Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Drew wakes me up at around four, not intentionally but by a sudden jerk of his torso, which I had been using as a pillow.
My senses spring to life at the movement, and I hear a short gasp coming out of his chest. It was unnecessary to ask — Drew has just emerged right out of a bad dream. My reactions after my occasional nightmare are quite the same. I doubt that people really sit bolt upright or scream or do anything of the dramatic sort like in the novels, but still, it would be an interesting sight to watch. Wait, no, that sounds sick.
Slightly curious but too sleepy to give an actual damn, I lay barely awake, silently hoping that Drew would be a big boy and go back to sleep instead of waking me up and act solemnly like in the sparkly movies that twelve-year-olds fangirl over. But of course, since my life is basically one of the sparkly movies that twelve-year-olds fangirl over, he just has to not be in the mood for sleep.
"Andy, wake up." Not even trying to be gentle or remotely polite, Drew abruptly stands up from the sofa, leaving my head to fall onto the cushions that I sincerely hope do not smell like his ass. My eyes refuse to give in, but I hear a grunt escape my throat.
"Fuck off."
"That's your first sentence of the week?" That's the weakest joke ever. My ears are irritated by the sound of cups clinking from somewhere inside his kitchen. What is he doing? Fighting off the urge to attack him with a piece if furniture (just because it isn't worth the excise required) I bury my face in my arms, determined to hold on to sleep.
"Andy." Apparently, my determination is not the same as Drew's. "Wake up." Fear confirmed. "Imma drive you home."
I grunt, but the sound is heartlessly ignored as Drew begins to tug at my ankle. It is in moments like this that people like me desire to be President of the United States, so I can someday finally declare it illegal to wake people up at any time sooner than five in the morning.
"School, Andy. School."
School? The voice in the back of my head hisses shrilly. I flip around, my eyes automatically adjust themselves into a glare.
"It's three hours from now." I glower. "Go to sleep, asshole."
But Drew, being Drew, doesn't give up. This leads to me finding myself in his car and a bad mood half an hour later.
"Please explain again why you are destroying my beauty sleep." I mumble as the fucker slams his door shut. "Well, of course, other than the fact that you're jealous with my beauty."
Drew snorts and starts the engine. "You're supposed to be home by ten last night. It's a privilege, really, to remain at my flat after eleven."
I roll my eyes. "Trust me, the pleasure isn't mine. And the ones staying at your flat after eleven? Are they the unfortunates who suffered a night in your bed?"
"Partly correct, only that they suffers afterwards, when they craved for me but couldn't have it again even if they tried."
My head turns to his direction. All my senses are telling me Drew has been dying to brag about something, and that "something" is going to explode now if I just ask the right question.
"So, er," I cough, "how many girls have you slept with since you arrived here? And how many of them are in the popular squad?"
Drew flashes me a smile that was intended to be charming, but in fact just shows his excitement.
"Half of your girl friend group. And some of the cheerleaders."
Holy crap, what? I feel my jaw slightly dropping.
"Son of a bitch!" My voice comes out squeaky. I slap his arms "That's like, I don't know, twenty!"
"Twenty-three." He corrects and I throw him a look that I wholeheartedly hope shows my disgust. Replying to my facial expression, he shrugs. "I like making lists."
"Lists? Seriously?"
Drew's brow raises in a classic judgmental expression. "Yes, lists. People with good minds do that, to keep them organized."
I point a finger at him. "Keep dreaming. I think it's for the forgetful, too, you know, good people who make helpful lists that contribute to the society or something, like shopping lists." His brows rise even further up as my grin spreads. "You might be at the other end of the spectrum, where sick bastards and shitheads sit laughing to themselves."
"Sick bastards and shitheads don't usually reach the number of twenty-three young ladies acting unladylike on their beds within two months, do they?"
I stick my tongue out. "But only sick bastards make lists of the girls they've slept with."
Drew turns to wink at me. "My list in this school only consists of twenty-three. I repeat: twenty-three. In two months, darling."
I stick my fingers in my ears. "Stop bragging, loser. I've done better."
"Wanna share?"
Well of course I want to share. "No, since when boys do it they're legendary, but girls are branded whores."
