Promposal (12 page)

“Ethan!” I said in a loud almost-yell. “I think you need to scale it back a bit.”

He blinked at me, and I saw the near-manic edge to his face ease up. “A little too over the top, huh?”

“Just a touch.” I snagged a fry. “It's not about how big it is.”

He snorted.

I slit my eyes and waved the fry at him. “Dirty boy. You know what I mean.”

“I do. Please, go on.” He planted his hands in his lap and focused those brilliant eyes on me.

I swallowed. Attempted to find my train of thought. Oh, right. “Um, it's not about how massive the
gesture
is. It's about the heart that's behind it. Not cheese, not desperation.” I raised a brow and gave him a knowing look. “It's about sincerity. Sentimentality. The best approach is to make him feel special, make him unable to say no because he's so overwhelmed—in a good way.”

“What do you think's the best promposal?”

I sucked in a loud breath. Frowned. No way could I go down this road with him. It was bad enough I was helping to hook him up with someone else.

“No, really. Please. I suck at this. But I trust you and your opinion, and I need your help. Please.” His eyes begged me. “What do you feel would be the ultimate promposal?”

I took a long drag from my straw. Debated the question for a good minute. Because I knew it would kill me to see my ideal promposal used on someone else. But I also had some crazy, masochistic urge to confess to him how I felt. Maybe this would appease that need without giving too much away and hurting our friendship.

He didn't have to know that it would be my ideal promposal from him.

“Well,” I started to say as I leaned back in my chair. “The best promposal is the one that comes from the heart. It doesn't try too hard. It's confident without being arrogant or fake. It shows that you understand the person, have taken the time to pay attention and learn him. Nothing is more flattering than feeling like someone gets you.”

He nodded, a tiny encouragement for me to continue.

I dropped my attention to the table and gathered my courage. “My ideal promposal would be simple, but done in stages. First, I'd get a mix CD sent to my house, and the songs on it would all have special meaning. Maybe I'd get flowers the next day—something living, not cut. I want a plant I can grow. Symbolic of how he and I would grow together. And the following day I'd get something that showed us connected, like pictures we'd taken together. It would make me laugh and smile as I thought about how much fun we always had.”

My throat tightened, and I thought about the corkboard in my bedroom that was covered with pictures of me, Ethan, and Camilla. And the ones hidden in a small photo album in my top dresser drawer that were just me and him. I clenched my hands. I didn't dare look up now. So much of my personal emotions were spilling into my words, and I couldn't quite hold them all back.

I made myself continue. “On the day of the promposal, it wouldn't happen in front of people—there would be no big public
display. Because the show isn't what matters. It would be just the two of us, standing under a big blue sky, the sun shining down on our faces.” If I closed my eyes, I could see me and Ethan, standing like that. Hands linked together, mouths turned up in smiles. I knew his face so well, I saw every detail in my dreams. “And . . . the guy would tell me how this wasn't just about prom. It was about us, our friendship, the start of our future. It would be quiet and simple and romantic, and . . .” I stopped myself and finally risked a look at Ethan.

Emotion poured out of his large eyes. His mouth was a thin line, and he just stared at me. No words.

I stared back. Silence pulsed between us, a living entity.

He swallowed, blinked. Stood. “I need to go to the bathroom.” And then rushed away from the table.

Shit, shit, shit.
I wanted to bang my head on the table in frustration; all my muscles were clenched in agonizing tension. I'd given myself away, and Ethan had freaked out. Of course. Because what was supposed to be a detached conversation had turned intimate, personal. Had revealed things about me we'd never discussed before.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and shoved the basket of fries away. My stomach had turned, was cramped and hurting a little.
Relax,
I told myself. I hadn't specifically mentioned his name. Surely he wouldn't figure it out from that.

But beneath that tension and stress was a thick layer of hurt. Because even though Ethan wouldn't know it was about him, something in him had rejected my vision. Had run away from it.

My chest burned, and my eyes stung. I blinked. No way in hell was I going to cry right now. No. Way. In. Hell.

I dug out my phone and shot Camilla a text.
Blew it—freaked Ethan out. Talked about promposal. Told him my perfect one. Think I admitted too much. What do I do??

My fingers shook as I hit send.

A moment later, the phone buzzed back.
Hugs—STAY COOL. We'll talk l8r, k? Keep chin up. Be your charming self. <3

She was right. I needed to fake my way through the rest of this evening. Then I could go home and analyze this conversation to death. But for now, smile, smile, smile.

I lifted my shoulders, lifted my chin, made myself eat a French fry, then another. Like nothing in the world was bothering me.

After a minute, Ethan came back. He gave me a chagrined grimace. “Hey, I'm sorry. I just . . . I don't know what happened.”

“It's fine,” I said with an airy wave of my hand. I was back in control of myself. “I got a little
verklempt
myself. So, back to the subject. Let's iron out what you're going to do.”

He paused. “Maybe we can do this another day.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” I scoffed. “We're running out of time. We need to start firming up your plans now, or it isn't going to happen.” I was proud that none of the fleeting hope I felt at that thought came through on my face or in my words.

“Are you sure?” He seemed hesitant.

I pointed at my face and gave him a charming smile. “Is this the face of a guy who's unsure?”

Rather than make him laugh, his frown deepened. “You don't need to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Act like things didn't get weird.”

“Everything is fine.” I widened my smile. Ate another French fry.
“Okay. What was weird was me getting oddly sentimental in such a public place. But now you know what to tell all my secret admirers if they want to know the best way to ask me to prom.”

He thinned his lips, and an emotion flickered across his face too fast for me to identify it. “Who are you going with, by the way? I just realized that in all this fuss over me, we haven't talked about
your
plans.”

