The Best Laid Plans Read online

  “Could you . . . just . . .” He turns back to me. “It really sucks you’re talking about another guy right now.”

  “We’re doing this because of another guy though. I can’t not think about him.” My voice feels unsteady. “I mean, Dean’s the whole point, isn’t he?”

  “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. But you keep bringing him up, and it’s really hard to get . . . I can’t just turn myself on and off like a light switch. It’s more complicated than that.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “You’re really messing with my head.”

  “Oh,” I say, flustered. I hadn’t thought of it that way, hadn’t thought this could be anything but easy for him. Why is Andrew having a hard time? Is it because it’s me? I feel a lurching horror at the thought. I lean up too, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. “You could pretend I’m Cecilia or Abby or something,” I say softly. “If that makes it easier for you.”

  “I don’t want you to be—” he starts, but I keep going.

  “I don’t want to be doing this either, Drew. I just thought it made sense. And you agreed, right?” I feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I realize then I’m still naked from the top up and I cover myself with the blanket. “I know I’m not as hot as the girls you usually—”

  “You’re completely misinterpreting everything I’m saying.”

  “Then what are you saying?” I ask, letting out an irritated sigh. He’s silent for a while, just looking at me, the expression in his eyes unreadable. He runs a hand through his hair and then wipes his face as if in exhaustion, and takes a deep breath.

  “I’m . . .” he starts, then pauses again.

  “What, Drew? If you don’t want to do this, then just say it.”

  He sighs. “I don’t think we should do this.”

  I feel something inside of me crumple.

  “Okay. I’m sorry I asked.”

  I feel like I’ve been dumped in a bucket of cold water—all the warm, cozy feelings wash out of me, replaced by something icy and hard. I don’t know how I let myself get so carried away. I shouldn’t have asked Andrew for help in the first place—that much is obvious now—but besides that, how did I let myself start to enjoy it? This wasn’t supposed to be fun; it was business. It was just practice. The biggest mistake was letting myself feel warm and cozy at all.

  “I want to, Keely,” he says, his voice pained. “It’s not that. It’s just, you’re making this . . .” He drums his fingers on his bare leg and I look away. “I thought I could deal with you using me. But I can’t.”

  I pale at his words. “I’m not . . .” I begin, stumbling over the words. “I’m not using you.”

  My phone rings from somewhere on the bed. I don’t want to answer it, don’t know how I could talk to anyone right now. He fishes around in the blankets for it and then sighs, handing it to me.

  “Speaking of James Dean,” he says, reading the words on the screen, his voice tight. I take the phone out of his hand, but I can’t answer it. How could I possibly talk to Dean right now, sitting on Andrew’s bed? My shirt is still somewhere on the floor, mixed in with his—and it suddenly hits me how messed up this whole thing is. Would Dean be mad if he knew? Or worse, would he not even care? I imagine the situation in reverse—Dean with a half-naked girl in his bed—and feel an unpleasant swoop in my stomach. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? There have been lots of naked girls in Dean’s bed and that’s why I’m here.

  “You can answer it,” Andrew says. He reaches down to grab his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. The phone is still ringing.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m gonna go.” He turns to the door.

  “Wait, this is your room,” I say. He shrugs, and then turns around and shuffles through the door, closing it quietly behind him. I put the phone down on the bed and watch it vibrating, waiting for the ringing to stop. I wrap the comforter tighter around myself.

  After a few minutes, I force myself to get up and pull on my clothes. All I want to do is to curl up in my bed and sleep—to be alone in my own room. But I can’t leave things like this between us. I have to go downstairs and talk to him, even though I don’t know what to say. I just want us to be friends again—to put this whole humiliating ordeal behind us. I steel myself and leave the room, padding quietly down the familiar stairs into the kitchen. He’s not there. I peer into the living room and the dining room and see that he’s gone. And then I see that his truck isn’t in the driveway. So I pull on my shoes and coat and start the dark walk home.

  TWENTY

  I TEXT HIM once I get home.

  I’m sorry. Friends?

  He takes a while to answer, and when he does, it’s just one word.

  Friends

  I can’t help but think back to the day after Danielle and Chase hooked up, when she told him they could still be friends. I don’t want to “still be friends” with Andrew after this. Not the fake way Danielle and Chase are.

  I’m curious where he disappeared to, but I don’t want to ask. It hits me suddenly he might be with a girl. He might have gone to her to finish what we started. The thought makes my stomach turn, even though I know I have no right to be upset.

  I text my parents too, to say I’m not feeling well and decided to come home. I hear their key in the lock later in the night, the hushed whispers that mean they’re trying not to wake me. My mom cracks open the door and I pretend to be asleep.

  I spend all of Saturday on the couch, wallowing in my misery. Because my parents think I’m sick, they putter around me, trying to cheer me up with hot mugs of tea and plates of saltine crackers. And I do feel sick. Just not in the way they think.