This time when Drew faces me, his expression no longer glows with humor.
"I don't think you're a whore."
Of course he doesn't. "Of course you don't." I reply dryly. Drew shakes his head.
"Andy, I seriously don't think you're a whore."
I smile humorlessly at him. "Well, to be fair, I don't do my whoring publicly. Mandy Stuart does, though. That's why many girls hate her publicly while they just avoid me and pretend it's a coincidence, and boys don't straight up ask me for sex like they do with her."
"Dating many guys isn't whoring around." His face wears a frown. "Although, if it I get it right, those boyfriends of yours didn't mean that much."
I squint my eyes. "They didn't mean anything to me, nor was I to them. And you don't have to be polite, really. I have to admit, I'm a bit of a whore, just as much as you are a manwhore."
Drew snorts. "Oh, you wish you were on my list." To this I reply with a shove at his shoulder.
"And you are obviously begging to be on mine, if I were sick enough to make a list."
Drew chuckles as we pull up in front of my house. "Yeah, because Drew Archer sounds so fancy after David Jackson, if the rumors are true. Besides, letting a strange boy in your house at midnight kid of proves that you want to jump his boner."
For some reasons, his words make me blush. I roll my eyes for the second time. "Well, if that pleases your huge fucked-up ego." I grumble, stepping out of the truck. Drew just laughs.
"Behave, Andy, if you want me to come back in three hours."
Throwing him one last dirty look, I slide between the double doors into my house.
Drew's car honks outside exactly three hours later like he said, when I have sobered up from sleep hangover and look agreeably good enough for school.
"Monday's a pain, isn't it?" That's Drew remark at my cranky mood. Falling back to sleep takes me about a hundred position changes, one pillow being thrown off bed, my blanket being kicked away and some quality nicknames I will someday use on Drew Archer. All of that, just for two hours of sleep, which feels two seconds of sweet heaven before hitting my ass back on bitter hell. So, is it reasonable for me to be cranky? Hell yes it is.
"Ha." I roll my eyes. "Monday's not a pain. You are."
"After eating my food and sleeping on my sofa?" Drew raises his eyebrows.
"After eating your food and sleeping in your sofa." I confirm.
The drive to school is fast and quiet, since Drew is being lame and I am battling a (mentally) thunderous battle with sleep.
"What are you gonna do with Bradley?" Drew asks as we slow down to a stop. I grab my bag and slide one strap over my shoulder.
"Dunno. We usually don't stay pissed for long, you know." A pathetic way to comfort myself, yes, but it is better than facing the possibility of us falling out completely. Hoping Drew can't see my frown, I open the door and climb out.
"Hey, Andy?" Calls Drew.
I turn around, trying my best to keep my face clear of emotions.
"Hmm?"
Drew's smiles and my stomach almost does a backflip. Just almost. This smile is not arrogant or cocky or flirtatious. It's something I have only seen a few times a before: a genuine smile. On Andrew Archer's face. He looks better wearing it, not that I will ever tell him.
"If he makes any dick move, you are always welcome to be a crying baby at my place."
I flip my hair back with a hand. "Thank you, but I don't do 'crying baby'."
It's the truth. I haven't shed a tear for two years now, not even when I broke my leg from jumping out of a moving car when I was seventeen, which hurt so much I remember having wished to pass out (which I unfortunately didn't). It is ridiculous to think that I will have a mental breakdown and weep like a pathetic little wuss just because Peter is on his period (boys seem to have their own kind of monthly moody week) and is refusing to be sensible.
I sit through the first two periods paying only a third of my attention (whereas Drew scribbles his notes like it were his last chance to do so), my inside squirming at the thought of facing Peter soon.
"Chemistry is pretty shit." Drew laments for the third time since he poured the wrong solution into another wrong solution. Snapping out of my trance, I snatch the bottle of god-knows-what out of his hand before I have to clean up after another catastrophic attempt of Drew the stupid asshat Archer.
"It isn't." I snap, reaching for my textbook. "You are pretty shit. And this isn't as shitty as the thing called Philosophy they make us study here. I mean, who names a subject like that?"
