Collateral Damage

Chapter Twenty-Six

Too embarrassed to call or even text an apology, I spent the rest of the weekend holed up in my room, berating myself for my stupidity. What the hell had I been thinking? After all my careful reasoning for keeping things platonic, I not only kissed him, I let things get heated to the point where I actually thought...

Why, why did I kiss him? It was such a stupid thing to do!

And yet...part of me couldn't regret it. It hadn't felt completely wrong...

What was I thinking? Of course it was wrong! It proved that I was nowhere near ready for another relationship. I still hadn't learned one damn thing from last spring's ordeal. I was still jumping to conclusions, assuming the worst about people—about all boys. It's not like us girls didn't have a reason to be suspicious. There were plenty of predators lurking out there, ready to take advantage.

But John? I hadn't known him as long as Matt, but I ought to have known he wasn't like that.

This was exactly why I didn't want to get involved again, especially not with a friend—the only one I had left. In one stupid night, I put all that in jeopardy. I was such an idiot.

By Monday, I knew what I was going to say: John, I'm sorry. You're a good friend and I don't want to mess that up, so let's just pretend it never happened. Not the most eloquent apology, but at least it was honest.

I couldn't find him until English class. He was five minutes late, which was unusual for him. He briskly apologized to Ms. Bergmann and took a seat in the back row—several rows away from his usual seat. And from me.

My heart sank. He was avoiding me, and I couldn't blame him.

So I could only sit through class, waiting for the inevitable moment where I could at least try to corner him. It was doubly unbearable for the fact that we were still discussing Othello. A story about impulsive passion was the last thing I needed right now.

When it came to a merciful end, I timidly followed John in the hallway. He hadn't rushed out of the classroom; his pace was slow, languid.

I cleared my throat, bracing myself for what was sure to be an awkward and ugly conversation. "John..."

He turned around. "Oh hey," he greeted me in an oddly bright voice.

"Hi," I replied tentatively.

"I'm getting a little sick of Shakespeare," he went on. "What do you think we're going to read next?"

"I don't know..."

"As long as it's not Catcher in the Rye. Last thing I need to read is another book about a moody, miserable teen whining about everything. You want to read that, go on Twitter and look up some of our classmates."

Was this how he was going to play it? Act like nothing was wrong, that he hadn't seen me all morning? Not even talk about it all?

Swallowing my nerves, I dove into the shark-infested waters. "John, about the other night...I'm really sorry."

He merely shrugged, nonchalant as ever. "Don't worry about it."

"No ..." I hesitated, unable to articulate all the conflicted thoughts and feelings inside me. I wanted to make him understand. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine," he cut me off. "You don't need to explain. It was a just a one-time thing. We don't have to make a big deal out of it."

I narrowed my eyes. It was almost exactly what I had planned to tell him. "So...we're okay?"