If I'm Being Honest Read online

  “No. I haven’t forgotten. You told me to find someone as pathetic as I am to hook up with,” she says harshly, her anger from that night not completely faded.

  “I as much as called you pathetic. I thought it, too. I have a dozen memories of my dad saying the same to my mom. I’ve watched it wreck her a little more each time. I know what an awful thing it is to hurl at someone, and I did it anyway.” I raise my gaze to her. “I’m sorry, Paige. I really am. I would take it back if I could. You’re a million miles from pathetic.”

  I’m the pathetic one. The thought is too heavy to reach my voice. Everyone knows it anyway, Paige especially.

  “See?” Paige says. “Not like your dad at all, are you? Has he ever given a genuine apology like that in his life?”

  The thought crumbles into a thousand little pieces. “No,” I say, surprised. “I don’t think he has.” It sounds like such a small difference between him and me—just a few words. I’m sorry. But it’s not small. It’s actually really huge. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

  “Besides,” Paige continues, “you weren’t entirely wrong. You were just saying something I didn’t want to hear.”

  “No—” I try to protest, but she cuts me off.

  “I hooked up with Jeff Mitchel, and I didn’t even like him. It’s why I was crying when I stumbled into you. I was disgusted with myself, with what a pathetic thing I’d done, and I was starting to wonder if it wasn’t all just a big excuse. If I tell myself I’m doing it to get my parents to notice me, but really I’m just a screwup.”

  “You’re not,” I say quickly. “Not at all. Maybe—okay, definitely—hooking up with Jeff was a mistake. But no one’s perfect, right?” She smiles, and I know she remembers the speech she gave her friends before Rocky. “I mean, if it’d make you feel better I could list all the mistakes I’ve made.”

  Paige’s lips twitch. “That’s okay. We can’t sit here all night.”

  I pull an indignant expression, but Paige starts the car. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  She drives back down the block without hesitating. “Your mom’s not home, and we just had a major bonding moment.” She steals a glance at me. “I think you should sleep over. Isn’t that, like, something popular girls like to do?”

  I laugh and settle into my seat. “I told you you didn’t know anything about popular girls.”

  Paige raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. But I don’t think you do, either. I think you’re just you.”

  We sit in comfortable silence the whole drive to Paige’s house.

  Thirty-Five

  I STARE UP AT PAIGE’S CEILING. HER room is dark, and she’s snoring softly. I’m waiting for sleep, feeling peaceful in a way I could get used to.

  It was past eight when we pulled into Paige’s driveway. We ordered pizza—it felt fittingly stereotypical for a slumber party. Brendan didn’t join us. I don’t know where he is, and I didn’t go looking for him. Paige forced me to watch three episodes of Boys Over Flowers, which ended up being nearly four hours because Korean TV episodes run over an hour each. While I didn’t understand everything, I’ll admit she wasn’t forcing me by episode three.

  Paige fell asleep pretty much immediately after we finished watching. It’s two in the morning now. I get up and tiptoe to the door, wanting a glass of water.

  But when I walk into the hallway, I can’t help noticing an illuminated strip on the floor under Brendan’s bedroom door.

  I hesitate. I haven’t wanted to tell Brendan the truth because I haven’t wanted to face how uninterested in me I have to assume he is. It felt like worthwhile reasoning yesterday, even hours ago. Now, I don’t know. I’ve told myself Brendan wouldn’t fit into my life, but just because I haven’t worked it out on paper doesn’t mean it won’t work.

  I’ve been honest with everyone else in my entire life, even when it’s to my detriment. If I’m not honest about my feelings toward Brendan I’m not just giving up the possibility of us, I’m betraying myself. If that honesty leads to getting rejected, then okay. I’m not afraid anymore, not after opening up to Paige about things I’ve never felt comfortable telling people close to me. Real friends like Paige accept me for who I am. I won’t be alone even if Brendan rejects me.