"The vice principle, I've heard. She opened that club and it somehow turned into a class."
I shoot him an "obviously" glare. "I know that. But what the hell?"
"Isn't that an optional class? For extra credits?" He's being quizzical. "You don't strike me as the type who cares for extra credits."
This sends a cold sizzle down my spine. Of course I don't give a damn about grades, as long as I can graduate and get into an art college all right. The cold spreads to my limb, getting out of my control as random flashbacks of a tall figure with angelic blond hair and grey eyes spears into my mind, attacking my sense of security. Him. Everything starts with him, who was exactly what I wanted at the idiotic age of sixteen, never could have guessed that my life was going to be fucked up so bad in not just the nightmarish months afterwards but even now, when I have toughened up so much and moved on. The consequences sting, and they partially shape my identity as well as my current reputation.
"Well," I swallow, unsure of what my face has shown Drew, "I fucked up pretty bad in sophomore year, so I'm needing more. Uni things. Same reason why I'm taking both Physics and Chemistry this year." My throat suddenly feels like I've been thirsty for days, and I laugh the discomfort away. My dry laugh is replied with silence and a look from Drew.
He seems to understand.
Fuck.
We work in silence, the silence that's familiar. It is the same as in the night we danced at a birthday party, when he beat the crap out of Brody Rogers and afterward scoffed at my exclamation that I could have defended myself. Of course, he soon realized that I can actually be tough (and possibly a bit badass), a realization that Peter has never succeeded in reaching. Well, if he truly get that I am not a weakling, and if he vaguely understands what happened in the past (I just get the feeling that he does, but am blank of a valid reason of how), there's no reason to be sorry.
"Well, I don't know if it's rude to say this," Drew's whisper finally breaks the silence, which is good, for it's starting to get awkward, "but if I piece the snippets together correctly, I have to say: that's pretty fucked up."
To say that I am surprised is an understatement. I know what he's talking about, but I didn't expect him to remember it. During the short conversation we had when we were swaying in the dark at the party, I accidentally let slipped a twisted detail about my past. He got it then, and stayed quiet. I know he's thinking about it now, because I have been careful not to let anything else out since.
Wait. He did mention he has a younger sister, who was molested, and is now dead. The birthday party and all the incidents that happened during were too overwhelming that I had pushed the detail under other more memorable ones, and it is not until now does it pop up again. More than anything, this even further supports my suspicion that he knows something about, or the gist of my not-so-romantic fairy tale.
It would not do any harm to laugh and say "Well that was truly fucked up," but my mind refuses to bend in that direction. So I cough and furrow my brows as if lost
"What are you talking about?"
and I snatch another cylinder container from him before he completely ruins our experiment, or possibly gets us banned from the lab for the rest of the school year, which happened to a guy I know.
Sitting in Geometry classroom early with the determination to be the first one in the double table Peter and I share, I stare huffily at my phone, reading some nonsense fan fiction a friend sent me the other day. Despite my continuous scrolling, I am not taking in a word. Well, maybe I did focus on one bit when the characters have sex, but that was it.
Then, out of the corner of my eyes, a familiar figure appears. As Peter approaches our table my stomach feels like it has a pool of boiling water being poured down and splashed all over my insides
And he sits down next to me.
Fuck. What do I do?
Trying to maintain my cool, I stare fixedly at my phone, barely aware that the main characters in the story are doing some really steamy actions.
Peter sure takes a lot of time fishing books and pens from his bag, but once finished, he sits very still for two second before turning his head to my direction.
Fuck.
His head is propped up on one hand and, if my blurry corner-eyesight is reliable, he's wearing a slight frown.
"You still mad?"
Well of-fucking-course I'm still mad. What is he thinking? That he can just declares that his girlfriend is way more precious than I am at any time and then walks out and THEN expects me to be cool about it? It's like his brain has been stolen by some Lord Voldemort version of zombies and now prancing around inside in skull is a pile of walking talking crap that helps him makes ALLLLL important decisions, which of course turn out to be painfully stupid (e.g: ditching me for his girlfriend).
