The Unexpected Way of Falling in Love, Page 8

  “It sounds strange.” She loops her arm through mine as we step outside beneath the sunlight. A faraway, dreamy look glazes in her eyes as we start across the grass toward the parking lot. “Maybe it was some guy who sent his little sister to give you the rose because he has a crush on you and is too scared to do it himself.”

  I snort a laugh. “Yeah, I highly doubt that.”

  She frowns. “Why? You’re a beautiful girl, Ens. Plus, you’re smart and funny and talented. I’m sure there are a lot of guys who think you’re an amazing girl.”

  I hold back another laugh that wants to burst from my lips. “Um, I hate to break it to you, Mom, but no guys have crushes on me or have ever had crushes on me. And guys don’t care if a girl is smart, funny, and talented. They only want beautiful girls who are easy. Well, not all guys, but some.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. I bet a lot of guys have crushes on you and they’re just too afraid to tell you.” She steers me toward our car parked in the back row near the field beside the school. “And I hate that you don’t realize how beautiful you are.”

  “Trust me; I know what I am.” When she blasts me with a doubtful look, I sigh. “Look, I appreciate the attempt at boosting my confidence, but I accepted who I am a long time ago, and I’m perfectly okay with it.” Most days, anyway.

  She sighs heavily. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy with yourself, even if you have a misconstrued self-perception.”

  “Man, that psych class went to your head, didn’t it?” I tease as I round the car toward the passenger side.

  Recently, my mom started taking college classes at night so she can obtain a business degree, and one of her electives was psychology. As soon as she started the class, I noticed a change in her behavior. And by change, I mean she started overanalyzing everything I did. Still does, even though the class has been over for a semester.

  “For your information, I find them interesting and insightful,” she says as she unlocks the car. “I’m sure you’ll take a couple when you start college and feel the same way.”

  “I don’t know. That all depends on what I decide to major in.” I open the car door and slide into the seat. “That is, if I ever decide.”

  “It’s perfectly fine to be undecided for a while.” She slips the keys into the ignition and starts up the engine. “In fact, it might be better to take your time and really figure out what you want to do, instead of picking something you don’t like or changing your major every semester.”

  “You say that like you know someone who did that.” I draw my seatbelt over my shoulder. “Who was it?”

  She shrugs, but her jaw sets tight and pain floods her eyes.

  Any next words die in my throat.

  She only gets that look in her eyes whenever she’s thinking about my dad, which means my dad’s the one who constantly changed majors.

  I wonder if he went to college before or after I was born. I wonder what he finally got his degree in. I wonder what he’s doing now. These are all questions I keep to myself, knowing my mom won’t answer them and will end up getting more upset.

  Besides, in reality, I’m not sure I ever want to know about my dad. Or meet him. Sure, I may search for him in a crowd every now and again, but if I ever came face to face with the father who abandoned me, I might lose my shit.

  “You want to stop and get some ice cream before we eat lunch?” she changes the subject as she backs out of the parking space.

  “You’re such a bad example,” I joke, trying to make her smile, hating it when she’s upset. “Dessert before lunch? What kind of mom are you?”

  She smiles, but the movement is forced. Then her gaze descends to the rose I’m holding, and I can’t ignore the emotions that briefly flash across her face.

  It’s the same look she gets whenever my dad is mentioned.

  I stare down at the rose, wondering and wondering and wondering …

  Could he somehow be the person behind the rose?

  Twelve

  Carter

  I’m sure at this point I’m coming off as the moodiest asshole ever, and perhaps I deserve the title. I know I’m being moody. I can’t help it. Ensley is driving me fucking crazy. Not like crazy, as in, I can’t stand her sort of way. Crazy, as in, I can’t read her at all, but God do I fucking want to. I’m usually good at picking up on people’s vibes. Never with Ensley, though. The only exception to this is the first time I talked to her—when I crushed her—and that secret conversation I mentioned where she helped me in more ways than she realizes. I wasn’t lying. It was the best conversation of my life. I just wish she remembered it.

