Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,14

Unless you count “dirty, rotten rat bastard” as lyrical.

“I don’t need to write the rules down,” I say. “They’re imprinted on my brain.”

“This I’ve got to hear.” He plops down next to me. Not touching, but entirely too close for comfort. Mere inches separate our hips, and I can feel the heat rising from his body.

I scoot away a full foot. I hate to admit that his proximity affects me, but I can’t think straight when he’s that near.

“One, do not speak at school.” I tick the rules off on my fingers. “Two, if we pass in the hallway, look the other way. Three, interact at Thai events only when necessary. Last but not least, never, ever forget that we hate each other’s guts.”

He doesn’t respond. A couple of girls from art class walk by, peering at us curiously. Either they’ve heard about our intense dislike for each other…or they think he’s hot. Which, ew. But you never know how hours locked up with paint fumes can alter your perspective.

I shift on the wall, scraping the skin at the back of my thighs. Minus one for the cutest skirt on the planet. I cross and recross my ankles, and the suede boots whisper through the blades of grass.

And he’s still lost in his reverie.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” he says after a minute or ten. He lifts his face, and our eyes lock. For the briefest moment, I flash through incarnations of those deep black eyes. Glinting mischievously as we crawled under the table at our parents’ dinner parties. Wide with horror when Mama caught us sneaking an R-rated movie. Blinking furiously at his mother’s empty place mat after she left for Thailand.

“But you’re wrong,” he continues. “I don’t hate you. I never have.”

My heart raps against my chest. He doesn’t? But that can’t be right. He’s implied as much on countless occasions, even if he’s never come right out and said it.

He smiles. “I only loathe you.”

Of course. I knew that’s what he meant.

I bare my teeth. “Well, I loathe you, too. With the heat of a thousand suns, over the span of a thousand lives.”

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Taran. Great. He picks now to finally show up?

Too late I realize my mouth is still arranged in a snarl. Deliberately, I close my lips for a beat before attempting to talk. “Taran. Hey. How are you?”

In the space of one night, I’ve forgotten how attractive he is. His jeans are freshly pressed, the top button of his shirt artfully undone. His face is a model of symmetry—even if those full lips seem a little frozen.

“Is everything okay?” the best-looking transfer student in the history of Lakewood High asks.

Huh? Why would everything—? Oh. Gotcha. Mat and I are turned toward each other, our knees almost touching. His eyes are wild; we’re both breathing hard. I suppose, from the outside, the scene looks rather intense.

“Of course. What could be wrong?” The laugh that comes out of my mouth is as fake as the pad se-ew at Thai chain restaurants.

“We’re good, man.” Mat gives me a distinctly withering look and gets to his feet, his pants leg brushing against my knee. I jerk away, but that slight touch lingers like a burn. “Just having a few words with my best girl.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

I wince. This is so embarrassing. Now Taran will know that the first guy he bonded with finds me disgusting.

But Taran’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any problems.”

Wait—what? He can’t possibly think that Mat was serious?

“No.” I shake my head so vigorously, it might screw right off. “You’ve got this all wrong. Mat and I—we’re not together.” My voice rises. “We’ve never been together. We never will be. Not unless I were dead. And if I were, and he was still into me, which, let’s be honest, is a distinct possibility…then, gross.”

I’m babbling. This is what happens when I’m nervous. And upset. And hungry. Unfortunately, I’m all three at the moment.

I whip around, giving Mat my best glare (which, admittedly, is probably less effective because we also practiced this look for hours in front of the mirror).

“Tell him,” I spit out. “Tell him how little we mean to each other.”

An expression I can’t read crosses Mat’s face. We look at each other for a few confusing seconds, and then he turns to Taran. “Oh, she means less than nothing