Any Other Girl (14 page)

It wasn't like in the movies where the girl lands effortlessly and lightly across the guy's chest, nothing more than a surprised squeak emanating from either of them. No, it was more like an attack, clumsy and painful. My elbow dug into his stomach, making him grunt, and my face ended up in the dirt beside him.

Jeez
, I thought as I hauled myself off him and spit some dirt onto the ground.
Way to finish him off
. “Sorry,” I said, my face burning in more ways than one. “The ground is a little uneven here.”

He sat up, his face just inches from mine. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, then remembered how dark it was. “Yeah. It's just my cheek. I think I scraped it.”

“Let me see.”

Seconds later, I felt his warm palm on the side of my face, his thumb tracing the edges of the scratch. I closed my eyes and breathed in the tantalizing blend of earth and trees and Emmett, sucking it into my lungs like it was a rare brand of oxygen I needed to survive.

His thumb slid downward, grazing my lips like he was locating them on a map, plotting his destination.

He was going to kiss me, I knew, if I let him continue down this road. It was up to me to stop it, to veer him off course. “Emmett.” When he didn't pull back or remove his hand, I did it for him. “We can't.”

I heard him swallow. “Why not?”

“For one, I have dirt in my mouth.”

“I don't care.”

“It's not even that. It's . . .” I sighed and looked away, into the woods. The trees swayed in the light breeze, their branches nothing but smudged shadows against the gunmetal-gray sky. I turned back to Emmett. “You kissed Harper.” Then I held my breath, waiting for him to deny it, to tell me I was crazy, that he would never.

But he didn't say any of those things, and his silence gave me my answer.

“You kissed her,” I said again, with a hint of accusation.

“
She
kissed
me
, actually.” His voice was harsh. “You wanted me to try, Kat, remember? So I tried. Yeah, we kissed for a few seconds. And you know what happened next?”

I sat perfectly still, my knees pressed into the gritty soil. I was afraid to hear what happened next.

“Nothing,” he bit out. “Nothing happened, because that's what I felt when she kissed me—nothing. She knew it, too. It was pretty obvious that I wasn't into it. Into her. I don't want to kiss Harper. I never have. She's not the one I want to be with, and I told her that straight out. I told her I like someone else.” He heard my sharp intake of breath and added, “She doesn't know it's you.”

“Exactly,” I said, my heart racing at his words. “She doesn't know, and she can't know, Emmett. She . . . she'd hate me.”

His hand brushed my bare leg, making me shiver. “I'm not with her, Kat. She and I aren't together and we never will be. You haven't done anything wrong.”

But I have,
I thought. I
have
. I was treading on dangerous ground, being with Emmett. Hearing the things he said and feeling what I felt for him. Harper had liked him first, had claimed him first, and that meant he was off limits to me. He wasn't technically hers, but he was hers all the same. Family trumped everything, even this.
Especially
this.

Harper and I were blood, and Emmett was water.

“I have to go,” I said, standing up so fast that I almost fell back down. Dizzy and disoriented, I picked my way toward the path, ignoring Emmett's protests behind me, his offers to walk me back to my cottage.

I didn't need him to see me home. Even in the pitch dark, I knew exactly which way I needed to go.

chapter 19

“H
eads up!” I yelled, tossing the giant beach ball to Keaton, who was paddling in the lake a few feet from my dock. The ball bounced off his head and landed near the shore. He cut through the water like an overexcited little dolphin and went to fetch it.

We'd been doing that for the last half hour, shortly after his mom had dropped him off. Harper and I had agreed to babysit him for the afternoon while Mrs. McCurdy took the twins somewhere. She hadn't mentioned Nate's whereabouts.

As Keaton scrambled to retrieve the ball, I sat back down next to Harper on the dock, dangling my feet in the water.

“I can't believe summer's more than half over,” she said, her eyes on Keaton as he waded back into the lake, beach ball tucked under his skinny arm.

“I know.” It had been a weird first half of summer, the slow, hot days interposed with swimming and soccer and tension and Emmett. Always Emmett.

I'd been kind of relieved when Mrs. McCurdy called that morning, asking me to look after Keaton. Having him around would surely help diffuse the strange vibe that had been brewing between Harper and me since yesterday, when she finally brought up the night of the s'mores feast.

 

“Oh?” I tried to sound noncommittal when what I really felt was burning jealousy.
He would've told me,
I reasoned.

Was it a trick? Did she know?
I wondered. But no . . . Harper would never believe that I had it in me to betray her. Lie to her. She always assumed the best of me.

