I feel everyone's eyes on me as I walk the halls Monday morning. For a moment, I wonder if I have something on my face. Perhaps my shirt is inside-out?
Then I remember the whole punching-Fiona-in-the-face debacle that occured yesterday, and everything suddenly makes sense.
"Oh, my god," I whisper to myself once I've reached my locker. I quickly grab my books and book it to my first class, anxious for this day to be over.
The following days exhibit a similar pattern. Everybody stares at me, but no one says a word. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were afraid.
On Thursday, Nash approaches me in the cafeteria. His arms are crossed, his steel-colored eyes fixed in an icy glare. I close my textbook and force a smile, but he doesn't return the gesture.
"We need to talk," he declares.
I nod my head. "Okay, let's talk."
He claims the seat adjacent to mine and exhales a heavy sigh. "Vange, I get that I fucked up, but you punched Fiona. Her nose is broken. She hasn't left her house in days."
"Yeah, I've been meaning to call her," I murmur.
"I'm not asking you to apologize or anything. I just want to know what the fuck got into you," he relents. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was worried.
"I don't know," I admit. "I was out of line. I'll apologize to Fi, I promise."
"Vange, I know you. What happened the other day... well, that wasn't you at all," Nash says. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I lie. "I have to go. I'll see you around, okay?"
I rush out of the cafeteria. I haven't spoken to Nash since we broke up. This wasn't how I imagined our first conversation going.
The following Monday, everything seems to have calmed down. People no longer stare at me as I walk down the hall. I don't hear my classmates whispering about me behind my back. Once again, I'm a nobody—just the way I like it.
"I think the whole Violent Vange thing has finally blown over," Kira says as we walk out of the building.
"Thank the heavens!" I reply. "Some girls thrive in the spotlight. I'm not one of them."
We walk toward Kourtney. As I'm about to open the passenger side door, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turn around and spot Rem, whose Mustang is parked three spaces over.
"Hey, punchy," he says with a chuckle.
Maybe people haven't forgotten just yet....
"Hi, Rem," I respond. "Wh-what's up?"
"Can I give you a ride home?" he asks, pointing to the green luxury vehicle that I've sat in once before.
I shake my head. "Kira usually brings me—"
"Actually, I can't today," my best friend interrupts. "I have to... take my dog to the vet."
"What? You don't even have a—"
"Awesome! Thanks for giving her a ride, Rem." Kira winks at me before jumping into her car and taking off, leaving me alone with Remington.
"She's really subtle," he jokes.
"Kira prides herself on being a straight-shooter," I reply, following him to his car. Once again, he opens my door for me.
I could get used to this.
"So why'd you want to give me a ride?" I question him once we're on the road.
"Uh, I wanted to talk to you about the other night," he answers. "You came onto me pretty hard at Fiona's party, and you seemed pretty hurt when I... rejected your advances. I just wanted to make sure we were cool."
Blushing scarlet, I turn away. "Y-yeah, we're cool," I tell him. "By the way, I'm so sorry about that. I was plastered and obviously not in my right mind."
"So you regret it?"
"Well, yeah, I regret making a total fool of myself."
He glances at me, his lips curled into an amused smirk. "No, I meant do you regret coming onto me?"
"I feel like there's a right and a wrong answer here."
"Maybe."
Is he flirting?
"Do you need to be home right away?" he asks.
"Um, n-no," I stammer.
Instead of turning onto my road, he keeps driving. "Cool. I want to take you somewhere."
We take the scenic route toward a rocky beach on the outskirts of the city. The mid-September weather is chillier than usual. As we get out of the car and walk toward the shoreline, goosebumps make their way up my exposed arms.
"Fuck, you're cold," he mumbles, quickly taking off his sweatshirt and handing it to me. "Here, put this on."
I try to maintain my composure as I pull his hoodie over my head. It's been a long time since a boy gave me his clothes. I feel as giddy as Dobby in the second Harry Potter book.
We take a seat on some of the smoother-looking rocks. I can't help but notice that his sweatshirt smells like cigarettes and sandalwood—two smells that shouldn't go together but somehow do.
"Do you smoke?" I ask, inhaling another whiff of the warm fabric.
Now he's the one to turn red. "Guilty. I don't indulge often, but I always keep butts on me."
"Why? And how do you even get them?" I'm so curious. I've never met a teenager who smokes cigarettes before.
