Conner managed to get out of my driveway before Becker’s car pulled up. I ducked, but I doubt he missed it. I doubt he didn’t just see me stand him up with another guy. THE guy.
“Why do I keep doing this?” I asked.
“Because you like me.” Conner laughed and then reached over to put his hand on my knee. Not in a creepy, date-rape way, but in a comfortable this-is-okay way. I exhaled.
“How’s Trish?” I asked. I was bitter. She’d ripped out a handful of my hair with her redheaded, Tasmanian devil fighting style. I was lucky I still had both of my eyes.
“She’s good,” Conner said quietly.
My stomach turned. I’d wanted to hear, “She’s bad.” Or, “She was disfigured in a motorcycling accident.” Or best yet, “We broke up.” But he didn’t say that. He just said she was good.
“How’s Becker?” he asked.
I looked over at him, his hand still on my knee, a smirk on his lips. I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why I kept coming back to Conner. Sure, he was hot. And yes, when we weren’t hiding or being physically assaulted, we got along great. Since that first day when he pinged me in the head with a Frisbee.
“Are we in love or something?” I asked, my voice cracking. What? What the hell did I just ask?
Conner squeezed my knee. “Or something,” he answered and turned down the dirt road.
(And by the way, my nose ring is healing nicely. In case you were worried. )