Love Me, Love Me Not Read online

  “Sorry,” he says, as he approaches me. “Ms. Kay would not take no for an answer.”

  “So, you’re joining some math competition?”

  “Apparently. At least it’s not until January, after football season. Hey, Michelle,” he says as she steps next to us, suddenly no longer treating me like I’ve got a deadly disease. “Why didn’t you catch a ride with Adam?”

  “Mom’s taking me to visit Nana.”

  “Visit?” Brad asks, his eyebrows drawn. “Is she not living with you anymore?”

  “No, Mom moved her to a nursing home a couple weeks ago.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “That’s because we don’t hang out like we used to.” She gives me a much dirtier look than I gave her a couple minutes ago. Plus, it’s actually to my face, unlike what I did to her back. How can one person be so freaking mean?

  “Is she getting worse?” Brad asks, stuffing his hands into his pocket.

  “Yeah,” she replies.

  “I’m sorry. Please tell her I say hi.”

  “She won’t remember you. She only recognizes me half the time.”

  He bites his lip and nods, clearly not knowing what to say. Luckily, a silver minivan pulls up at that moment, saving him.

  “See ya later,” she says with a wave that’s clearly only for him.

  “See ya,” we both say, as I stand.

  Once she’s gone, Brad looks at me with a smile. “I bet the two of you were having fun before I got out here,” he says, rocking his body into mine. “She seemed her overly friendly self today.”

  “Oh my God,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “She’s impossible.”

  He smiles again. “I didn’t realize her grandmother was doing worse. She’s got Alzheimer’s. That might be part of the reason she’s acting like this. She doesn’t handle stress well.”

  As bad as I feel for Michelle, it doesn’t really excuse her behavior. I’ve had plenty of stress, but I don’t take it out on people I barely know.

  “They were really close when she was growing up,” he continues, as we walk toward the student parking lot. “Her grandmother basically raised her because her mom had such a crazy work schedule at the hospital.”

  “This must be hard, then,” I say. Still, no excuse to treat me like she does.

  “Yeah,” he replies. “So, are you going to come cheer me on during the math competition?” he asks with a silly grin.

  “You do realize how nerdy a math competition sounds, right?”

  “I do, but I learned long ago to embrace my inner nerd.”

  “Reeeally?” I reply, drawing out the word and giving him a sideways glance. He’s about the least nerdy nerd I’ve ever met.

  “Yep. I have a pocket protector, glasses, even a protractor at home. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion, just like this.”

  Smiling, I ask, “Are there specific nerdy math cheers I should practice for this big day?”

  He grins. “I’ll trust you to come up with some.”

  I think for a moment, then say, “Like ‘Brad, Brad, he’s our man, if he can’t multiply, no one can!’” I clap my hands, then raise them overhead like the cheerleaders do at the football games.

  He laughs. “I think it will be less multiplication and more finding derivatives and integrating functions.”

  I have no clue what that means, but I still come up with another cheer. “When I say derivatives, you say Brad. Derivatives!” I turn around and walk backward so I can watch him.

  He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Brad!” I answer for him, throwing my arms up again. “Oh! I’ve got a good one,” I say pointing at him. “Two, four, six, eight, Brad’s gonna integrate!” I wiggle my fingers in his direction like the cheerleaders do when a player’s getting ready to kick the ball.

  “On second thought,” he says, playfully swatting my hands down, “maybe you should stay home during the competition.”

  “You don’t think I’d make a great cheerleader?” I ask with a laugh. There’s no way I could ever be a cheerleader.

  “Well,” he says with a smirk, “as good as you’d look in the outfit, I’m not sure all the nerds could handle it.”

  My stomach does a little flip at his words, and then I shake it off. He’s just being his usual nice self. Like always.

  “So, want to grab lunch?” he asks, unlocking my door and opening it for me when we get to his car only moments later. “Just lunch. No pretend date, because I’d hate to make you mad like yesterday.”

  “I wasn’t mad.”

  “You sure seemed mad.”

  “I was uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable,” he says, rolling the word around on his tongue like it’s a foreign concept. I’m sure Brad has never felt uncomfortable in his life, other than his one embarrassing moment. “So, lunch?” he asks again. “Mom’s treat, since she didn’t plan ahead and leave us anything at home.”

  “Okay, fine,” I relent, taking a seat and buckling up. I’m starving, and it’d be nice to get something quick and easy.

  He circles around the car and joins me. “Where to?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What kind of food do you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Mexican? Pizza? Fast food?”

  “Whatever.”

  He starts up the car. “You narrow it down to two, and I’ll pick.”

  “Mexican or McDonald’s,” I offer, giving him two fairly cheap and quick options.

  “Mexican it is,” he says, backing out of his parking spot.

  Five minutes later, he pulls into a strip mall close to his house, and we enter the small restaurant. It’s got sombreros, guitars, and striped blankets hanging on the walls. There are only two other customers this time of day, so we’re seated immediately and given chips and salsa.