  I’ve been avoiding working on my final history project, so I decide to focus on that, spreading my books out on the coffee table and flipping through pages, but I can’t seem to get anything done. It’s hard to focus on school when I’ve already gotten into college and everything going on in my social life feels so much more immediate and combustible.

  I try to read a chapter on the Fertile Crescent, words that sound oddly sexual and relevant to everything going on, and suddenly my mind is wandering over the events of last night, flashes of memory that make me light-headed.

  I realize it’s useless and turn on House Hunters instead. There’s something comforting in the pointlessness of it; happy couples whose biggest problems are whether they can afford granite countertops or an extra bedroom for their cat.

  I’m almost on hour four when I finally work up the courage to call Andrew. He doesn’t answer.

  I set my phone down on the coffee table and turn back to the TV, trying to focus, but I keep looking back at it, willing it to vibrate. And then it does, just a quick burst, indicating a text message. I reach for it eagerly and feel a little deflated when I see that it’s from Dean, which is so completely backward.

  DEAN

  You playing hard to get?

  ME

  What?

  DEAN

  You never called me back

  I suck in a sharp breath. He’s right—I completely forgot he called last night, when I was still at Andrew’s house. I can’t believe I forgot to respond. I usually overanalyze our texts so much, but right now I don’t really care. It feels like there are more important things.

  But maybe this is a good thing. Danielle said I should play hard to get anyway. Even though my first instinct is to apologize, I think about what Danielle would say.

  I was busy

  I shut my eyes, clutching the phone in my hands but unable to look at it. He takes two commercial breaks to respond.

  Wanna get pizza?

  So it worked. Of course it worked. Danielle is a master. I look at the clock and see it’s 5:30.
I can’t believe I wasted the entire day on the couch. My clothes feel sticky and my hair is matted to my forehead. My stomach rumbles. I have to get out of the house. I have to do something, anything to take my mind off my misery. And being with James Dean sounds like the only thing that could fully distract me.

  ME

  I always want to get pizza

  DEAN

  I can come pick you up

  I text him my address and run upstairs to take a shower and pull on some clothes. My mom knocks on the door just as I’m zipping up my jeans.

  “Feeling better?” Her eyes are soft with concern.

  “Yeah.” I rummage through my closet and find my birthday sweater before remembering it’s covered in blue glaze. I push it away quickly so my mom won’t see.

  “Are you going somewhere?” She walks farther into the room and reaches an arm up as if to stop me. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

  “I’m just getting pizza,” I say. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “I could make you something here. We just picked up some fresh veggies from the farmers’ market.”

  “It’s okay. I want to go out.”

  She looks at me then, tilting her head and scrunching her nose. It’s the look that means she’s worried—a look that’s special for me, that I’ve never seen her direct toward anyone else.

  “Just come home early,” she says with a sigh. “You need a good night’s sleep.”

  Just a year ago, my mom would have insisted I stay in. But I know she’s thinking about next year—how there are only three months until I leave for California and then we’ll both be on our own. Three months until she and Dad won’t be there to care for me when I’m sick. I know she’s trying to prepare me for that; trying to prepare herself.

  She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Don’t stay out too late.”

  The doorbell rings downstairs and I jump.

  “Who are you getting pizza with?” she asks, turning to leave the room.

  “Wait!” I say, my tone more panicked than I intended. “It’s no one. I’ll get it.” I brush past her and run down the stairs. I can’t believe I didn’t think about my parents being here when I gave him my address.

  But when I open the front door, it’s not James Dean on the other side.

  It’s Andrew.

  His hair is wet from the shower and he’s in his favorite T-shirt, the one with WORLD’S OKAYEST GUITAR PLAYER written on the front. I feel paralyzed when I see him, and immediately the events of last night flash through my head—his naked chest, the look in his eyes when he took off my shirt, my bra, my pants. I can still feel him on top of me, can still feel the memory of his lips on mine.

  I realize I’ve been staring and I try to find my voice.

  “Hi.” It comes out as a squeak.

  “Can I come in?”

  My mom comes up behind me. “Andrew! Of course you can come in. You know you never have to ask.” She ushers him through the door, and we all walk into the den. Andrew and I take a seat on either end of the couch—as far away from each other as possible. My mom stands at the door, watching us.

  “Mom, can we have a sec?” I ask.

  “Of course. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” She leaves the room, turning once to study us before she’s gone.

  “Hey,” he says when we’re alone.

  “Hey,” I say.

  And then we both say it at the same time, our voices overlapping: “I’m sorry.”

  It feels good once it’s out. Like I can finally breathe.

  “Things aren’t going to be weird between us, right?” I ask, fiddling with my hands, staring down at my fingers. I can barely look at him. Of course things are going to be weird. “You’re my best friend. I hope I didn’t ruin that.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, from the other end of the couch.

  “Good.” I wish I believed him. “Okay, well.”