  I walk decisively to Brendan’s door. Without knocking, I barge in, realizing a moment too late what a sixteen-year-old boy could be doing alone in his room in the middle of the night. Thankfully, Brendan’s only writing in a bulky SAT book when I walk in.

  He spins around in his chair, obviously startled. “I didn’t kiss you to resuscitate your social life,” I say, not giving him the chance to ask why I’m here.

  His mouth works hopelessly to form words. “Cameron, it’s the middle of the night. Why are you even in my house?”

  I close the door and don’t bother with his question. “I kissed you because I had to know what was between us,” I inform him.

  Confusion fades from Brendan’s features, replaced by astonishment and finally something guarded. His voice is unsteady when he asks, “What did you conclude?”

  “I have to admit something before I tell you,” I reply. I draw in a breath. I’m perched at the edge of a cliff, and finally I’m ready to dive. “You once asked me why I wanted to make amends for the things I’ve done. The truth is, I was doing it to become a better person.” Brendan opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand, halting him. “And I wanted to become a better person so Andrew Richmond would date me.”

  Brendan’s expression clouds over with hurt. “Wait,” he says darkly, his eyes flashing, “our entire friendship, you were just using me to impress some other guy?”

  I’m not going to try to talk him out of his anger. He’s entitled to be angry. I’m here to bare everything in my heart, and I won’t hesitate until I have.

  “Brendan,” I say forcefully. “Our friendship might have begun because of Andrew. But it was only that for about two seconds. Every time I talked to you after that horrendously bad first apology was because I wanted to talk to you.” Brendan opens his mouth once again, and again I cut him off. “No, I have to say this. Last week, I got what I wanted. Andrew asked me to winter formal. And . . . I said no.”

  I watch Brendan’s features while I say it, expecting incomprehension or even disgust. Instead, his face remains closed off, expressionless. I wait for him to say something. But this time, he’s silent.

  “I said no because of you,” I continue. I feel the tempo of my heart pick up, my pulse pounding in the tips of my fingers. The words feel foreign in my mouth, even frightening. “Because when we kissed, I felt something real. Something I’d never felt with anyone, Andrew included. I think I was feeling it for a long time. Of course, seeing you in your . . . costume”—I glance toward the region on him I have in mind, and I catch the flicker of humor on his lips—“helped wake me up to my feelings. But it wasn’t only that. It was the times you made me laugh when I was upset, or when you told me you liked and even wanted my honest opinions.”

  I walk across the room, closing the distance between us. I feel electricity in my nerves.

  “All my life,” I say, “I thought love required hard work. It’s what my parents taught me.” My dad’s made me earn his love, and my mom’s chased it without ever reaching it. “But, Brendan, you’ve shown me it’s the opposite.”

  I’m close enough now to touch him.

  “It’s not hard to be with someone you love. It’s the most natural thing in the world,” I finish. He stands up, his eyes locked on mine.

  I lean in gently.

  Brendan doesn’t move away, and I kiss him.

  Or, really, “kiss” isn’t the word. I fold into him, fitting perfectly into the frame I once found unnaturally tall, running a hand through his slightly too-long, wonderful hair. He kisses me back, his arms encircling my waist and pulling me forward. It’s like when we kissed in the robotics room, ex
cept multiplied by a hundred.

  Okay, now I’m thinking of kissing in mathematical terms. The nerd is definitely rubbing off on me.

  He’s unhesitating. His hand runs up my back, his mouth gentle and relentless all at once. I can’t tell if I’m holding in a breath or breathless. I wonder if every guy with no experience kisses like this or if it’s just Brendan.

  He withdraws, but his hands remain holding my waist tightly, not letting me go. “What’s . . . happening right now?” His voice holds genuine confusion edged with exhilaration.

  I press a kiss against his neck. “I just told you I want to be with you,” I say, uncertainty tugging at my tone. “If you don’t want to be with me, then I guess I’ll go . . .” I start to turn away.

  Brendan laughs, catching me by the elbow and pulling me back.

  “You’re joking, right?” he asks.