But, since I have no desire to keep acting childish (like he does all the time), all I do is lift my chin and look up from the phone, still not meeting his eyes. Got to stay classy, that's it.
"No."
He leans in closer.
"Yes you are."
Ha, genius, you must be.
"Seriously, Peter?" I turn to him and snap before I know it. "Do you even remember what you said to me?" I lower my voice as some busybodies in the front row stare at us with clear interest often seen of gossipers. Peter head jerks back a little, but he doesnt turn away. "You practically blamed me for everything you started, called me a hypocrite, and, of course, since you're like, the best fucking friend anyone could ever ask for, really, you said that I wasn't, oh, fuck, I don't know, good enough to be in a friendship with you."
"Andrea, I'm sorry."
"Well, I'd be pretty fucking sorry, too, if I were you. And have I mentioned you insulting my choices a while doing your little-good-boyfriend act over your girlfriend? There are lines, Peter, between being a good boyfriend and an fucking, fucking asshole to your friends. And this is like kazillionth time you've crossed it." My whispering is frantic and venomous, so I am not sure whether Peter can understand more than half of it. Nevertheless, he's got the gist and understands that I am miles and miles away from being simply "still mad".
Maybe he's just got sick of being sorrowful and miserable every time we fight lately (which is frequent), or maybe he has got sick of me. It can be either one or both reasons that makes his answer a "fuck it Andrea, I said I'm sorry!"
My mouth has to opens and closes before it opens again for speech. "Haven't you heard anything?" My hiss resembles a snake's. "What makes you think after all of that shit, you can just say sorry and everything would be fine?"
Peter sighs, a sigh that a fifty-year-old movie character does when he realizes his life is a pile of crap. "Look, I don't want us to fight."
Ha, hahahaha. Seriously, do I look like I want to fight with him? Over his stupid girlfriend? I want to snap again, but somehow remain calm and silent. Peter takes it as his cue to continue.
"Whatever we fought about, whatever I tell you, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, you know that." His eyes hold my gaze, and in that second, I remember how I've forgotten those hazel orbs, with the colors sometimes changes from brown to dark gold. I used to wow at him about how he can change his eyes color, but he said he never knew how, and that they just change whenever they feel like it. I said that "eyes feeling like changing colors" is an absurd idea, but nevertheless felt excited whenever I witness that change, which is rarely. But despite his intense gaze and despite how I'm slowly softening under that gaze, the sarcasm and bitterness is still present in my voice.
"You seemed so sure of yourself, Pete. What now?"
Peter doesn't blink, or break our eyes contact. "I was... I don't know... Irrational. I would've never said that to you, you know it. But I did, I know, Andrea." He cuts in before I can argue. "And as I said, I didn't mean it. You know I would never do that."
Well, fuck, this is emotional.
People say being emotional is a girl thing. But my sixteen years of life experience says both can be pretty corny sometimes.
"Peter," I pronounce his name slowly and carefully to give the impression that I'm calm and collected, while in fact my mind is blank of what to say after 'Peter'. So I take another breath and start again. "Peter, we've been really, well, uncool lately. And I no longer want to tell you that I don't want it to happen again. Because it will. You know I don't like Scarlett." I raise my brows to stop him from arguing. "And I know that you don't give two shits about it. And that's okay, since as long as she doesn't mess with me," well, she did mess with me once or twice, actually. I smirk, "as long as she doesn't mess with me anymore, I will keep my distance and leave you two alone. And I did." Guilt bubbles in my stomach as I say this, because I sure didn't. I didn't leave her alone and messed up more than she has ever done. But I swallow my guilt down, for nobody can ever know about what I did to her. "But now that she has stopped, it's your turn to be the problem. And I know it's my fault that too that we did the things we did, and I would have been willing to admit it if you hadn't put all the blame on me. Because, fuck it, Peter, the blame isn't entirely on me. And you're saying you know it now, but I'm sure if we ever fucked up again, and there are chances we will, you will again be as irresponsible like you did." I realize I'm starting to sound like a mom, so I end my speech. "And that's really shit."
To my surprise, Peter's hands take hold of mine and squeeze them. "It won't happen again. I swear. And again, Andrea, I'm sorry."