  “Well.”

  The silence hangs heavy over us like a thundercloud about to break. He picks up his phone and begins texting, the tip of his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth.

  “Who are you texting?” I ask. “It looks important.” I feel like I’m trying too hard to sound natural and easygoing; trying not to pry—which is ridiculous, because it’s not like I’m his girlfriend or something. The Keely from a few days ago would have grabbed his phone out of his hands or read over his shoulder. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get the Keely from a few days ago back. That girl is gone.

  He looks up at me and shrugs. “Just a girl.”

  “Another girl, eh?” I say, trying to smile. Everything feels off.

  “Yeah, another girl,” he says back, his tone clipped. “Is that allowed?”

  “Of course it’s allowed. That’s not what I meant.”

  I want to scream with frustration. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

  There’s a crunch of tires coming up the gravel driveway and then a honk sounds from outside. We both jump. James Dean. I completely forgot he was coming. No no no no no.

  “Who is that?” He stands up.

  “I have to go,” I say, standing up too. “I’m really sorry. It’s just—I didn’t know you were coming over, so I made plans. You can stay here if you want. I’m not trying to kick you out. I just . . . have to go.” I practically run out of the room and over to the front door. Andrew follows me.

  “It’s James Dean, isn’t it?”

  I wince and shut my eyes. “Yes.” There’s another honk outside, longer this time. “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not totally sure what I’m apologizing for.

  “I want to meet him,” Andrew says.

  “What?”

  “I think I deserve to meet him after all this. See what all the fuss is about.”

  “Andrew, no.” I know they’ll have to meet eventually at prom, but I don’t want to push the experience any sooner. Especially when last night is so fresh in my mind.

  “If he doesn’t have the common decency to at least walk up and ring the doorbell . . .” he grumbles, heading to the door. I scamper after him.

  “Andrew, wait!”

  He whips the door open. And there’s James Dean perched on a motorcycle in the middle of the driveway, looking like a cutout from a magazine. I guess I expected he’d borrow Cody’s car again, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He looks great on the bike—I’m just not sure how I feel about riding it. But I can’t be a coward. The Keely I am for him—the Keely I’ve created—would jump at the chance to ride a motorcycle, just like she enjoys drinking whiskey. And there’s a bit of a thrill in being that girl, the one who doesn’t worry about everything that could go wrong. I don’t want to let Dean down, but I don’t want to let her down either. I want to be a Gryffindor too.

  He raises a hand to greet me and gets off the bike, cocking his head to the side when he sees Andrew.

  “Hey, man, what’s up?” Andrew says, extending an arm to shake. “Andrew.”

  “Dean,” Dean says back, bringing his arm up to match. They do a handshake all guys seem to know, full of snaps and bumps and manly aggression. “You’re the Hitchcock guy?”

  “I’m a little more than the Hitchcock guy,” Andrew says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  Dean laughs. “Got it. Well we’re gonna get going. It was nice to meet you, dude.” He turns to me, nodding his head in the direction of the bike. “You wanna hop on?”

  I glance back at the house, wondering if my mom is watching, knowing she’d kill me if she saw me get on the back of some guy’s motorcycle.

  “Do you have another helmet?” Andrew folds his arms.

  “What?” Dean asks.

  “She can’t get on the bike without a helmet.”

  “S
eriously, Andrew,” I say, feeling my face flush. “You’re not my dad.”

  “Her body, her temple,” Dean says.

  Andrew turns and walks over to the garage, reaching down and pulling hard on the door handle. The door rolls up slowly and he goes inside, grabbing a helmet that’s hanging from the rusty handlebars of a bicycle. It’s white with bright green reflective racing stripes on the side. He hands it to me and I turn it over, inspecting the inside for spiders.

  “Can you please just wear this?”

  “Drew,” I say, a warning in my tone. I glare at him but put the helmet on. To be honest, I’m kind of glad to have it. I just wish it didn’t seem like he was forcing me.

  Andrew reaches up to help me buckle it, pulling the straps tight under my chin.

  “Good,” he says, knocking the top of my head with his knuckles.

  “All right, thank God that’s settled,” Dean says, grinning. He swings his leg back over the bike and turns it on. The engine roars to life and the bike shakes with the sound of the motor. I climb up behind him, slipping a little on the back of the seat. “Just wrap your arms around me,” Dean says, looking back at me over his shoulder. “Here, so you don’t fall.”

  He reaches around and takes both of my arms, wrapping them around him and clasping my hands together. I can feel the hard muscle of his stomach through his shirt and I run my hands over it, trying not to be obvious.

  Andrew kicks at the gravel of the driveway. “Where you guys headed?”

  There are only two pizza places in town, a place that sells cheap slices and always smells like old beer, and Giovanni’s, the little Italian place we always go for my birthday. It’s the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and melted candles, and I’ve always wanted to go there with a guy.