Hayes goes quiet for a beat, his hands tightening on the wheel.
“Relax,” he finally says. “I was just messing around. I know you’re not jealous. I’d probably die of shock if you ever showed real interest in a guy—especially me.”
I fold my arms and look away.
“I like guys just fine. They just don’t like me.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” He scoffs. “My friends all think you’re hot. Dylan wouldn’t shut up about you last weekend.”
I grimace.
“You’re not seriously suggesting I go for Dylan Masterson, are you?”
“Definitely not.” His lips twitch. “I’m just saying, if you wanted to date someone, you could. A lot of someones.” He glances at me again, slower this time—more searching, more curious, a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes. “So… why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t wantsomeone. I want a guy I actually like.”
“Okay, but how do you know who that is if you never try?”
I roll my eyes.
“Oh, is that why you date every girl who smiles at you?”
“I don’t date every girl,” he protests, then smirks. “Haven’t hooked up with anyone on dance team—yet.”
“You’re such an idiot.” I laugh, shaking my head. “So is that the logic behind dating Amber again? Just trying to see if you ‘like her’?”
“Ha ha. Funny.”
“Honestly, I don’t get it.” My voice tightens. “Sure, she’s beautiful, but what do you even have in common? She doesn’t like our music, she refuses to hike or box or do anything that might ruin her nails. She hates anything even remotely spooky—she won’t even watchBeetlejuice, and that’s basically a comedy.” I turn to him, my jaw clenching. “Also? She’s still in high school, Hayes. She’s a kid.”
“She’s one year younger than us.”
“Whatever.”
The car goes quiet for a moment as he stares out the windshield, eyes fixed on the road. He takes his time, thinking hard.
“I can’t explain it,” he says, turning the SUV into my apartment complex. “Amber just… fits into my life.”
“She’s a superficial cream puff!”
He lifts a brow. “Maybe I like cream puffs.”
“Then you should open a fucking bakery.”
I stare out the window, biting the inside of my cheek. How could someone likeHayes—smart, deep, complex—want someone like my sister? It doesn’t make any sense. It never has.
“Do you guys even talk about anything real? Like we do?”
“Sure.”
“Like what? Hair products?” I shoot him a look.
He throws the car in park and turns toward me, his movements sharp and clipped. His eyes blaze with frustration—and something else. Darker. Rawer.
“Why does this matter so much to you?” he asks, voice rough. “Why do you even care?”
The air thickens between us.
