Ignoring him, I find the app, scrolling through his recently played album, skimming past a lot of rap, the occasional punk rock, and…"You listened to my songs?" Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I bring my hand to my face to disguise the fact that I’m blushing.
Blushing.
Like a schoolgirl.
"Noelle did." He clenches his jaw, and I watch as it ticks, his knuckles tightening around the leather steering wheel.
"You never told me your favorite color," I remind him, pulling my eyes away from him, turning my head to look straight forward.
Of course, he wasn’t listening to my music. He’s a tough guy, an athlete. The chances of him listening to anything slow and acoustic are slim.
I try not to let it get to me.
"Brown." His voice is flat, no enthusiasm able to be detected, and at this point, I’m convinced he only has one octave to work with.
"I feel like that’s a lie, but okay."
"How many sisters do you have? You’ve mentioned them a few times, but nothing else," he asks, steering the conversation away from him and onto me. I can’t say that I mind. Not really, anyway.
Usually, I would, but this is about my career—one I cannot afford to lose. And I love my family—they’re all I really have.
"Biological or?"
He shoots me a look. Brows lifted. Like I just spoke fluent French.
"Right. I forgot not everybody knows the dynamic between the Herring girls." I snicker to myself. "I have two sisters. Cassandra is my oldest sister, married to Harley, mother to Willow. Lizzie is my twin sister—born fifty seconds before me–married, and mother to nobody. And then there’s Jenna. She’s Cassandra’s best friend, but we’ve practically adopted her as our honorary Herring sister. She’s dating Cole Green. He’s an actor. Have you heard of him?" I see him nod in my peripheral. "We’re all really close."
I almost tell him that they’re my only friends, but that could paint me in one of two ways.
Either, he’ll see me as a loser who prefers to hang out with her family only. Or he’ll see me as someone that people struggle to get along with and get to know.
Both of those assumptions would be a thousand per cent correct.
"Hmm," is all he says in response. And that’s the extent of our conversation for the rest of the drive to the Gala.
I tried, I really did, but I know when there’s nothing else to say. Or in Avery Jones’ case, nothing more hewantsto say, so I don’t push it.
Not this time, anyway.
My hand finds the gold chain on my neck, and we sit out the rest of the drive in a nice, comfortable silence.
***
Shit.
I’m anxious.
My neck is doing that thing again where it sends pulsing sensations down my limbs and across every inch of my body.
The best way of describing it would be this: It’s like having tiny little hearts scattered on top of my skin, each beating at their own pace, and never in sync with each other.
I hate it.
I never use that word lightly. But it’s just genuinely such an uncomfortable feeling. If I catch people staring at me, it makes me feel like those pulses are creating flickers against my skin, and somehow visible to the naked eye.
That people can see the way my body is betraying me, and in this flimsy little dress, there’s nowhere for me to hide.
Cameras flash around us everywhere, way more than what I’m used to.