  I don’t say anything. Obviously, he’s kissing me, which isn’t nothing. But I just vomited my feelings to him in one long, acrid outpouring, and he’s said nothing in return.

  The humor fades from Brendan’s expression, and he gently brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I’ve been fighting feelings for you for a while, Cameron,” he says. “Fighting because of what you did to me years ago and because everyone knows you’re the unattainable Cameron Bright, and I thought I’d never have a chance with you. But it’s been a losing battle.” I’ve never heard this intensity in his voice, not even in our first conversation. His eyes, lit with perfect clarity, fix on mine. “I remember when I realized I felt this way about you. You were ordering Grant around in the library. And trying terribly, I have to add, to drop references to Link from Zelda.”

  “Don’t you mean,” I say, not suppressing a smile, “boy-Zelda?”

  “How could I forget?” Brendan asks wryly. “I thought it was obvious how I felt when I asked you out on a date.” Warmth swells in my chest. It was a date! “Then you practically encouraged me to hook up with Eileen Roth, and I got confused. I’ve been trying this week not to pressure you into anything you didn’t want. But I’ve known what I want for a long time.” His voice drops to a murmur. “Don’t ever doubt this, Cameron. I’m crazy about you. You, with your fierce intelligence and extraordinary talent. You, with your uncompromising opinions. And I want you to know it. I’m desperate for you to know it.”

  I hardly even process his words. In the next moment, he’s kissing me.

  When I went for Andrew, I planned everything consciously, even calculatingly. I tried to find and design the perfect thing to say for every moment. Nobody’s ever bothered to figure out what would be the exact right thing to say to me. What I need to hear.

  Nobody until Brendan, who just did it effortlessly.

  I draw us both toward the bed. Brendan follows, his lips remaining on mine. He breaks off when the backs of my legs touch the comforter.

  “Cool, bye now,” he says in a terrible imitation of me. His hands slip lower on my back.

  Heat rises in my cheeks. “Oh, shut up. I panicked. I admit it wasn’t my smoothest line.” I speak haltingly, distracted by his touch crossing my waistband.

  “No, it definitely wasn’t your—” I cut him off with a kiss, having had enough of this teasing. “Mmm,” he murmurs against my lips. “It’s going to take my brain a while to accept this is really happening.”

  “That’s okay.” I climb onto the covers, pulling him with one hand onto me. “I’ve got time.”

  He holds himself over me on one elbow, dipping his head to press quick kisses to my lips. Each fires a spark through me. I bend my legs impulsively, instinctively, and he collapses into me, his hand running up my arm, his heartbeat racing to match mine. I can’t catch my breath, but it’s a delicious kind of breathlessness.

  I feel a tremble in his touch, an echo of the nervous exhilaration flooding though me. Reaching up, I caress his forearm, and he grins into my lips.

  He withdraws a fraction of an inch. “Do you remember,” he asks, his voice a tender whisper, “when I told you there was nothing I could ever want from you?”

  I do remember. I couldn’t forget his vehemence during our first conversation, the wounded resentment in his eyes when he ordered me out of his life. I nod.

  “Well, I was wrong.”

  “Oh yeah?” I run my hands up his chest, raising an eyebrow coyly. “What is it you want from me, Brendan Rosenfeld?”

  He leans in, his lips brushing my cheek as he whispers in my ear. “Everything.”

  * * *

  We wake to the routine sounds of Brendan’s parents in the kitchen, footsteps and closing cabinets outside Brendan’s door. We slept on top of the covers in our clothes, wrapped in each other. I don’t even remember when we nodded off.

  He tucks me to his chest, and I don’t want to budge for the rest of the day. Possibly forever.

  But instead, I whisper, “I should sneak back to Paige’s room. I don’t exactly think our relationship would go over well if your parents found out by walking in on us.”

  “We could risk it,” he mutters, smiling sleepily.

  I can’t help a laugh. But reluctantly, I walk to Brendan’s door. I pause with my hand on the knob, a thought leaping into my head, sunlight through an open window. “Brendan,” I say, facing him. “Will you go to winter formal with me?”