"This is gonna sound stupid, but my mom used to smoke. The smell reminds me of her," he explains, staring wistfully at the ocean. "I have some college friends that buy for me. They think it's bizarre that I ask for cigs and not beer, but they never question it."
"You told me your mom got sick. Did she have cancer?" I inquire, hoping I'm not digging too deep into his personal life.
"Yes, but not lung cancer. Breast cancer," he clarifies.
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"Still, it must have been awful."
He shrugs his shoulders. "Dad and I manage. It's weird going from having two parents to one, but he does the best he can. I try not to make it too hard for him, you know?"
"I understand that. I live with my grandparents," I tell him, "so I always feel like a burden to them. Like, they already raised three kids. Now they're stuck with me, too."
He frowns. "I don't think they consider you a burden."
"Doesn't stop me from feeling like one."
"I doubt you've ever done anything wrong in your life—other than breaking Fiona Picken's nose, of course."
"Let's not talk about that please," I retort, cringing at the unpleasant, although hazy, memory.
"I kinda wish I'd been there," he says.
"It wasn't this empowering, badass moment. It happened so fast that I barely remember it," I explain to him, "and afterward, I was so freaked out that I sobbed in Kira's car for an hour."
He scoots closer to me. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make fun of you."
"I just don't know what happened. It was like I blacked out or something."
"Has that ever occurred before?"
"I don't think so," I reply, "but most of my childhood is a blur. I can't remember much of anything before, like, second grade."
"A lot of people can't remember that far back. That's not too crazy," he assures me.
I fight back tears. Why am I crying again?
"Hey, hey, hey. Please don't cry. I'm sorry." He caresses my cheek and wipes a rogue teardrop. "This whole blackout thing is really getting to you, huh?"
"It's not just that. I haven't been sleeping well. I keep having these bizarre dreams. At first, I brushed it off, but then the whole Fiona thing happened, and now... well, I don't know. I feel like I'm losing control... like I'm losing my mind," I confide in him.
He surprises me by wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into his side. I rest my head on his chest, inhaling the intoxicating sandalwood smell. I never expected that I'd be sitting on a beach with Remington Williams, our bodies pressed together as we share the most intimate details of our lives.
I never expected how happy it would make me, or how comfortable I would feel in the confines of his arms. Gram always says that some of the best things in life take us by surprise. As usual, I think she's right.
The hours tick by. I don't pull away, and neither does he. He holds me as we talk about our beliefs and our dreams. I share with him my goal to be an English teacher. I learn that he wants to be a concert pianist and study at Julliard. For him, music is more than just a hobby; it's his escape from reality. I feel the same way about writing. When I get into a story, I'm able to forget about the world around me, even if just for a moment.
I tell him about my mom: how she had an infectious laugh and a vibrant smile, how she raised me on her own because my deadbeat dad was never in the picture, how she gave birth to me when she was seventeen and killed herself a few months before I turned seven.
"I don't know why she did it," I whisper, clinging to him. "I guess now I never will."
By the time we leave the beach, the sun has long set. As he drives, he keeps his left hand on the wheel and inches his right hand toward me. Tentatively, I loop my fingers through his. He tightens his grip, giving my hand a firm squeeze that sends shivers up my arm.
We reach my house too soon. He gets out of his seat before I can protest and runs around the front of the car to open my door for me. We stand there for a moment, our bodies just inches apart as we stare at each other, neither of us speaking a word.
"You don't have to walk me to the door," I finally break the silence.
"I don't mind," he tells me.
"I'm willing to bet my grandparents are watching us through the window. You probably shouldn't," I say with a chuckle.
"In that case, I won't kiss you goodnight."
My heart stops. He wants to kiss me goodnight?
"Now I really wish they weren't spying on us," I murmur.
"What are you doing this Friday?" he asks.
"As of right now, I have no plans."
"Would you like to have dinner with—?"
"Yes," I blurt out before he can finish his sentence. "Yes, I would love to."
"Good." Smiling, he leans forward and places a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Have a good night, Vange. I'll see you at school tomorrow."
I watch as he gets back in his car and drives away. My heart feels like it's going to burst through my chest. I can't believe it. I have a date with Rem this Friday.
I take out my phone to text Kira. I have so much to tell her.
So they have a date!! I know I'm excited 😍
And I think wingwoman of the year award goes to our girl Kira! 😂😂
As always, thank you for reading! Don't forget to give that star a quick tap⭐️⭐️