Not very touching, especially when we're talking in such low voices I have to strain my ears. And also, his words can't be trusted, for it won't even be remembered when he's drunk. But staying mad at him is pointless, and I do miss my best friend.
So we make up, and Monday, the suckiest day of all sucky days, goes by not very suckily.

*

All the luck that was there to support me in my attempt to avoid Scarlett Regan on Monday disappears without a trace on Tuesday. I am convincing Drew to let me be the cameraman on our English video project when someone taps on my shoulder. And when I turn around, my limbs seem to disintegrate at the sight of Scarlett, with thin layers of bandage on her hands.
"H-hi." My voice comes out higher than usual. To my horror, my hands and knees start shaking along with my voice. Great. This is just great. I sure don't have any potential to be a bank robber if every time I face the victim my body goes Harlem Shake. "Hi." I say again, trying to beam at Scarlett, who is jollier than she should be.
"Hi, Andrea." Her voice is a tone softer, which should makes me feel more relax. Wrong. My hands go cold and shake even harder. I should grab my own hands, and thought flies across my head. But before I get a chance to do that, a pair of big, rough, warm hands covers mine, steadying them. Drew draws closer until his body is right behind me, and gently pushes my back to his front. And, oh my god, before I know it, he's practically holding me from behind.
"Are you better?" I manage to ask Scarlett without collapsing into a puddle of guilt and embarrassment on the floor. The redhead nods and launches into endless, full-speed babbles, which I try to catch up with.
"Well, my burns aren't severe, but they could have been bad if they hadn't been treated so quickly. My doctors wanted a sample of my shampoo, but when they get back to my house they couldn't find anything. And my family hates the police. My mom, actually. I never knew why. Anyways, they weren't involved, though the doctors think they should have. I don't know, I don't think so. Like, sure, it stung like a bitch, but that's what you get when you mixed two lotions that hated each other together. And—" the ringing in my ears gets relentless. I can't believe this girl is dumb enough to think that two products mixed together can burn her that fast and that bad, but this is just my luck. My knees no longer tremble that violently, but I still lean into Drew anyways, because it is so good to feel his warmth on my back, curl my fingers inside his hands. It feels safe, I realize. And this time, I really do appreciate protection from somebody else but myself. But this doesn't feel like protection. It doesn't feel like he thinks that I'm a wuss, like Peter sometimes does. This is more like support, which is good. Which feels good.
"And you were so nice to me, Andrea, when you visited me in the hospital." My focus is back on her at the mention of my name. "Although we started on bad terms." Yeah, bad terms. "I want you to know that I can't help not liking you. I don't like you." Wow, that's straightforward. I nod dully, a bit overwhelmed by her nonstop talking. Gosh, my face must look so dumb. Behind me, Drew chuckles, sending vibration through my body. My stomach flips at this and I forbid myself to swoon. Scarlett hasn't stop talking. "But I also want you to know that we can now dislike each other in silence. It's better for Peter, too." She smiles a bright smile.
I swallow, unsure if it's my turn to speak yet. "Yeah, okay. Good for you, Regan."
Drew chuckles again as Scarlett says thank you and turns on her heels to walk to her class. As for me, I turn on my heels and lay my head on Drew's chest, finally free to hyperventilate without looking suspicious. One of Drew's hand lets out of mine to pat the back of my head.
"Fuck." I mumble. "I thought—I thought, you know."
"Yeah. But she didn't. And you know your secret is safe with me." Every syllable makes his chest vibrate, and I fight the urge to press my ear against him, just to listen to the vibration better. Despite how many times I've been this close to Drew, I doubt that I can ever get over the fact that he smells so good, of detergent and aftershave and a boyish scent I cannot figure out. Another fact that he's stroking my hair doesn't help my hormones calm down.
A part of me wants to push him away and flee in the opposite direction, for the effect he's having on me is alarming. But, even with the alarm blaring, I knew that I would be willing to stand here, breathing his scent. Normally, I would decide whether or not I like him, but with Drew, right now, even the thought of thinking about having a crush on him is ridiculous and tiring. With Drew, there are only flaring emotions of either frustration or peace in which I want to either break his neck or slow-dance with him to Disney theme songs, to either kick him out of my house or snuggle with him on his couch in his ugly apartment. Those go without thinking. With Drew, I don't want to think. And he damn well makes sure that he spins my mind around fast enough to spare room for thoughts.