  Instead, she links me to that awful day in third grade. I knew I hurt her when I asked her if she was a boy or a girl. Obviously, she was a girl. A shy, sweet, quiet girl who didn’t deserve a rich, spoiled, weak-minded third-grader using her shyness against her and making her question whether she looked like a boy or not. She didn’t look like a boy at all, but that wasn’t the point of me asking her. The point was that I needed to make certain friends. Not by choice. I already told you that almost everything I do isn’t by choice. But that’s not an excuse.

  Everything I did and have done is on me. I allowed myself to be controlled by my parents. But not anymore. Well, at least I hope so.

  If I can’t get Ensley to warm up to me, my plan to break free from my family, their rules, and expectations of me are going to go to shit. I just hope Ensley will forgive me when this is all over.

  At first, when I’d made the deal with him, I was a bit excited over the idea of trying to get Ensley to open up to me, until I really thought about it. I’d been flirting with her forever, teasing her and trying to get her to smile at me like most girls do when I tease them. But every time I so much as look at her, she stares at my shoes. The damn girl has some sort of shoe fetish. It’s a shame, too, because I wasn’t lying. Her eyes are fucking gorgeous. I could stare at them all day. And nope, that’s not one of my lines. If only I could make Ensley realize this. And not just because of the plan.

  Honestly, up until yesterday, I was worried the plan was never going to work, since the only time she’s ever really talked to me is when she was drunk. Then I asked her to go to the party with me and she said yes, which I’m still confused over. As long as she’s talking to me, though, I’m going to roll with it. Even if she does change the subject while I’m dragging my finger across her lips, coming this close to kissing her, something I’ve wanted to do for a while. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t do it. She seemed uninterested, and the plan isn’t for me to actually fall for her. Just be friends.

  It’s a really complicated plan.

  I’m seriously getting worried. Like, I’m standing on a cliff, about to jump off and fall into the unknown.

  “So, you have a thing for Ens now?” Elodie asks as I stroll across the grass toward her.

  “Maybe. Does that bother you?” I ask, coming to a stop beside her.

  “Of course it does. Ens is too good for you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I mumble, thinking about all the things I’ve done to her and what I’m doing to her now … this plan …

  I swallow hard, hating myself a bit.

  Elodie draws down her sunglasses and assesses me. “What’d you want to talk to her about?”

  “Nothing.” I shrug her off.

  She stares at me for an unsettling amount of time before putting her glasses back on and crossing her arms. “Fine. Whatever. Don’t tell me, then.”

  “Okay.”

  It grows quiet between us as she stews in her irritation. She hates it when I don’t tell her things, and I don’t tell her a lot of things, so she hates me a lot. Sometimes I keep quiet to protect her and sometimes I don’t want her knowing what I’m really thinking. Like when I’m thinking about Ensley and how soft her lips are. And how she obviously didn’t want me touching them. It’s fucking driving me crazy. I can get any girl I want except the one I want; have wanted for a couple years now.

/>   Talk about Karma.

  I take a deep breath and try to focus on something else, other than rejection, which I’m quickly finding out hurts like a motherfucker.

  My gaze moves to our mom and dad, just a ways in front of us. They’re chatting with Holden’s parents. Our mothers look so alike with their salon-styled hair and nails, strings of pearls, designer dresses, purses, and heels. Our dads are decked out in fancy suits and ties with expensive watches. Everything about them screams money, which is exactly what they want—for everyone to know who they are and that they’re important. And they’ve made me the same way, a son to show off, dressed in his designer clothes with my perfect grades and en route to take over my father’s law firm.

  It doesn’t sound that bad, except my father’s main clients are rich bastards who are guilty of the crimes they’re accused of, including some very powerful and dangerous mafia members. Yet, he gets them off and doesn’t feel bad about it. Why would he feel bad, though? He makes a lot of money, right? At least, that’s how he sees it.