 

Our conversation had ended there, and it should've been so easy to say to her, “Since you're not going to date Emmett, do you mind if I do?” But she wasn't the type to step aside and just accept something like that. Even when we were little kids, she'd been possessive of whatever she felt was rightfully hers, whether it was Barbies or her mom or the last cupcake. She'd never liked to share. Emmett wasn't
hers
, of course, and he was free to date who he wanted to date. As long as it wasn't me. Even though she hadn't said as much, I'd read that part loud and clear. Nothing was going to come between us and Operation Best Summer, especially not a boy.

A day later, the slight tension between us still lingered. I had the same feeling I always got when my dads fought—like something had stabbed a hole in the safe, protective bubble surrounding us, exposing us to the kind of misfortune that was usually reserved for other people. The shift between my cousin and me made me feel unbalanced, like my relationship with her wasn't as impenetrable as I'd always thought.

“Heads up!” Keaton called as he flung the beach ball back at us.

Harper caught it seconds before it smacked me in the face.

“Nice one, Buster,” I said, splashing him with my foot.

“I'm hungry,” he said randomly.

We went inside where I made him a peanut butter sandwich out of Pop's famous oatmeal bread while Harper located some contraband Kool-Aid packs. I made a sandwich for Pop, too, even though I knew it would remain untouched as he powered through the conclusion of Book Six.

“I'm so close, so close,” he'd been saying all week, like a mantra.

After lunch, we headed out to the yard to kick around the soccer ball.

Harper taught Keaton some moves, showing him how to kick and pass and dribble the ball. When it came time to demonstrate tackles, she beckoned to me. “Kat's gonna try to score a goal, and I'm gonna stop her.”

Keaton looked on eagerly.

“Sure your busted ankle can handle it?” I jeered.

“My ankle is fine. Go.”

I started dribbling toward the goal—two large rocks spaced evenly apart by the edge of the driveway—all the while bracing for what I assumed would be Harper's legendary back tackle. Instead, she performed a sliding tackle, hurtling feet-first at the ball while grabbing my shirt for leverage. I wasn't prepared, so my feet flew out from under me and I ended up sprawled on my back in the grass, blinking up at the cloudless sky.

“That was
awesome
,” I heard Keaton say from somewhere behind me.

I turned my head to the side just in time to see Harper maneuver the ball neatly between the rocks. A flawless goal. She whooped and turned around, her joy deflating when she caught sight of me. “Sorry!” she called. “You okay?”

The wind still hadn't returned after being knocked so violently out of me, so I made a wheezing noise and sat up. “What the f—” I glanced at Keaton, who was two feet away and listening. “What the
heck
, Harper?”

She grabbed the soccer ball and walked over to me. “Sorry,” she repeated, giving me a hand to help me up. “Got a little carried away.”

I stared at her, my breath coming in puffs. She was never that aggressive when we were scrimmaging. We were competitive with each other, even ruthless, but not to the point of dirty moves.

“We're not on the soccer field, you know,” I snapped, feeling the ache in my tailbone. “And I'm not the opposing team.”

“I said I was sorry,” she snapped back. “It's not my fault you're so out of practice that you can't anticipate my moves anymore.”

“Are you guys mad?” Keaton asked.

“No,” we both answered him at once, our eyes still locked on each other. We stood there, seething at each other over Keaton's blond head, until footsteps sounded on the gravel driveway.

“Nate!” Keaton took off.

I broke eye contact with my cousin and watched Keaton run toward his brother, his mouth going a mile a minute as he filled him in on his unorthodox soccer lesson. Nate appeared to be only half listening, his gaze shifting between Harper and me as he approached.

“Just came to pick up the brat,” he explained, taking in my messy hair and Harper's grass-stained knees and the fact that we undoubtedly looked like we wanted to kill each other. That was new to Nate. Usually we looked like we wanted to kill
him
.

“I'm not a brat,” Keaton said. “And I don't want to go. I want to see Harper tackle Kat again.”

Nate couldn't hold back a leer.

“Me too, brat, but we have to get back. Mom will be home soon and we still haven't cleaned our rooms.” He gave his hair a self-conscious pat and looked at Harper. “Hey, do you guys want to come over tonight? Roast some marshmallows?”

“I'd rather die,” Harper told him, then turned and walked toward the woods, soccer ball between her palms.

Nate's gaze swung to me, but all I could do was shrug at him. With one last glance at Harper's retreating form, he put his hand on Keaton's head and steered him toward the road.

Once they were out of earshot, I caught up to Harper at the edge of the tree line. “What is your
problem
?”

“Me?” she said, spinning around to face me. “I'm not the one with the problem, Kat. You've been acting weird for weeks.”

“Weird how?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Never mind. You're perfect and wonderful, as usual. It's probably just me.”

