Chapter 52 (1/2)

Sleep, class, study, eat, sleep, class, study, eat.

By Friday, Steph’s clearly making an effort to get this spinster out and about.

“Come on, Tessa, it’s Friday. Just come with us and we’ll drop you back off before we go to Har . . . I mean the party,” she begs, but I shake my head. I don’t feel like doing anything. I need to study and call my mother. I’ve been dodging her calls all week, and I need to call Noah and find out if he’s made a decision. I’ve been giving him his space all week, only sending him a few friendly texts in hopes that he will come around. I really want him to come to the bonfire next Friday.

“I think I will pass . . . I’m looking at cars tomorrow, so I need my rest,” I half lie. I really am going to look at cars tomorrow but I know I won’t be getting rest sitting here alone with my thoughts about Noah’s uncertainty, about how Hardin was obviously serious about staying away from me—which I’m really glad he’s done. I just can’t shake him from my thoughts. I just need more time, I keep telling myself.

But the way he acted like he wanted something from me the last time I saw him, that got under my skin.

My thoughts drift off to a place where Hardin was pleasant and funny and we got along. A place where we could date, really date, and he would take me out to the movies or to dinner. He would put his arm around me and be proud that I was his; he would drape his jacket over my shoulders if I was cold and kiss me good night, promising me that he would see me tomorrow.

“Tessa?” Steph says and my thoughts disappear like a puff of smoke. They weren’t reality and the boy in my daydream would never be Hardin.

“Oh come on, you’ve been wearing those fuzzy cloud pants all week,” Tristan teases and I laugh. These pants are my favorite to wear to bed, especially when I am sick, or going through a breakup, or two. I’m still confused about how Hardin and I ended something that was nothing to begin with.

“Okay. Okay, but you need to drop me off right after dinner because I have to get up early,” I warn.

Steph claps and jumps up and down. “Yay! Just please let me do you a favor?” she asks with an innocent smile while she bats her lashes.

“What?” I whine, knowing she is up to no good.

“Let me give you a little makeover? Pleeeaassee!” She draws out the word for dramatic purposes.

“No. Way.” I can picture myself with pink hair and pounds of eyeliner, wearing only a bra for a shirt.

“Nothing too dramatic, I just want to make you look . . . like you haven’t been hibernating in pajamas all week.” She smiles and Tristan tries to stifle his laugh.

And when I give in and say, “Fine,” she begins clapping again.