  I dip a chip and watch Brad study the menu as I chew. His brows are drawn, causing a crease to form between his eyes. It’s like this one decision about what to eat for lunch is a matter of life and death.

  Glancing quickly at the menu, I see a lunch special for under five dollars. Easy decision.

  Brad continues to scrutinize every word. He must be reading the entire thing line by line, although his eyes aren’t moving. It seems like he’s just staring at one spot on the menu. I nibble on another chip and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Finally, he closes the menu and meets my eyes. “I’ve decided,” he says.

  “It’s about time.”

  “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

  “Lunch is a serious matter,” I reply with a grin.

  Just then, the waiter appears and asks, “What can I get for you?”

  “Combo number three,” I say.

  “Um … give me a sec,” Brad says, opening up the menu again. What in the heck is his problem?

  “Um … I guess I’ll go with the fajitas.”

  “Chicken or steak?”

  “Steak.”

  We hand over the menus and I stare at Brad, trying to figure out his bizarre behavior. “You forgot what you spent like five minutes deciding on?”

  “Nope.” He reaches across the table and rests his hand on mine. My head snaps down to the contact as my stomach starts filling with butterflies. “I wasn’t deciding on lunch. I decided I just need to do this. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable yesterday, and if I’m reading you wrong, I’m even more sorry for what I’m about to do.”

  The butterflies stop in midair at his unexpected words, and my eyes drift back up to his face. What in the world is happening?

  “But I like you, and I think you like me,” he says in rush. “I’ve decided I just need to lay it out there and see what happens.”

  I stare at him with a blank face.

  “So…”

  I can’t respond. I can’t even form any thoughts.

  “Just laying it out there,” he repeats, squeezing my hand.

&n
bsp; I glance down but still can’t make sense of what’s going on. It’s like I’m in some alternate universe where everything is turned upside down.

  “To see what happens.”

  I remain silent, focused on where our hands meet. His fingers are strong and rough against my skinny ones—another reminder of how different we are.

  “Which apparently is nothing good,” he says, dragging his hand away. The loss of warmth draws my eyes up to his face again. There’s a faint red tint to his cheeks. I’ve never seen him blush before, and it makes him even cuter.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I honestly thought you felt something.” He stuffs a chip in his mouth. “I should’ve waited until after lunch. Now I’ve got to sit here for like twenty minutes trying to pretend I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of you. This is officially my most embarrassing moment now. God, where is our food?” he asks, looking toward the kitchen.

  Meeting my eyes again, he asks, “Should we just go? We don’t need to sit here and pretend like everything’s normal.”

  He starts to stand, and I finally find my voice. “No, let’s stay.”

  He raises his eyebrows and slides back into his chair. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” he says slowly. He drums his fingers on the table and continues watching me, his cheeks still red while mine are probably white as snow, since all the blood drained from my face about a minute ago.

  “I’m really sorry,” he says again.

  “Don’t be,” I murmur, my eyes dropping to the table. I can’t believe he’s been feeling the same thing as me this whole time. It’s … shocking. Shocking, but reassuring.

  “No. It’s completely wrong of me. I thought … never mind. It doesn’t matter. This won’t change things. I promise. We’ll be … foster siblings,” he says with a slight cringe.

  “You like me?” I whisper, afraid if I say it any louder he’ll come to his senses and realize his mistake.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head.

  I frown.

  “I mean, yes?”

  “Which is it?” I ask, starting to get even more confused.

  “Yes, unless that’s not what you want. I’ll leave it up to you,” he says, resting his hand on mine again. “You tell me—which is it?”

  This is it. It feels like another defining moment in my life. I’m given the choice of two paths—a safe but difficult one or a dangerous but exhilarating one. My brain tells me to go with the safe option, but my body has been hijacked by my heart.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “It’s a yes.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Okay, then. this is good,” Brad says, his whole demeanor transformed from a couple of minutes ago.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I reply, a shy smile spreading across my face.

  He squeezes my hand, causing my stomach to flip and the smile to grow even larger. I can’t believe it. Brad, Bradley Campbell, one of the most popular boys at school, actually likes me. Me, of all people. I feel like I’m in some cheesy romantic comedy.

  “So, maybe we could go out tonight? Dinner and a movie? I’m paying. Don’t even think about protesting.”

  That’s when reality comes crashing down on me like a monstrous tidal wave. I can’t go out with him. We can’t be seen in public on a date. I snatch my fingers from his and hold them in my lap. “Wait,” I say as my brain takes charge. My frown causes his smile to fade.

  “What? I’m a Southern gentleman, remember? I’m not letting you pay.”

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Seriously? You’re going to fight me about who pays for our dates?”

  “No, not that,” I say, shaking my head. “Us. Together. It’s a terrible idea.”

  “No, it’s not. You like me. I like you. Let’s give it a try to see how it works out.”

  The sound of our arriving food causes him to pause. The waiter lowers Brad’s sizzling skillet of fajitas in front of him and my burrito combo in front of me. Brad starts loading a tortilla with steak and peppers, clearly not getting it.