"How can I be sure that my secrets are safe with you?" It isn't loud enough, but he catches the words. I am more than ever aware of his hand running from the back of my head to my back as he inhales.
"Because, Andy, I am a very selfish person who wants all your secrets for myself, and for myself only."
Talk about smooth.
But the alarm finally kicks in, and I finally come to realization of how stupid I'm being. What the hell am I doing, really? Hugging? Sharing secret? What the fuck? Who does things like that? Twelve-year-olds obsessed with Twilight, that's who!
I break free from his arms a little more forcefully than necessary. And I cough. God, this is awkward.
"Okay." I don't even dare to look him in the eye and hide my burning ears behind my hair. "So that's settled, right? I'll be the cameraman, and you're the director of the video."
And I run off before anything else is spoken.
One thing that can be sure, I need to stay away from Drew.
This isn't some cliché love story, for there is no way in hell we're going to end up together. I, more than anybody in this freaking universe, am aware of that. For sure, there's nothing similar to romance happening between me and him. I am aware of what will happens after happily ever after, and that people like me, a fucked up yet ordinary human being, do not get true happily ever after, where nothing bad happen afterward. I, however, am not one of those passive aggressive girls who shout at the world that they do not need romance, or love. I don't believe in actually love, but I do believe in the feeling of being in love, which doesn't last long in normal people and last remarkably well in idiots. That's why princes and princesses get their happily ever after. Because they are idiots. On the other hand, I am not an idiot. And as a person who is not an idiot, it is obvious that I should stay away from guys that distract me. The way Drew does. He distracts me. I mean, what do you call it when you feel like your organs aren't working properly when you're around Andrew Archer? Distracted, that's what. And I know everything about being distracted. It makes you careless, blind, and goddamn happy. It leads to happily ever after. But when you have reached your happily ever after you realize it is just a fog shielding what's really behind it from your vision, and then it is the time for the showdown when your happy reality is stripped bare until it is presents itself finally naked and twisted. There you go, your "happily ever after".
I don't want it to happen ever again.
Everything I've been doing with Drew felt new and awesome at the time, but as I walk down the hallway to my class, I realize it may be familiar. Of course, there's no way in hell he gets the same feelings. I'm simply being way more girlish than usual. Another reason why I shouldn't be so close to him. It's like a failed diet, really. You can eat and eat and enjoy yourself so much during that period of time, but the result at the end is a shithole you have no option but to fall into.
No more is my plan to figure out what's he's so secretive about. Drew is doing something to me, something that feels so good and fun and wrong. It is wrong that he can affects me like this. It is wring that I allow myself to be affected like this. Options are either I toughen up or avoid Drew like I avoid Scarlett yesterday. Or both.
I don't go home with Drew that afternoon, and I walk to school every morning after that. On my phone on Wednesday afternoon are three missed calls and some text messages from a pissed off Andrew, asking where the fuck I have been, to which reply with a simple text message: "im sick". This may go a bit extreme, but I also skip all English classes, figuring we would only discuss about the ideas for our projects. On other classes I share with Drew, I simply choose the farthest corner from where we usually sit.
Yeah, I have definitely overdone it.
But worst of all, Drew doesn't seem to give a shit.
Well, I should feel relieved about it. But when you do all the hard work to avoid somebody, you don't often expect it to be so insultingly easy.
He doesn't care. Of course he doesn't care. I'm not sure we're even friends.
Are we friends?
In some moments, friendship sure seems likely. In some other moment, e.g: now, it doesn't. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would think we were absolute strangers who have never talked.
Oh, I wish we were absolute strangers who have never talked
If we were, I wouldn't be acting like a lunatic chick this whole week, fighting off my paranoia and my secret hope that he would pay attention to my avoiding him. I don't even know why I want him to notice. It would feel better if he did, though. It would feel like I wasn't being a deluded fool.