  He’s probably about as bad as the men he represents. I know this from the stuff I’ve witnessed him do, from the stuff I’ve heard, from the stuff he’s threatened me with, from the stuff he says I’ll eventually have to do.

  I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to try to break away from him. My parents tried so hard to mold me to act and look a certain way and, up until recently, I obeyed like a good little brainwashed son.

  Elodie, on the other hand, is stronger than me. She frequently rebels, wearing whatever the hell she wants. She also decided to major in education. Which, let me tell you, my parents are not thrilled about.

  Ever since third grade, when Elodie became friends with Ensley, she stopped wearing the dresses our mom wanted her to wear, stopped acting like a proper girl who’s all manners and fake smiles, stopped acting like Mom’s puppet. And part of me is glad for her. The other part of me is jealous.

  “Oh, I know. We’re so proud of him,” my mom tells Holden’s mom with a fake smile on her face. “He got offered a full scholarship to several different schools. We don’t need the money, of course, but it’s good to have the offers.”

  For show, I mentally add.

  “He doesn’t need the offers because he’s going to college here so he can start working at my firm on the side,” my father cuts in, his voice ice cold. His voice is always cold, as if he’s frozen hell over and sleeps there every night. He might even be the devil himself. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  As if sensing me, his gaze strays to me. “Isn’t that right, Carter?”

  I nod, loathing how tense I get just from him looking at me. “Yes, sir.”

  He grins in a way that makes me want to punch him. Then he turns back to the conversation, laughing about something.

  “And then, of course, there’s Elodie,” Elodie attempts to mimic our mom’s falsetto tone, pressing her hand to her chest. “She’s such a disappointment. Did you see the dress she was wearing? She bought it at a thrift store. Can you imagine? Other people have touched her clothes. The fabric probably has cooties.”

  I arch a brow. “You think Mom believes cooties are real?”

  She shrugs, a smile twisting at her lips. “Maybe. I did hear her say once how she thought she was going to get herpes from a homeless person who was outside a restaurant she was eating at.”

  “And I bet she called the manager and complained.”

  “Of course. What else are you supposed to do? I mean, a homeless person is around. God knows what would have happened if they made eye contact with her and reminded her that the world isn’t all diamonds and Botox. That people actually suffer, and that everything isn’t pretty.”

  “I wish she would realize that,” I agree. “She’s completely delusional about the realities of life, which makes no sense considering where she came from.”

  Elodie slants her head to the side, her brows knitting. “Wait. Mom wasn’t born rich …? I thought Grandma and Grandpa were loaded.”

  “They’re loaded because of Dad.” I pause, giving her a sidelong glance. “You’ve never heard the story?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes sparkling with glee as she rubs her hands together. “But you’re so going to tell me. That way, the next time she tells me what a disappointment I am, I can throw the story in her face.”

  “Wouldn’t that be sinking to her level?”

  “Are you seriously lecturing me about being cruel to people?”

  She has a point. Still …

  “I’ll tell you what.” I turn to face her and block the glaring sun from my eyes. “I’ll tell you the story if you promise not to bring it up unless she’s made you cry or done something equally as awful. No throwing it in her face just to throw it in her face.” She starts to open her mouth, but I hold up a finger. “In turn, you have to tell me some stuff about Ensley.” I know a lot of stuff about her already—more than I like to admit—because I watch her all the time.

  Like a fucking creeper.

  Yep, that’s me. Carter the Creeper, obsessed with a girl who will barely talk to him.

  I’m so pathetic.

  Wariness flickers across her expression. “You want me to give you deets on my BFFFB.”

  “BFFFB? What the hell is that?”

  “Best friend forever, forever and beyond.”

  “You say that like that’s common knowledge.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “It’s not. It’s fucking weird.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s probably the first thing you should know about Ensley.” She crosses her arms. “She’s fucking weird. So am I. So are most people who hang around us. So, if you want to be part of Ens’s life, be prepared for a lot of fucking weirdness. All the time. Twenty-four-seven. And your pretty boy image isn’t going to work. You’re going to have to be fucking weird yourself.”

