“This is going to sting,” he warns, his eyes never leaving mine.
He tears open an antiseptic wipe and runs it across my cut. I shiver from the quick, sharp burn. Then he lifts my palm to his face and blows lightly. I shiver again. This time, I think it has more to do with Thayer than the cut.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Thayer asks softly.
“I’m fine,” I say, wincing.
“I don’t mean from the cut,” he says. “I mean about … your dream. Whatever woke you up. You seem …” He trails off, perhaps not able to find the words.
“I was dreaming about my mother,” I blurt suddenly. “My real mother, I mean. You know I’m adopted, right?”
“Yes.” If Thayer can tell I’m nervous, he doesn’t react. He just peels the backing off a large Band-Aid, fixing it tightly over my cut. Then he balls my hand into a fist, cupping it in his own, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. His strong grip comforts me, and I continue.
“I do that, sometimes—dream about her. It wakes me up every time. Except, it’s not really her, even—not that I’d really know. I have no memories of her. And it was a closed adoption, so my parents—the Mercers, I mean—won’t talk about it.”
For a moment, the kitchen is still, the low hum of the air-conditioning the only sound other than my own and Thayer’s breathing. When a few more seconds pass and Thayer doesn’t say anything, I start to panic. Maybe I shared too much. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear my lame dreams or angst about my birth parents. It’s not something I like to think about myself. I don’t even write the feelings down in my journal.
But then Thayer squeezes my hand more tightly. “That must be hard,” he says simply.
A rush of emotion washes over me. It is the best thing, the only thing, really, to say.
“Do you hope to meet her someday?” Thayer asks.
I consider this. Astonishingly, it’s a question no one has ever asked me. “I think so,” I say. “I mean, there’s part of me that’s really angry at her, of course—every adopted kid feels that way, probably. I want to know why she gave me up, why she couldn’t keep me.”
“Maybe she had a good reason.”
“Maybe.” I nod. “But more than that, I’d just like to see her. Talk to her. Figure out if we even have anything in common.” Suddenly, I feel tears blinking at the corners of my eyes. I swallow hard, horribly embarrassed. I am not going to cry around Thayer.
I give an exaggerated shrug. “Anyway, whatever. You asked what I was dreaming about, so there you have it.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Thayer says. Then he takes a breath. “I’m not a great sleeper, either.”
“Why not?”
“Insomnia, mostly. But I used to sleepwalk,” he confesses, looking sheepish. “It used to freak my parents out so badly.”
“What did you do?”
He laughs. “Well, once they came downstairs to find me sitting up on the couch in the den, remote control in hand, with an infomercial blaring.”
“And you don’t remember it?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I was sound asleep.”
I cuff him on the arm. “They’re just lucky you didn’t order anything. They could’ve gotten stuck with a whole bunch of Snuggies.”
“Or Life Alert alarms,” Thayer jokes.
“Or those infrared flashlights that show you where your cats and dogs peed on the carpet,” I add.
We both snicker, and I’m grateful to Thayer for turning the conversation away from my mother and lightening the mood. When he pulls his hand away from mine, I realize I miss its warmth.
Then I ask, “Where’s the weirdest place you’ve ever woken up?”
“In the bathtub, with the water running,” he answers without any hesitation. “I was twelve, and my parents lost it, thinking I might drown one day. My dad threatened to take me to one of those sleep specialists and run tests. You know—with the electrodes and the monitoring, like you’re some kind of lab rat. I wasn’t into it.” His eyes darken. “He was so, so angry.”
“He was worried,” I say diplomatically.
Thayer sniffs. “I don’t think so.”
I don’t say anything more, but I think I know what Thayer is getting at. This one time, Mr. Vega flipped out at Madeline because she was walking around the neighborhood barefoot. Not because he was worried that she’d step on something sharp, but because of what the neighbors would think. I’m not saying he wasn’t concerned about Thayer drowning in the bathtub, of course, but I wonder if some of his anger was because the whole thing was an added complication, an annoyance, an oddity, for him.
“Parents are weird, aren’t they?” I ask softly.
Thayer nods. “You said it.”
We look at each other like we have a special sort of understanding. I want to reach out, to brush a hand across the sharp angles of his cheekbones, to tilt his gaze back to me. Or, at the very least, grab his hand and squeeze it tight. But I realize I’m scared. What if he pulls away? What if he laughs?
“So do you still sleepwalk?” I ask.
“Nah.” Thayer shakes his head. “I grew out of it, I guess. But I still have anxiety dreams all the time. My big one is showing at up school and realizing I’m in my underwear.”
“That one’s a classic.”
“Do you dream about that, too?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, I have other recurring dreams.”
“About … ?”
You, I almost say, then stop myself.
But Thayer gazes at me as though he’s reading my mind. All of a sudden, he twines his feet around the legs of my chair and shifts me toward him. I can’t help but gasp, but I say nothing, and I certainly don’t move away. We’re so close now I’m enveloped in his clean, grassy scent. I stare at him, and he stares back. There’s a rushing sound in my ears, perhaps the noise of blood pumping quickly through my veins.