But I guess I am a deluded fool after all, because Drew really doesn't seem to give a shit.
At least that's what has been swimming around in my head until Friday, right after school. I'm walking to my locker to put away some books when a pair of hands literally grabs my shoulders and pushes me against a wall. Needless to say, my eyes are wide open and my breathing goes from normal to fucking frantic when I find out those hands belong to Andrew Archer.
"Drew." I gasp. "What the fuck?"
Drew seems surprised by his own action, for he blinks twice and withdraw his hands, on his face a rather confused expression. The confusion lasts for a second before it turns into fury exploding in my face.
"What's up with you?"
To say that I am blown away (miles away) is an enormous understatement. "Excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb, Andy. You've been avoiding me all week." The glare he's giving me makes my heart pounds hard, like I were under attack. To be honest, I do feel attacked, being slammed against a wall and have my face yelled at. But again, my subconscious decides that this is the perfect time to be a bitch and sneers at my face that Drew was right. I have been avoiding him. Not that I would ever tell him why. He would think that I have a crush on him and have been acting out on my crazy female hormones.
Which would be, again, partly correct. I have been acting on my crazy hormones, but I sure don't have a crush on him. I haven't had a crush on anybody for a long time, considering the ugly truth that my ex-boyfriends weren't in the list. It's true that I did admit having a teeny crush on Drew some days ago, but it was just a child's crush, which happens to fly around everywhere very often.
But I don't want him to know about me having had a teeny crush on him, and confessing that I've been avoiding him is basically screaming that I am smitten with him.
"I haven't."
Drew's answer comes back within a blink. "Don't shit with me, Andy." His furrowed brows relax and he tilts his head a little. "Did I—" his eyes dart to a side. "Did I fuck up somehow?"
I would laugh if it wasn't so not funny.
"You—what?" I stutter, surprised by his question. "No, dude, you didn't do anything. It's just..." I halt. I can't say It's just that I don't want to see you, for that just makes no sense. "I've been busy, and—"
"Busy, my ass." Drew cuts in bluntly. "I'm a creepy mind-reading vampire, Andy." I swear the corner of his mouth has just twitched. "You've been avoiding me, haven't you?"
I stomp my feet. "No, dude. For the second time: I haven't." I raise my brows, stopping him from contradicting. "Your creepy mind-reading power doesn't work now, sorry."
Drew blows out a long huff as he continues to glare at me.
"I still don't buy your shit, but you're going out with me tonight."
And with that, he leaves.
"Wait, what?" I gape, chasing after him, creating a series of clicking sounds of hard heels on wooden boards as I run. My fingers grasp his jacket. "Like a date?"
Drew turns around, grinning arrogantly like an asshole he is. "I know you fancy me, Andy, because I'm a delight, but this romantic relationship of us isn't going anywhere."
I roll my eyes and hold up my middle finger. "Son of a bitch. You don't ask a girl out out of the blue and tell her it's not a date." Of course, I wasn't expecting a date, and I would have turned him down had he asked me the thing.
"Well," he shrugs, "it's not a date, but dress nicely. Like, really nicely."
"I always dress nicely!" I throw up my hands, accidentally hitting him in the shoulder.. Drew chuckles and heads to the parking lot.
"Step up your game, Andy."
I stay silent until we get in his truck. "It's not another party, is it?"
Drew shakes his head. "Nah, but this isn't much different. Only this time, we're hanging out with the richer people."
My caution rises. "And watch them killed the following morning?" My tone comes out sharper and more bitterly than I intended to.
I can feel Drew's eyes on me, but cannot guess what is running through his head. There are chances he wants to chuck me out of his car. But I have my reasons. It would be idiotic to go with him after what happened last week. I may not get lucky this time, and if anything, my face could be one of the faces declared dead on the news tomorrow morning. Something about Drew excites me, yes, but there's another part of him that triggers my fear and paranoia, just to get my worked up to push me down into a pit of humiliation and disdain. Drew has a colder side to his sunny smiles and Disney songs — I've been with him long enough to see it. And although he is in my eyes more trustworthy than he was a month earlier, I get this reality slap from time to time that Drew isn't Pamela or Peter. I barely know him, yet he knows things about me. He barely tells me anything, yet he asks too many questions. I can't trust him like I trust Pam and Peter, because he hasn't give me enough to trust, no matter how many times he has made me forget that.