  Brendan beams. I can’t remember a time he’s looked this openly happy, and it’s unbelievably endearing. It makes me want to ask him again, just to fix that expression on his face.

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes, Cameron. I’d love to.”

  I open his bedroom door, throwing a final smile over my shoulder.

  I walk quickly and quietly down the hall to Paige’s room. Easing the door open gently, I duck into the bedroom, where I’m relieved to find Paige breathing evenly under the covers. I slide gingerly into my sleeping bag.

  I’m replaying the night, my chest full with the memory, when Paige speaks, startling me. “I knew it,” she says, her eyes still closed. “I knew you liked him.” She rolls over and fixes me with a triumphant grin.

  I reach for a comeback. And for the first time in the history of my friendship with Paige, I come up empty.

  “Wow,” she says in undisguised astonishment. “You’ve got it bad.”

  I smile and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Yeah, I do.

  Thirty-Six

  I CHANGED MY OUTFIT THREE TIMES THIS morning, and I still have no idea if I picked the right one. What do you wear when you’re going public to the Beaumont student body with your relationship with Brendan Rosenfeld while your friends hate you and want every excuse to scoff behind your back?

  Not that what I’m wearing will matter to Brendan, of course. It doesn’t even really matter to me.

  The outfit’s a distraction from this weekend. From the problems I knew—even while watching TV with Paige and taking refuge in Brendan’s arms—I would come back to when I got home.

  I found Mom sleeping on the couch in my Homecoming dress when I got home from Paige’s on Saturday. Even though it was nearly ten, I didn’t bother waking her up, but I had to resist the urge to throw the front door closed behind me. For the next day and a half, I endured her watery eyes and one-word conversations. Whatever happened with my dad, it wasn’t good. She called in sick to work twice, and I know she’s not getting to work on time today. It won’t be long before she gets fired or quits.

  I’ve kept out of her way. If I speak to her, I’ll say nothing nice. I have nothing nice to say. I’ll let out years of resentment, the bitterness that boils in me every time I have to watch her fall into familiar patterns with Dad. I know she was disappointed in her plans with him just like I was. But I don’t understand why she can’t or won’t protect us from this person, this human wrecking ball who destroys us both every time we try to rebuild.

  I have a full school day before I h
ave to face her again, though—a day including Brendan.

  I find him waiting on the front steps—waiting, I realize, for me. I’ve never seen Brendan in the morning. I figure he’s usually in one classroom or another by now, and it fills me with an indefinable gratitude that he’s come out for me. He’s grinning already, and I feel a pang of frustration I can’t put thoughts of my mom from my mind and concentrate entirely on this new thing between him and me.

  I’m walking up the steps when two volleyball guys pass Brendan, cutting him quizzical looks. I notice the way his expression wavers, and he self-consciously shifts the straps of his backpack. “I wasn’t sure if I should walk you to class,” he says when I reach him. “Usually I pick up what I need for Computer Science from Mr. West’s room—”

  “Brendan,” I interrupt, “do you want to walk me to class?”

  He blinks. “Of course,” he says after a moment.

  “Then I don’t know why this is a question.”

  Brendan’s gaze wavers from mine. “It’s just . . .” he begins reluctantly. “I’d understand if you don’t want to be public about us,” he says finally. “The only thing that’s important to me is being with you.”

  His words throw me, until I put together the pieces—the way he dodges my eyes, the way he flinched from the jocks like a fugitive in plain sight. “You think I’m embarrassed to be seen with you?”

  “Well . . .” Brendan half shrugs uncomfortably.

  I take his hand, entwining my fingers with his. “You’re wrong,” I tell him. “So wrong I’m starting to doubt if you’re as smart as everyone says you are.”

  Hesitantly, he smiles. We walk up the front steps, hand in hand. I don’t fail to catch the glances from the crowd hanging out in front of the doors—including Elle, who’s not openly stunned like the rest. Just dismissive. “You actually might be more popular than I am at the moment,” I mutter to Brendan.