“Harper.” When she turned to leave again, I grasped her arm, holding her there. “I want to know,” I said firmly. “Tell me how I've been acting weird.”

“You're just—” She let out another sigh. “You're not yourself lately. You're distracted and secretive and—”

Irritation prickled up my spine. She was right, of course, but how could she accuse me of something she was guilty of too? “
I'm
secretive? What about you? ‘A girl is entitled to a few secrets.' Isn't that what you told me the other night?”

She shut up and dropped her gaze to the ground. I had her there, and she knew it. We'd both been acting weird and cagey lately, and it wasn't just due to Emmett. Maybe she
had
outgrown me. We'd always been different—total opposites, in fact—but sometimes that didn't matter in families. Sometimes sharing blood was enough to bond people, to connect them for life. And other times, it wasn't nearly enough.

“My ankle hurts,” Harper said, and then she pivoted on her heel and continued toward the woods and her cottage, leaving me alone on the grass.

 

A few hours later, a knock on the door jolted me out of a dead sleep. I'd lain down after Harper had left, more to rest my aching back than because I was sleepy, but I'd ended up dozing off anyway. Groggy, I dragged myself off my bed and went to answer the door.

“Dinner!” Aunt Carrie stood on the other side, her arms loaded with plastic-wrapped plates of what appeared to be pasta, a huge loaf of bread balanced on top. As I held the door open for her, I caught a whiff of garlic. My stomach growled in response.

“I thought you guys might need a home-cooked meal by now,” she added, placing the bread and plates on the table. There were four . . . one for each of us and one to save in the fridge for Dad, who usually rolled in around eight p.m. on Fridays. No plate for Harper, but that wasn't surprising.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing at the microwave clock. Five-thirty. I'd slept for almost three hours.
Crap.

“Where's that brother of mine?” Aunt Carrie asked as she flitted around the kitchen, gathering napkins and forks. “Still attached to his laptop?”

“Shower.” I'd heard him in there as I passed by the bathroom. He always waited until zero hour to pull himself together before Dad arrived.

“Well, let's start without him. This is getting cold.”

Aunt Carrie was a great cook. The fettuccine alfredo she'd made practically melted on my tongue, and the garlic bread was soft and buttery. After subsisting on PB&J, bananas, smoothies, and ice cream all week, it was exactly what I needed. My energy returned the minute the first bite hit my stomach.

“Where's Harper?” I asked, severing a noodle with my fork.

“She wanted to stay home.” Aunt Carrie picked up the pepper grinder and looked at me. “You two have a fight?”

“I guess.”

“What about?”

“I'm not even sure,” I replied with a shrug.

She smiled. “You used to do that when you were little, you and Harper. Have little fights over nothing and then forget about them a few hours later. I think that happens in all close relationships.” When I didn't respond, she reached over and patted my hand. “Don't take it personally, Kat. She's always overly sensitive for a couple days after a phone call with her father.”

“He called?” I asked, chomping into a piece of garlic bread.

“Last night. Told her he couldn't get together with her at the end of August after all. He'd promised to take her rock-climbing the weekend before she starts school, but apparently something came up with work and he had to cancel. Harper was upset.”

The creamy alfredo felt like paste in my mouth. God, no wonder she'd been so antagonistic earlier. “She didn't tell me.”

“Yeah, well, you know how she is when it comes to Lawrence. She doesn't want people to know that he still has the power to hurt her.” Aunt Carrie let out a heavy sigh. “I wish she'd realize that most parents have that power over their children, even when they're fully grown.”

I knew she was referring to her and Pop's parents, who had practically disowned Pop after he came out in college. Their father had eventually come around, but he'd died when I was eight. Their mother still hadn't forgiven him, or Aunt Carrie either, for sticking by him. Or Aunt Beth, for helping to create me. In my grandmother's mind, good God-fearing people didn't a) turn out gay, b) accept a gay sibling, or c) help that gay sibling become a parent.

But ostracizing one's own children was just fine, apparently.

Pop appeared in the kitchen then, scrubbed and shaved and wearing clean clothes. “What calorie-laden delicacies did you bring over this time?” he asked his sister.

Aunt Carrie pushed out his chair with her foot. “Sit. Eat. You're getting too thin anyway.”

“He always forgets to eat near the end,” I reminded her, scraping every last bit of sauce off my plate.

“I'm so close,
so
close,” Pop chanted. “A couple more chapters to go and I'm done. Then I'll relax.”

“What about revisions?” I asked.

“And promotion?” Carrie added.

“And book signings?

“And—”

Pop held up his fork, stopping us. “Okay, another few months and I'll relax.”

“Or start Book Seven,” I muttered.