  “Um, Brad?”

  “Yeah?” he asks, looking up.

  “You’re forgetting one very important thing.”

  He glances at his fajita. “What?”

  “You’re my foster brother. I can’t date you!”

  He stares at me like I’m the most complex geometry problem he’s ever seen. “But I’m not your brother.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Not biologically.”

  “So?”

  “Brothers dating sisters is wrong because they’re actually related—the whole incest thing. You and me,” he says, motioning between the two of us with his finger, “no similar DNA. Not related. Nothing gross or against the law.”

  “Except I live in your house.”

  “Which will make dating that much easier,” he replies, smiling.

  “Come on. You have to admit it would be weird.”

  He tilts his head back and forth a few times as though considering the idea. “Not really. What if you were staying somewhere else and we had met at school? Would it be okay then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I was in college and came home on weekends? Would it be okay then?”

  “Where am I living in this scenario?”

  “With my parents.”

  “Then no.”

  He takes a bite of fajita, then follows that with a gulp of water. “So the issue is my parents?”

  “And sharing a house with you.”

  “Why?”

  For such a smart guy, he’s being awfully dense. “I can come up with about a million reasons. You can’t come up with one?”

  He takes another bite while deep in thought. After about a minute, he says, “Got one. The kiss good night would be confusing. Should I do it at the front door or the door to your bedroom?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why are you not taking this seriously?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says, giving me a smile that doesn’t look apologetic at all. “We don’t have time to go through your million reasons. Can you give me the top two?”

  “There’s no way DSS or your parents would allow it. I’d get kicked out. And what happens when we get into a fight or break up? We’d be forced to talk at dinner even if we hated each other.”

  “Wow. Okay. Nothing like planning for a very bleak future,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

  “Be serious.”

  “Mom and Dad would never kick you out. I won’t let them.”

  “What about when we break up?”

  He grins at me. “Can’t we enjoy the benefits of dating for a while before we start talking about our imminent breakup? Like for at least five minutes?”

  I try not to smile but fail. I blame it on his dimple, which looks way too cute right now. All his earlier shyness is gone, replaced by his normal confidence. A confidence that I find way too appealing. “And what benefits exactly would you like to enjoy for five minutes?” I ask, crossing my arms.

  He twists his lip for a moment, as if deep in thought. “I’m kind of partial to the kissing benefit, but,” he says, glancing around the restaurant, “this might not be the right place for that.”

  “You think?”

  “A close second would be the hand-holding benefit.” He lays his hands on the table. I give him a look that I hope lets him know what a bad idea this is as I lightly place my palms in his. His smile grows even larger as he squeezes my fingers.

  This is a terrible, terrible idea, my brain reminds me.

  Yet I can’t stop the fluttering in my chest that’s telling me it might not be that terrible. We’re just holding hands, my heart rationalizes to my brain. It’s innocent. Nothing horrible can come of something so sweet and innocent. Right?

  Right. I gulp and squeeze his fingers back. By the look on his face, I get the impression he could sit like this the rest of the day. And I’d probably love every minute of it. My heart takes a big victory lap around my brai
n at the idea.

  Then my stomach grumbles loudly, and I realize I need my hands to eat.

  “I’m kind of hungry,” I say, glancing between his pleased face and my plate of food.

  He laughs and lets go of me. The loss of contact causes my brain to take control again. It trips my heart at the finish line and then stands victoriously over the beating pile of mush.

  “I’d hate to be responsible for you missing a meal,” he says.

  We both take a bite of our food and chew slowly, watching each other. I have no idea what’s going through his mind, but mine is obviously a mess if I’m visualizing my heart and brain battling it out in a track-and-field event.

  After a moment, he says, “We’re two minutes in and so far, so good. No fighting. Maybe we could try it for a little longer before we completely scrap the idea?”

  “You honestly don’t have any concerns about this?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  I take another two bites while my heart scrambles up from the ground. My brain tries to tackle it, but it sneaks away and sticks out its tongue from somewhere in the corner of the room. “I guess I could think about it,” I finally say, accepting the long-distance high five from my heart while my brain does a facepalm. So much for all the good decisions I had started making.

  *

  “Start up the fire!” Abbie yells later that night as we step onto the patio in her backyard. Rather than dinner and a movie with just Brad, we’re having dinner with his friends at Adam and Abbie’s house. Brad and Adam are lounging around the fire pit. When we approach the table behind them, they both stand.

  “I’m starving,” Brad says, grabbing hot dogs and buns, which are balanced precariously on a bag of marshmallows in my arms. We lower the food to the table as Adam makes a mile-high fire appear out of nowhere with just the turn of a knob.

  “Who’s thirsty?” Brittany asks, setting bottles of soda and cups on the table.

  “Me,” I answer, reaching for the Coke and then pouring myself a cup. “Sprite?” I ask Brad. He nods, so I fill a cup for him and then take orders from Abbie, Brittany, and Adam. Luckily, Michelle isn’t here. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. I’ll just enjoy the peacefulness while it lasts.