I struggle not to freak out completely. “So, are you going to Nisha’s party tomorrow night?” I ask casually.
Thayer looks startled for a moment, as though he didn’t expect the question. “I don’t know. Probably. Why—do you want me to go?”
I open my mouth, then shut it again. Of course I do. But the idea of saying it fills me with jitters. It makes me feel needy, uncool, way off center. “Well, I don’t care either way,” I say lightly, though my voice cracks at the end. “But, um, I think my sister does. I think she might have a crush on you.” I arch an eyebrow, waiting for his reaction, anything to suggest that he might return her feelings.
Thayer doesn’t flinch. A slow grin breaks out across his beautiful face. He tilts his head so close to mine we’re practically breathing the same air. “Do you really want to talk about Laurel right now?” he whispers.
My mouth drops open in shock. “Um,” I say, but then my mind goes blank. Is he going to kiss me? His confidence is intoxicating. I look away, my heart thudding like a hammer against my ribs.
Thayer reaches up and sweeps my hair back off of my shoulders. “Um,” he teases, angling my face toward his.
So it is going to happen. I lower my eyes and inch toward him. Thayer’s rough hand grazes my forehead lightly. I hold my breath, excited and expectant, as our faces move closer, and …
“Thayer?”
For the second time since waking up, I jump. Thayer shoots away from me and stands up. Laurel looms in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. There’s an inscrutable expression on her face, and I wonder how long she’s been standing there.
“I was wondering what was taking so long,” Laurel says after a moment.
Thayer’s cheeks redden. He hitches up his jeans and points to the first-aid kit on the table. “Sutton broke a glass. I was helping her clean up.”
His gaze is only on Laurel, not me. I shift away, staring at my bandaged hand. All of a sudden, the prospect of kissing Thayer seems unthinkable, impossible. Maybe he’d never intended to do it at all—maybe he was just screwing with me. And he moved away from me like a slingshot, as though he was horrified at the idea that Laurel would catch us together. Does he find me that unkissable? Whatever, I think. I rise from my chair and snatch the first-aid kit from the table. “Thanks for your help, Thayer,” I say coolly. Then I turn to Laurel. “Have fun in your little clubhouse,” I snap.
I flounce past them and down the hall, shoulders thrown back. I want to turn around and see if Thayer is staring, but I don’t dare. On my way up the stairs, I tell myself sternly: It was nothing.
You don’t have feelings for Thayer. You don’t have feelings for Thayer.
But no matter how many times I repeat it, it feels like, for the very first time, I’m lying to myself.
9
A TOTAL WASTE OF A PEDICURE
On Thursday evening, as the settling dusk paints the sky a brilliant, streaky watercolor of pink, orange, and yellow, Charlotte, Madeline, and I jam into my vintage Volvo, Floyd, and head to Nisha’s party. I grip the steering wheel tightly and accelerate through the turns. The air smells of cut grass and charcoal grills, and Sabino Canyon and the Catalina Mountains rise large and beautiful in front of me. Finally, I turn onto Nisha’s street, the wind tickling my cheek almost playfully. I grin and crank up the volume on the radio as a Jay-Z remix comes on. Madeline lets out a whoop. Charlotte sticks her head out the window like a dog, then pulls it back in when she realizes it’s messing up her hair.
“Tonight’s going to be key for Operation Loverboy—I can just feel it!” Charlotte squeals next to me, breaking into a little impromptu shimmy in her seat. Her turquoise dangle earrings sway back and forth, and the heady, cloying scent of Prada Candy that she’s doused herself in wafts my way.
“Operation what?” I ask, shooting her a stern look.
“Operation Loverboy,” Charlotte repeats. “You know. You and Thayer, sitting in a tree?”
We pull along the curb a few houses down from Nisha’s low, Spanish-style ranch—being fashionably late means losing out on the best parking spots, unfortunately. As I kill the ignition, I shoot Char daggers. “I thought I told you not to call it that.”
“Whatever.” Charlotte waves a hand at me dismissively. “I don’t care what we call it. I just want to do it. Tonight’s the night, Sutton. You look super-hot.”
I swallow hard. My stomach is jumping, but maybe it’s because I’ve hardly eaten all day. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, and I have to say, Char is right. My hair cascades down my shoulders in soft waves. The red-and-white printed silk halter top brings out the rosiness in my skin and the green flecks in my eyes. And my smile is bigger and wobblier than usual because, well, I’m excited. Ready for the possibility of … possibility. I can’t remember the last time I went to this much trouble for a guy, cared so much, fussed so badly over every single Diorshow-coated eyelash and every last strand of hair. But after last night I just can’t ignore these feelings. They’re front and center. Huge letters on a marquee. The first thought I have when I go to sleep and wake up.