  “You say that like you don’t think I can.” If she only knew how wrong she was.

  “I don’t,” she replies matter-of-factly.

  “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

  “You’re my twin. I know you like I know my own face.”

  “We’re not identical.”

  She mockingly gasps. “We’re not? Oh, my God! This whole time I thought I looked just like you.” She stomps her foot and fakes a pout. “Dammit, there goes my dream of joining a boy band.”

  “Stop saying that shit. I don’t look like I belong in a boy band. I don’t know why you always say that.” I hate when she pulls out the boy band remark. Tell me I look like the lead singer of a rock band. Or the drummer. Or even the bass player for an alternative band. But most guys don’t want to be told they look like they belong in a boy band.

  “Because it drives you crazy,” she teases with a way too pleased grin. “And it’s sort of true.”

  My jaw spasms. “No, it’s not.”

  Her grin expands.

  My jaw ticks again.

  “You know we’re, like, the worst twins ever,” I say, slipping my hands out of my pockets. “All we do is fight.”

  “A lot of twins fight. And you and I were doomed the moment third grade happened and you went from my sweet, caring brother to an asshole who told a quiet, shy girl that she looked like a dude. That was the day you stopped being my brother and became the enemy.”

  I swallow hard at the truth of her words. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sure it wasn’t.”

  I want to tell her everything, about what happened with Mom, about the talk she had with me the day before I started hanging out with that new group of friends. The friends who talked me into going over to Ensley. Friends who, sadly, are still my friends. However, I don’t think she’d understand. She’d tell me I should’ve rebelled.

  Maybe I should have.

  My life might have been so much better if I did.

  But I also may not have survived if I did.

  My scars burns at the thought.

  “Okay, maybe it was.” I grit my tee
th and tap my fingers against the side of my leg, frustration bubbling inside me. Mostly frustration directed at myself.

  Her gaze moves from my tapping fingers to my ticking jaw, then her brows lift. “You’re nervous.”

  “No, just restless to get out of here.”

  “No, it’s more than that.” She squints as she assesses me. “Something’s bugging you.”

  “A lot of things are bugging me,” I say with a nonchalant shrug.

  She continues to study me, and I expect her to throw some snarky remark at me. Instead she says, “So, are you going to tell me about this poor life our mother allegedly lived or what?”

  “Are you going to tell me about Ens?” I counter.

  “I could tell you a couple of things, I guess. Nothing too personal, though. That’s breaking the BFFFB code.” A contemplative look crosses her face. “It’s funny you’ve suddenly started calling her Ens. You know only her friends call her that, right?”

  “I’m sure the guys she dates call her that, too.”

  “That might be true, except she’s never been on a date before.” I don’t know what sort of face I pull, but she rolls her eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. You’ve known Ens since we were eight, and I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed she doesn’t talk to a lot of people, which makes getting asked out on dates complicated. Don’t get me wrong; I know a lot of guys want to date her, but every time they so much as talk to her, she freaks out and shuts down.” She pokes me in the chest. “And you’re part of the reason she’s that way. That day in third grade, you took some of her self-esteem away.”

  I rub my chest where she poked me. “I know I did, and I’m sorry. And I know Ens is kind of quiet, but I don’t think she’s as socially awkward as everyone thinks. Or that she thinks, for that matter. At least, she hasn’t been that way for the last couple of days.”

  “You think, just because you talked to her for, like, two minutes, you’ve got some insight on how she acts?” She laughs coldly. “It takes time to get to know a person.”

  “I know that. And I’m not saying I know everything about her. But we didn’t talk for just a couple of minutes. I talked to her for a quite a while on the phone. And today … Well, you know how long I’ve been gone, so I’m sure you can figure it out.” Plus, I watch her a lot, but I’m not about to divulge that aloud.