I'd never learned his name, and now I don't know how to ask), or because of the relationship fiasco in itself. But this Mag was different anyway - jaded, but a little hopeful, nothing like the dreamy, naive romantic she'd been before.

And she was right. I had never had the fantasies of whirlwind romances and white, grand weddings that my cousin had had before, though I'd dreamed of someone that would really, truly, completely understand me. (Yeah, right. No one can truly understand anyone. No one can know another's heart as well as their own.) Now I wouldn't let myself be tricked and led on like last time. I'd cried enough tears for one boy, so this time my eyes were open and those rose-tinted lenses would be shattered no matter how many times another boy tried to slide them over my gaze. I wouldn't be used again, giving feelings away without seeing that I was being nudged into the role of back-up, strung along like a puppet "in case of rejection" from girls more beautiful, more popular, more desirable. Reduced to second place, a fallback point in the event of failure, the person that would always be waiting with flowers and roses and an affection-filled smile when the alarms went rejected, rejected, retreat to safety zone, like a second life in a video game of conquests.

Never again. He wanted Macey, it was obvious. (As if a boy would want to hide from the queen of the school. I almost rolled my eyes.) And if he'd kissed me just to distract me, keep me in thrall, feed me lies of no, no, no, don't worry, I still care about you, only you, then I wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing me fall.

But why does that somehow feel wrong? I shouldn't be-- My phone rang again and I picked up. "Hi," came that voice.

"What?" was my first reaction, and the word - one short, tense syllable - came out like a mockery of his light tone. I tried not to feel too happy about the silence that followed my response. That's right. (Even my thoughts sounded vicious.) Polite flew out the window the minute you stole my first kiss.

That whole Macey fiasco wasn't my problem anymore. I hadn't written anything down in the cafe, but I had my memory, and I knew that I had enough data to write a report - well, at least one that was full of BS, one part accurate and the other part vague enough that the teacher wouldn't be able to call me out on it. It was enough. I had had enough with him anyway.

And I got the sense that no one really knew Daniel, not the way he'd let me see him, with the glasses and the arrogance that was half real and half maybe-faking, with the observations and the "work" and the pressing almost-obsession that made him want to know everything about everyone. So no one would know if my report was all lies, constructed out of the shallow stereotype, the tint on the glass everyone saw him through.

Yet, despite all that, despite the conviction that I won't be used, somehow, the thought of knowing him better than anyone else out there made me feel a little better, after a life of not being able to read anyone the way he did.

But still, knowing everything about everyone doesn't mean you can take anything from anyone.

He still hadn't responded. A slight sigh came over the line, and I snapped, the anger still thrumming in my veins, "What, calling to say sorry?"

"Of course not. Daniel Fletcher never apologises to anyone." His snort was derisive and... and... I could've frowned. Was this what Daniel saw when he "evaluated" people? Underneath the underneath? His tone matched the one from before, that voice that echoed in my mind now, saying it felt good, didn't it? and ah, woops. Sorry for stealing that. This was the Daniel without the glasses, without the honesty that was hidden at his core.

This arrogance, which half was it? Real? Or that could-be-fake that I somehow knew was unique to Daniel himself?

"I just wanted to know how far you've gotten on your report." That (carefully?) amused tone was back again, smooth and lightly mocking, teasing. "You didn't write anything down at the cafe, so I got worried. Need help?"

A split second decision and I was snarling, "Drop the act, Fletcher."

There was a lengthy silence, till he said, "I'm sorry?"

Ha, faker. The arrogant voice was gone and I allowed a small, maybe-devious smile to curl her lips. I didn't understand Daniel - actually, I didn't want to know what went on in that head - but seeing underneath the underneath (that phrase was growing on me) kind of came close.

"Try again, idiot," I told him, and ended the call. Five minutes later my phone rang again. "Hello?"

"Sorry to bother you," he said, tone cool, business-like. He paused and I doubted if I'd gotten through to him, till he continued, "I just heard from one of my contacts that your first kiss was stolen by an idiot, and I'd like to extend my condolences in the face of your loss." I was tempted to ask who died? but then he said said, "In the light of such circumstances, I would like to offer some... compensation for the, uh, inconvenience caused. Would that be okay?"

His question broke that cool facade, and I heard the I'm sorry buried somewhere underneath all the fancy words and roundabout manners. "That's okay," I told him. "The cafe, then. Same time as today."

"Okay," he agreed, and ended the call.

I sat back in my chair, phone screen turning dark, and tried to tell myself that, for all that bravado and defiance from before, falling was different from digging out the truth that lay at the core of a person, and pretend that Mag's words (there's a thin line between mad-angry and madly-in-love) wasn't echoing over and over in my ears.