That stopped me. I hadn't thought up a plausible lie to feed him on what I was going to do. Mostly because I figured he'd be so distracted by trying to win Noah that he wouldn't think about me. Pride made me lie through my teeth. “There's . . . a guy I'm going to ask.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“He's not someone you know.”

“I know a lot of people. Who is it?”

“He doesn't go to our school,” I fudged.

“Where did you two meet?”

I swallowed. “At . . . the mall.” Okay, I really sucked at this lying thing. “So, what do you think you're going to do about the promposal?”

Ethan leaned forward, relentlessly pushing. “And when did you meet him?”

“A few months ago or something. We're just casual friends.”

“Why didn't you bring him up before, then?”

“Why? Are you jealous?” The words shot out of my mouth before I could stop them.

He huffed and leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms over his chest. “Jealous? No. You're my best friend. No one can take that away from me.”

If I didn't know better, I'd suspect he
was
jealous. But I did know better, and Ethan wasn't the type. If anything, he was probably hurt I hadn't mentioned the guy. And now I'd dug myself into it so deeply that I had to come up with a backstory on someone who didn't even exist.

“I'm not even sure I'm going to ask him,” I said in a firm tone. “I'm still ironing out my plans.” Which now included begging Camilla to help me dig my way out of this ridiculous hole. “So for now, I'd rather we spend the time focused on you and your issue. One problem at a time, okay?”

His nod wasn't convincing. “You know we can talk about anything, right?” he asked me.

“Of course I do. And when I have something I need to discuss, I'll bring it up. I promise.” Fake guys and secret loves didn't count as things I needed to discuss. At least, not with him. “Our fries are getting cold, and my ass is getting numb sitting in this seat.”

He sighed but acquiesced. “Fine, princess. Let's finish up here so you can massage those glutes.”

The next half hour was a bit rough, but eventually Ethan relaxed and seemed to let go of our previous discussion. He decided his promposal shouldn't be too flashy, though it was still up in the air whether or not it would be in front of others. He was also torn on which angle to take—if he should make it music-themed or theater-themed. I encouraged him to take a couple of days to mull it over and we'd refine the plan then. Mostly because at that point, I wanted to just get the hell out of there.

As I walked home, I couldn't believe I'd done that. Lied to Ethan, right to his face. I couldn't remember the last time I'd fibbed like that. Probably the candy bar debacle in eighth grade, when I'd
made him think Camilla had eaten his Milky Way when it was really me. But guilt had made me fess up to it shortly after.

I dug out my phone and walked on the mostly empty sidewalk, darkness cocooning me. Then I dialed the one person who could help me now.

“Hey, you okay?” Camilla sounded concerned.

I sucked in a steady breath and exhaled. “I did something super dumb.”

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

“Hardy har.” I turned right and kept going down the sidewalk until I was on her doorstep. “I'm outside. I hope you have sugar products, because I'm about to destroy them all.”

I heard footsteps pounding inside. Then the door flung open. Camilla stood there in baggy sweatpants and a tank top. She wrapped me in a big hug.

“Come in, come in,” she soothed as she ushered me into the house. “There's nothing some chocolate chip cookies and your female bestie can't fix.”

U
gh. For whatever reason, this Thursday was the slowest day in the history of slow days. First period felt like it lasted twelve hours. By the time I got to psych, my last class for the day, I was dragging ass.

I plopped into my seat, and Benjamin glanced at me over his shoulder.

“Late night?” he commented with an eyebrow raised.

My lips twitched, and a little bit of life infused in me. “Not really.” Though I had stayed up a little later than usual working on my solo portion of our group project, where we evaluate each other and discuss our overall thoughts, how we felt the project personally impacted us, et cetera.

“Class, we have a lot of information to get through today, and I also want to allow you time to finish up your projects.” Mrs. Brandwright perched on the edge of her desk, and the class noise settled to quiet. “I hope you've made good progress, because they're due tomorrow.”

There were a few stifled groans around us. I heard Carter
sigh from behind me. Mrs. Brandwright had pulled us aside and mentioned Carter would be doing his own project, due to missing school for the last several days from illness. So we didn't need to include him in our work. I was glad he was feeling better but also a bit relieved we weren't dependent on him anymore.

She began to give her lecture, and I dutifully wrote notes. We were wrapping up our discussion of social mores, and I had to admit, I was curious what would be next. Were there more group projects in our future? Could I possibly be paired with Benjamin again? No, there hadn't been another kiss. But we'd been talking every day this week, passing notes, discussing books and music and art.

There was a tap on my knee. My heart did that painful, excited thud it always did when he passed me a note. I dropped my hand down and grabbed it, unfolded it.

What book made you uncomfortable to read as a kid?

I bit my lower lip to keep from giggling out loud at the first one that popped into my mind. But I couldn't hide my smirk as I scrawled,
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret
on the paper. Then added,
It was accompanied by
The Talk,
along with an awkward demonstration on pads.

I handed it back to him. Paper rustled. I heard him laugh, which he covered quickly with a cough. My grin widened.

The note was passed back.

Sounds like there's a story in there. My mom drew pictures as well when I got
The Talk.
Also checked out books on anatomy. It was scarring.

I chewed on the end of my pen. As I tried to come up with something witty to reply, my phone buzzed. I dug it out of my pocket.

Roses, right? But do you have a color preference? It's for the corsage.

I should be happy that my prom date was so attentive to my needs. But it felt like an interruption. The impossible had happened: Benjamin was talking to me now, opening up to me like we were friends . . . with the real potential to grow into more. Not to mention that Zach had stopped hounding me for a couple of days.

Apparently not for good, though.

Doesn't matter to me,
I typed back, then sent.

My phone buzzed a moment later. I closed my eyes and drew in a steadying breath so I didn't write something rude. But the message wasn't from Zach.