She’s the first to recover. “You know, hon, failure is natural,” she offers, twisting around in the driver’s seat. It’s forced, like she understands why I’m upset but can’t comprehend how this is a big deal to me.
I can’t reply, a lump forming in the back of my throat.
“You’ve gone your whole life with never failing anything,” my dad joins in, equally off-kilter. “Honestly, you should be proud.”
“I’m brimming with pride right now, yeah.” Facing the window instead of my parents, I wipe my eyes. It’s ignominy on top of ignominy. I feel childish for getting this upset over a test I don’t even care about. I remember what the examiner said. I’ll retake it in a couple weeks.
“Don’t worry about it,” my mom says, sounding half consolatory and half uncomfortable. “You’re young. You’re going to fail hundreds of times in your life.”
I close my eyes. I can’t believe I made such a basic error. Four stupid texts from Ethan, and everything I practiced and worked at crumbled. If it only takes a handful words from him to throw me off—
My eyes fly open. What if Ethan planned this? He knew exactly where I was, what I was doing. I had to tell all of ASG why I wouldn’t be there on time to paint posters.
It’s instantaneous, the reaction the realization causes in me. Fire hitting dry kindling. Every ounce of furious hurt in me converts in a flash into resolve. I face forward. “Can you drop me off at Isabel’s?” I ask Mom. “I have to go help ASG.”
Ethan’s promise from earlier rings in my head, fusing with the pounding in my ears into an uncomfortable cacophony. He’d said he could distract me, and he succeeded.
He wasn’t flirting. He was competing.
Forty-Five
I CLOSE MOM’S CAR door and head up the path to Isabel’s house. It’s one of those modern walkways of concrete squares spaced out on grass, with decorative cacti on one side. When I reach the frosted glass front door, I ring the doorbell, the sound echoing into Isabel’s entryway. I see her form vaguely outlined behind the door before she opens it.
“Alison. You made it,” she says, a hint of judgment in her voice. She scrutinizes me, looking perfect despite the paint-speckled sweatshirt she’s wearing.
I ignore how harried I must look, frustration still fresh in my cheeks. Swiping one strand of hair from my forehead, I play the part of someone who’s late for non-embarrassing reasons, someone who didn’t just fail her driving test. “Of course,” I reply. “You know I would never shirk my ASG responsibilities.”
Isabel’s expression doesn’t change. “Well, you’re not exactly an asset when it comes to making posters.”
I frown for a moment. Admittedly, Isabel’s not wrong. I know we’re remembering the same incident. Last year, I was responsible for several homecoming posters. They ended up resembling kindergarten artwork, which I know wasn’t the look Isabel had in mind since she frantically repainted them the day of the dance. It was not one of the finer moments of my distinguished career in student-government service.
“I’m dedicated to improving,” I say, stepping into the entryway.
Isabel watches me. “I just want to make sure you and Ethan won’t disrupt our work. There’s such a collaborative energy in the room right now.” She pauses delicately. “You guys sometimes turn things a little . . . toxic.”
I blink, realizing Isabel just repeated Williams’s complaint. It’s an unnerving reminder of how caustic our relationship can get. “I promise we won’t be disruptive,” I say, knowing if I were Isabel, I wouldn’t be convinced.
Isabel gestures with resignation down the hallway. “Everyone’s in the kitchen.”
I follow her farther into the house. Isabel’s home has a minimalist design, with white marble floors, austere furniture, and wide windows revealing the modern landscaping outside. We enter the kitchen where a dozen members of ASG work on posters in various stages of completion. Parchment paper is laid down on the kitchen island, the expansive dining table, even the floor where people paint ASG FOOD DRIVE on red rectangles of cardstock.
Ethan’s leaning by the sink, looking bored. I notice a fleck of white paint on his cheek. It’s irritatingly cute. I push the observation to the very back of my head. Knowing him, the paint fleck is probably part of a facade designed to further distract me, offsetting his crisp wardrobe with just the right dash of unruliness.
His eyes fall on me slowly.
“You’re here early.” He sounds . . . pleased? It’s a trick.
“I hurried. Didn’t want to miss this,” I say evenly. Whatever push-and-pull we’re engaged in right now, I’m not giving him an inch.
“We’re not letting you paint, you know.” Pleased turns to patronizing in his reply.
I grit my teeth. We’re not even fighting about the right thing now. “You look hard at work.” Ethan gestures to the poster on the floor next to him. I inspect what he’s done, doing my best to look unimpressed. When I open my mouth to critique his letter spacing, Isabel clears her throat. Plastering on a pleasant expression, I hold in my comment. “Ethan, could I have a word with you? In private?” I ask.
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Am I in trouble for something?”
I laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, keeping my gaze narrowed for only him to see. Without giving him a window to reply, I walk out into the hall.
I hear the soles of Ethan’s sneakers on Isabel’s marble floors following me. In the middle of the hallway, I spin to face him. He pauses purposefully close to me, his hands resting casually in his pockets. When he grins, the fucking fleck on his cheek winks. “So, we celebrating?” he asks.
I can hear chattering from the other room. If I’m going to lay into him for his stunt with my driving test, Isabel’s hallway won’t work. I step into the nearby bathroom, holding the door for him. I’m already forming my points, organizing my arguments.
He walks past me, eyeing me curiously. Maybe even eagerly.
The moment I close the door, his lips hit mine. His hands find my waist, long fingers encircling my hips with deliberate urgency. I kiss him back, because goddamn it, I kind of knew we were going to do this regardless of how mad I am. Possibly because of it. How drawn I feel to Ethan is intertwined enough with my hatred for him that I’m no longer entirely sure when my desires are fighting each other or feeding each other. I let my hands skim the skin under his shirt, the outlines of his hipbones. It’s great he’s not wearing one of the oxfords he typically tucks in. Really great.
I know I have reasons to not want him. Enough that I could fill dossiers or hour-long debates. He’s almost definitely doing this to mess with me. What’s more, it’s a stupid cliché, hooking up with the guy you were convinced you hated. This can’t possibly go anywhere real—it’s just a combination of hormones and restlessness.