I hide my face from his gaze by turning to the window.
"I have other plans tonight." It's bullshit, but I'm a popular kid who can make plans come begging for my attendance within minutes.
"You're afraid of me, aren't you?" His question is a whisper. "That's why I haven't seen you all week."
"I'm not afraid of shit, Andrew." I reply a bit too quickly, still determined to look at anywhere but him.
Then Drew does something that isn't in my plan.
One of his hands takes mine and cups it under his palm. I almost jerk forward as my skin starts to tingles as if under electric shock. We have been more physically intimate before — my face flushes at the thought — but it has always been easy and taken as nothing. This hand-holding thing is a deliberate action, not just naturally falling asleep and unintentionally ending up close, or lending a hand for mental support, or literally breathing down my neck every time we have a screaming fit at each other's face. Those things have made my hormones thunder like crazy, yes, but it is nothing compared to this, when Drew rubs his thumb on the back of my hand while squeezing my fingers, consciously and intentionally. That part of me that is always set ablaze whenever we touch is not burning how. It's disintegrating.
I finally give in and look at him, holding eye contact. Here we are, in the emptying parking lot, inside a pickup truck, holding hand and staring at each other eyes. Isn't it so fucking romantic or what?
Drew's face is unreadable.
"Andy," I can't help but feeling hot as my name, a name I have never officially approved but never bothered to correct and has gotten used to, leaves his lips, "you know you can trust me."
Even though I cannot read his thoughts, he surely can read mine. Yep, creepy mind-reading power is still on. Out of the sudden, I feel a punch of anger. I wring my hand free from his, and something in his eyes changes.
"Oh, can I, Andrew? You know what, I practically told you everything about my life." My words are angry, but shouting seems wrong in this moment so I keep my tone quiet. "And all I know about you is that you're British and have a dead sister." His expression doesn't change at the mention of his unfortunate loss. Good. My trust in you have been based on nothing, and look where it leads me! A fucking party of wedded people, half of whom dead the next morning. And you have these mood swings that really get on my nerve. I don't fucking get how you can call me names one moment and then act nicely or ask for my help the next one." I never break our eye contact. "You refuse give me reasons to trust you, Andrew, yet you keep asking for it. And this isn't how this thing works."
This is it. This is the moment when he loses his temper like usual and calls me a self-centered nosey bitch who demands to know everything about him. And after that moment, he will announce that we can never be friends and kick me out of his truck.
I brace myself for a heated argument, but it never comes.
Instead, Drew places both if his hands on my shoulder, forcing me to lean over the control stick.
"I actually don't need you to come with me tonight." He's so close, yet I feel both of us are inching even closer. This isn't a good time to make out, Andrea." But I really want you to. And also," he sighs, and my eyelids flutter against my will, "it would mean a lot to me if you come."
Our foreheads almost touch and my subconscious' screams of alert are fuzzed out. Caution has left my system once more, and the only thing I can do rationally is hope that I'm not making a mistake by surrendering to Drew's charm again. What is pathetic about my situation is after my speech, he hasn't even tried to make me believe in him. Yet, for the umpteenth time, I do.
"Why?" I breathe, and the green in his eyes softens somehow.
Drew swallows. "I don't know. It's like—" he inhales, and suddenly I am aware that my perfume is having the same effect on him like his aftershave often have on me. "You make most nights better, Andy."
Oh, fuck, how can I not melt at that?
I don't remember the how he had let me go so we can drive home, or how my hands did not tremble when I open the door to climb out of the truck. Everything is a blur, a happy blur, which sometimes happen when I turn off my thinking ability. The next thing I know, Drew's hand is taking mine again as I am about is get out of his truck. Yanked back, I turn and stare at him.
"I'll come tonight, and I do hope that you would go with me."
The reply to this is a simple nod. In the shower, I go on and ponder about how I make choices when it comes to Andrew Archer, how it is not good that I always say "Yes", and how he has never failed to make me say the word.